
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ulysses, by James Joyce

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Title: Ulysses

Author: James Joyce

Release Date: August 1, 2008 [EBook #4300]
Last Updated: December 27, 2019

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ULYSSES ***




Produced by Col Choat, and David Widger.

[Illustration]




Ulysses


by James Joyce

Contents

 — I —

 [ 1 ]
 [ 2 ]
 [ 3 ]

 — II —

 [ 4 ]
 [ 5 ]
 [ 6 ]
 [ 7 ]
 [ 8 ]
 [ 9 ]
 [ 10 ]
 [ 11 ]
 [ 12 ]
 [ 13 ]
 [ 14 ]
 [ 15 ]

 — III —

 [ 16 ]
 [ 17 ]
 [ 18 ]




— I —


[ 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:

—For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul
and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One
moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.

He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused
awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and
there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles
answered through the calm.

—Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off
the current, will you?

He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering
about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and
sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages.
A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.

—The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!

He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet,
laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily
halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as
he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and
lathered cheeks and neck.

Buck Mulligan’s gay voice went on.

—My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a
Hellenic ring, hasn’t it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We
must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out
twenty quid?

He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:

—Will he come? The jejune jesuit!

Ceasing, he began to shave with care.

—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.

—Yes, my love?

—How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?

Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.

—God, isn’t he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks
you’re not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money
and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you
have the real Oxford manner. He can’t make you out. O, my name for you
is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.

He shaved warily over his chin.

—He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is
his guncase?

—A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?

—I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark
with a man I don’t know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a
black panther. You saved men from drowning. I’m not a hero, however. If
he stays on here I am off.

Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down
from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

—Scutter! he cried thickly.

He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen’s upper
pocket, said:

—Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.

Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a
dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly.
Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:

—The bard’s noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen.
You can almost taste it, can’t you?

He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair
oakpale hair stirring slightly.

—God! he said quietly. Isn’t the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet
mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. _Epi oinopa
ponton_. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them
in the original. _Thalatta! Thalatta!_ She is our great sweet mother.
Come and look.

Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked
down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of
Kingstown.

—Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.

He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen’s
face.

—The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That’s why she won’t
let me have anything to do with you.

—Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.

—You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother
asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I’m hyperborean as much as you. But to
think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and
pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you....

He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant
smile curled his lips.

—But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest
mummer of them all!

He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.

Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against
his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve.
Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently,
in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within
its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood,
her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of
wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a
great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and
skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had
stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had
torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.

Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.

—Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt
and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?

—They fit well enough, Stephen answered.

Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.

—The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God
knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair
stripe, grey. You’ll look spiffing in them. I’m not joking, Kinch. You
look damn well when you’re dressed.

—Thanks, Stephen said. I can’t wear them if they are grey.

—He can’t wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror.
Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can’t wear grey
trousers.

He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the
smooth skin.

Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its
smokeblue mobile eyes.

—That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan,
says you have g. p. i. He’s up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman.
General paralysis of the insane!

He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings
abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips
laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized
all his strong wellknit trunk.

—Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard!

Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by
a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this
face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.

—I pinched it out of the skivvy’s room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her
all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi.
Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.

Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen’s peering eyes.

—The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If
Wilde were only alive to see you!

Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:

—It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked 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.

—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?

—You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to get
more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the
drawingroom. She asked you who was in your room.

—Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.

—You said, Stephen answered, _O, it’s only Dedalus whose mother is
beastly dead._

A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck
Mulligan’s cheek.

—Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?

He shook his constraint from him nervously.

—And what is death, he asked, your mother’s or yours or my own? You saw
only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and
Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It’s a beastly
thing and nothing else. It simply doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t kneel
down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why?
Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it’s injected
the wrong way. To me it’s all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes
are not functioning. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks
buttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it’s over. You crossed her
last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don’t whinge like
some hired mute from Lalouette’s. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I
didn’t mean to offend the memory of your mother.

He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping
wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly:

—I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.

—Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked.

—Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.

Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.

—O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.

He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post,
gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now
grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he
felt the fever of his cheeks.

A voice within the tower called loudly:

—Are you up there, Mulligan?

—I’m coming, Buck Mulligan answered.

He turned towards Stephen and said:

—Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola,
Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.

His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level
with the roof:

—Don’t mope over it all day, he said. I’m inconsequent. Give up the
moody brooding.

His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of
the stairhead:

     And no more turn aside and brood
     Upon love’s bitter mystery
     For Fergus rules the brazen cars.

Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the
stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of
water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the
dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the
harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words
shimmering on the dim tide.

A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in
deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus’
song: I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords.
Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and
pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For
those words, Stephen: love’s bitter mystery.

Where now?

Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk,
a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the
sunny window of her house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing
in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he
sang:

     I am the boy
     That can enjoy
     Invisibility.

Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.

     And no more turn aside and brood.


Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his
brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had
approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar,
roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely
fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children’s
shirts.

In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its
loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath,
bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On
me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the
tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all
prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. _Liliata
rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum
chorus excipiat._

Ghoul! Chewer of corpses!

No, mother! Let me be and let me live.

—Kinch ahoy!

Buck Mulligan’s voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the
staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul’s cry,
heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.

—Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is
apologising for waking us last night. It’s all right.

—I’m coming, Stephen said, turning.

—Do, for Jesus’ sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our
sakes.

His head disappeared and reappeared.

—I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it’s very clever. Touch
him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.

—I get paid this morning, Stephen said.

—The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one.

—If you want it, Stephen said.

—Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We’ll have
a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent
sovereigns.

He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of
tune with a Cockney accent:

     O, won’t we have a merry time,
     Drinking whisky, beer and wine!
     On coronation,
     Coronation day!
     O, won’t we have a merry time
     On coronation day!

Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone,
forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it
there all day, forgotten friendship?

He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness,
smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck.
So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another now
and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.

In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan’s gowned form
moved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its
yellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor
from the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of
coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.

—We’ll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you?

Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the
hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open
the inner doors.

—Have you the key? a voice asked.

—Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I’m choked!

He howled, without looking up from the fire:

—Kinch!

—It’s in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.

The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been
set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the
doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and
sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside
him. Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set
them down heavily and sighed with relief.

—I’m melting, he said, as the candle remarked when... But, hush! Not a
word more on that subject! Kinch, wake up! Bread, butter, honey.
Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy
gifts. Where’s the sugar? O, jay, there’s no milk.

Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from
the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.

—What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.

—We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There’s a lemon in the
locker.

—O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove
milk.

Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly:

—That woman is coming up with the milk.

—The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his
chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here,
I can’t go fumbling at the damned eggs.

He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three
plates, saying:

—_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti._

Haines sat down to pour out the tea.

—I’m giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do
make strong tea, don’t you?

Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old
woman’s wheedling voice:

—When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I
makes water I makes water.

—By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.

Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:

—_So I do, Mrs Cahill,_ says she. _Begob, ma’am,_ says Mrs Cahill, _God
send you don’t make them in the one pot._

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled
on his knife.

—That’s folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five lines
of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of
Dundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind.

He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his
brows:

—Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan’s tea and water pot spoken
of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?

—I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.

—Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?

—I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the
Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.

Buck Mulligan’s face smiled with delight.

—Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth
and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming!

Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened
rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:

_—For old Mary Ann

She doesn’t care a damn.

But, hising up her petticoats..._

He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.

The doorway was darkened by an entering form.

—The milk, sir!

—Come in, ma’am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.

An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen’s elbow.

—That’s a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.

—To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure!

Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.

—The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of
the collector of prepuces.

—How much, sir? asked the old woman.

—A quart, Stephen said.

He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white
milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and a
tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a
messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out.
Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on
her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They
lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and
poor old woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly
form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their
common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to
upbraid, whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.

—It is indeed, ma’am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups.

—Taste it, sir, she said.

He drank at her bidding.

—If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat
loudly, we wouldn’t have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten
guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved
with dust, horsedung and consumptives’ spits.

—Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked.

—I am, ma’am, Buck Mulligan answered.

—Look at that now, she said.

Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice
that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me she
slights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there
is of her but her woman’s unclean loins, of man’s flesh made not in
God’s likeness, the serpent’s prey. And to the loud voice that now bids
her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.

—Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her.

—Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines.

Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.

—Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you?

—I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from the
west, sir?

—I am an Englishman, Haines answered.

—He’s English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak
Irish in Ireland.

—Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I’m ashamed I don’t speak
the language myself. I’m told it’s a grand language by them that knows.

—Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fill
us out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma’am?

—No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the
milkcan on her forearm and about to go.

Haines said to her:

—Have you your bill? We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn’t we?

Stephen filled again the three cups.

—Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it’s seven mornings a pint at
twopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three
mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling. That’s a
shilling and one and two is two and two, sir.

Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly
buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search
his trouser pockets.

—Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling.

Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the
thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in
his fingers and cried:

—A miracle!

He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying:

—Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give.

Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.

—We’ll owe twopence, he said.

—Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good
morning, sir.

She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan’s tender chant:

_—Heart of my heart, were it more,

More would be laid at your feet._

He turned to Stephen and said:

—Seriously, Dedalus. I’m stony. Hurry out to your school kip and bring
us back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland
expects that every man this day will do his duty.

—That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your
national library today.

—Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.

He turned to Stephen and asked blandly:

—Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?

Then he said to Haines:

—The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

—All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey
trickle over a slice of the loaf.

Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the
loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:

—I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.

Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit.
Conscience. Yet here’s a spot.

—That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol
of Irish art is deuced good.

Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen’s foot under the table and said with
warmth of tone:

—Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.

—Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just
thinking of it when that poor old creature came in.

—Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked.

Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of
the hammock, said:

—I don’t know, I’m sure.

He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen
and said with coarse vigour:

—You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for?

—Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From the
milkwoman or from him. It’s a toss up, I think.

—I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along
with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.

—I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.

Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen’s arm.

—From me, Kinch, he said.

In a suddenly changed tone he added:

—To tell you the God’s truth I think you’re right. Damn all else they
are good for. Why don’t you play them as I do? To hell with them all.
Let us get out of the kip.

He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying
resignedly:

—Mulligan is stripped of his garments.

He emptied his pockets on to the table.

—There’s your snotrag, he said.

And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them,
chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and
rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God,
we’ll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green
boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I
contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of
his talking hands.

—And there’s your Latin quarter hat, he said.

Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from the
doorway:

—Are you coming, you fellows?

—I’m ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out,
Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out
with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow:

—And going forth he met Butterly.

Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out
and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and
locked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.

At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked:

—Did you bring the key?

—I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.

He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy
bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.

—Down, sir! How dare you, sir!

Haines asked:

—Do you pay rent for this tower?

—Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.

—To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last:

—Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it?

—Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were on
the sea. But ours is the _omphalos_.

—What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen.

—No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I’m not equal to Thomas Aquinas
and the 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:

—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, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead.
What’s bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly
And Olivet’s breezy... Goodbye, now, goodbye!_

He capered before them down towards the 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.

—O, Haines said, you have heard it before?

—Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.

—You’re not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in
the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a
personal God.

—There’s only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.

Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a
green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.

—Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.

Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his
sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang
it open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk
towards Stephen in the shell of his hands.

—Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe or
you don’t, isn’t it? Personally I couldn’t stomach that idea of a
personal God. You don’t stand for that, I suppose?

—You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible
example of free thought.

He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his
side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels.
My familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering line
along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark.
He wants that key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt
bread. Give him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his
eyes.

—After all, Haines began...

Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was
not all unkind.

—After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your
own master, it seems to me.

—I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an
Italian.

—Italian? Haines said.

A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.

—And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.

—Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?

—The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and
the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he
spoke.

—I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think
like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you
rather unfairly. It seems history is to blame.

The proud potent titles clanged over Stephen’s memory the triumph of
their brazen bells: _et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam
ecclesiam:_ the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own
rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the mass
for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in
affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church
militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies
fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom
Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the
consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning
Christ’s terrene body, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who
held that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan had spoken
a moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The void
awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a
worsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael’s host, who
defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their
shields.

Hear, hear! Prolonged applause. _Zut! Nom de Dieu!_

—Of course I’m a Britisher, Haines’s voice said, and I feel as one. I
don’t want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either.
That’s our national problem, I’m afraid, just now.

Two men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman,
boatman.

—She’s making for Bullock harbour.

The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain.

—There’s five fathoms out there, he said. It’ll be swept up that way
when the tide comes in about one. It’s nine days today.

The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting
for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face,
saltwhite. Here I am.

They followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stood
on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his
shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved slowly
frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water.

—Is the brother with you, Malachi?

—Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.

—Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young
thing down there. Photo girl he calls her.

—Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure.

Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up near
the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones,
water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water
rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black
sagging loincloth.

Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines
and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and
lips and breastbone.

—Seymour’s back in town, the young man said, grasping again his spur of
rock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.

—Ah, go to God! Buck Mulligan said.

—Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?

—Yes.

—Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotto with
money.

—Is she up the pole?

—Better ask Seymour that.

—Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said.

He nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying
tritely:

—Redheaded women buck like goats.

He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.

—My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I’m the _Übermensch._ 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 ]


—You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?

—Tarentum, sir.

—Very good. Well?

—There was a battle, sir.

—Very good. Where?

The boy’s blank face asked the blank window.

Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as
memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake’s wings
of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling
masonry, and time one livid final flame. What’s left us then?

—I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C.

—Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the
gorescarred book.

—Yes, sir. And he said: _Another victory like that and we are done
for._

That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From a
hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers,
leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.

—You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus?

—End of Pyrrhus, sir?

—I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.

—Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong’s satchel. He curled them
between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered
to the tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy’s breath. Welloff people,
proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico Road, Dalkey.

—Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.

All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round
at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh
more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.

—Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy’s shoulder with the book,
what is a pier.

—A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind of a
bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.

Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench
whispered. Yes. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent.
All. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their
likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets
tittering in the struggle.

—Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge.

The words troubled their gaze.

—How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river.

For Haines’s chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild
drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? A
jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a
clement master’s praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly
for the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other
too often heard, their land a pawnshop.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam’s hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not
been knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has branded
them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite
possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing
that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass?
Weave, weaver of the wind.

—Tell us a story, sir.

—O, do, sir. A ghoststory.

—Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book.

—_Weep no more,_ Comyn said.

—Go on then, Talbot.

—And the story, sir?

—After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.

A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork
of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:

_—Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor..._

It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible.
Aristotle’s phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated
out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where
he had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his
elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding
brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating
feelers: and in my mind’s darkness a sloth of the underworld,
reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought
is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner
all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast,
candescent: form of forms.

Talbot repeated:

_—Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,

Through the dear might..._

—Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don’t see anything.

—What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.

His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having
just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these
craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer’s heart and lips and
on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the
tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar’s, to God what is God’s. A long look
from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the
church’s looms. Ay.

     Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.
     My father gave me seeds to sow.

Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.

—Have I heard all? Stephen asked.

—Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.

—Half day, sir. Thursday.

—Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.
Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all
gabbling gaily:

—A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.

—O, ask me, sir.

—A hard one, sir.

—This is the riddle, Stephen said:

     The cock crew,
     The sky was blue:
     The bells in heaven
     Were striking eleven.
     ’Tis time for this poor soul
     To go to heaven.

What is that?

—What, sir?

—Again, sir. We didn’t hear.

Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence
Cochrane said:

—What is it, sir? We give it up.

Stephen, his throat itching, answered:

—The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries
echoed dismay.

A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called:

—Hockey!

They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly
they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and
clamour of their boots and tongues.

Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open
copybook. His tangled 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 tangled hair and a stain of ink, a
snail’s bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in
her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him
underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery
blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in
life? His mother’s prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal
bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in
the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from
being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor
soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red
reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the
earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves by
algebra that Shakespeare’s ghost is Hamlet’s grandfather. Sargent
peered askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the
lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of
their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands,
traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. Gone too from
the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and
movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the
world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not
comprehend.

—Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?

—Yes, sir.

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a
word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint
hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. _Amor matris:_ subjective
and objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had
fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.

Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My
childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or
lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony
sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their
tyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned.

The sum was done.

—It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.

—Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.

He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his
copybook back to his bench.

—You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said
as he followed towards the door the boy’s graceless form.

—Yes, sir.

In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.

—Sargent!

—Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.

He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy
field where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams and
Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet.
When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to
him. He turned his angry white moustache.

—What is it now? he cried continually without listening.

—Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said.

—Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore
order here.

And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man’s voice
cried sternly:

—What is the matter? What is it now?

Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms
closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his
illdyed head.

Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded
leather of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here.
As it was in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart
coins, base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their
spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached
to all the gentiles: world without end.

A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his
rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.

—First, our little financial settlement, he said.

He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It
slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and
laid them carefully on the table.

—Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.

And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen’s embarrassed hand moved
over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money
cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir’s turban, and
this, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim’s hoard, dead
treasure, hollow shells.

A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.

—Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand.
These are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This is
for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.

He shot from it two crowns and two shillings.

—Three twelve, he said. I think you’ll find that’s right.

—Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy
haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.

—No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.

Stephen’s hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too
of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed
and misery.

—Don’t carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You’ll pull it out somewhere
and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You’ll find them very
handy.

Answer something.

—Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.

The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times
now. Three nooses round me here. Well? I can break them in this instant
if I will.

—Because you don’t save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don’t
know yet what money is. Money is power. When you have lived as long as
I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare
say? _Put but money in thy purse._

—Iago, Stephen murmured.

He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man’s stare.

—He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes, but
an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you
know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman’s
mouth?

The seas’ ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems
history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.

—That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.

—Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That’s not English. A French Celt said that. He
tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.

—I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. _I paid
my way._

Good man, good man.

_—I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life._ Can you feel
that? _I owe nothing._ Can you?

Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.
Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings.
Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob
Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five
weeks’ board. The lump I have is useless.

—For the moment, no, Stephen answered.

Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.

—I knew you couldn’t, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it.
We are a generous people but we must also be just.

—I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.

Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the
shapely bulk of a man in tartan fillibegs: Albert Edward, prince of
Wales.

—You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said.
I saw three generations since O’Connell’s time. I remember the famine
in ’46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the
union twenty years before O’Connell did or before the prelates of your
communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things.

Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the
splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the
planters’ covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie
down.

Stephen sketched a brief gesture.

—I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But
I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are
all Irish, all kings’ sons.

—Alas, Stephen said.

—_Per vias rectas_, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for
it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to
do so.

     Lal the ral the ra
     The rocky road to Dublin.

A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John!
Soft day, your honour!... Day!... Day!... Two topboots jog dangling on
to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy.

—That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus,
with some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press.
Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.

He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read
off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.

—Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, _the dictates of
common sense._ Just a moment.

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow
and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly,
sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.

Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed
around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek
heads poised in air: lord Hastings’ _Repulse_, the duke of
Westminster’s _Shotover_, the duke of Beaufort’s _Ceylon_, _prix de
Paris_, 1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their
speeds, backing king’s colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished
crowds.

—Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. _But prompt ventilation of this
allimportant question..._

Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the
mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek
of the canteen, over the motley slush. Even money _Fair Rebel._ Ten to
one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs,
the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher’s
dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.

Shouts rang shrill from the boys’ playfield and a whirring whistle.

Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a
medley, the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother’s darling
who seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock
by shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of
the slain, a shout of spearspikes baited with men’s bloodied guts.

—Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.

He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.

—I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It’s about the
foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two
opinions on the matter.

May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of _laissez faire_
which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old
industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme.
European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the
channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of
agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who
was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.

—I don’t mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.

Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch’s preparation. Serum and virus.
Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor’s horses at Mürzsteg,
lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous
offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In
every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for
the hospitality of your columns.

—I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the
next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be
cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is
regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They
offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the
department. Now I’m going to try publicity. I am surrounded by
difficulties, by... intrigues by... backstairs influence by...

He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.

—Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the hands of the
jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are
the signs of a nation’s decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the
nation’s vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure as
we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of
destruction. Old England is dying.

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a
broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.

—Dying, he said again, if not dead by now.

     The harlot’s cry from street to street
     Shall weave old England’s windingsheet.

His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which
he halted.

—A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or
gentile, is he not?

—They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see
the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the
earth to this day.

On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting
prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud,
uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit
silk hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures.
Their full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and
unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their
zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would
scatter all. A hoard heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on.
Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the
dishonours of their flesh.

—Who has not? Stephen said.

—What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.

He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell
sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from
me.

—History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal.
What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

—The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human
history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.

Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:

—That is God.

Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!

—What? Mr Deasy asked.

—A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked
between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.

—I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and
many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no
better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten
years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the
strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough’s wife and her leman,
O’Rourke, prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many
errors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the
end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end.

     For Ulster will fight
     And Ulster will be right.

Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.

—Well, sir, he began.

—I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at
this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am
wrong.

—A learner rather, Stephen said.

And here what will you learn more?

Mr Deasy shook his head.

—Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great
teacher.

Stephen rustled the sheets again.

—As regards these, he began.

—Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them
published at once.

_ Telegraph. Irish Homestead._

—I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two
editors slightly.

—That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field,
M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders’ association today at the
City Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You
see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?

_—The Evening Telegraph..._

—That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to
answer that letter from my cousin.

—Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket.
Thank you.

—Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I
like to break a lance with you, old as I am.

—Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.

He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees,
hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield. The
lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate:
toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will
dub me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.

—Mr Dedalus!

Running after me. No more letters, I hope.

—Just one moment.

—Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.

Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

—I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of
being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know
that? No. And do you know why?

He frowned sternly on the bright air.

—Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.

—Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a
rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing,
his lifted arms waving to the air.

—She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he
stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That’s why.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung
spangles, dancing coins.




[ 3 ]


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. A catalectic tetrameter of iambs
marching. No, agallop: _deline the mare_.

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I
open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. _Basta!_ I will see if I
can see.

See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world
without end.

They came down the steps from Leahy’s terrace prudently,
_Frauenzimmer_: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed
feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our
mighty mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwife’s bag, the other’s
gamp poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs
Florence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of
Bride Street. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life.
Creation from nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a
trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back,
strandentwining cable of all flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you
be as gods? Gaze in your _omphalos_. Hello. Kinch here. Put me on to
Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.

Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel.
Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no,
whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to
everlasting. Womb of sin.

Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the man
with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath.
They clasped and sundered, did the coupler’s will. From before the ages
He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A _lex eterna_ stays
about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are
consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring
his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred
heresiarch! In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: _euthanasia_.
With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of
a widowed see, with upstiffed _omophorion_, with clotted hinderparts.

Airs romped round him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves.
The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of
Mananaan.

I mustn’t forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half
twelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile.
Yes, I must.

His pace slackened. Here. Am I going to aunt Sara’s or not? My
consubstantial father’s voice. Did you see anything of your artist
brother Stephen lately? No? Sure he’s not down in Strasburg terrace
with his aunt Sally? Couldn’t he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And
and and and tell us, Stephen, how is uncle Si? O, weeping God, the
things I married into! De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little
costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectable
gondoliers! And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less! Sir. Yes,
sir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ!

I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take
me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

—It’s Stephen, sir.

—Let him in. Let Stephen in.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

—We thought you were someone else.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over
the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed
the upper moiety.

—Morrow, nephew.

He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the
eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and
common searches and a writ of _Duces Tecum_. A bogoak frame over his
bald head: Wilde’s _Requiescat_. The drone of his misleading whistle
brings Walter back.

—Yes, sir?

—Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?

—Bathing Crissie, sir.

Papa’s little bedpal. Lump of love.

—No, uncle Richie...

—Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!

—Uncle Richie, really...

—Sit down or by the law Harry I’ll knock you down.

Walter squints vainly for a chair.

—He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

—He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair.
Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs
here. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the
better. We have nothing in the house but backache pills.

_All’erta!_

He drones bars of Ferrando’s _aria di sortita_. The grandest number,
Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.

His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the
air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.

This wind is sweeter.

Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you
had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of
them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh’s
library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For
whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his
kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the
moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine
faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Abbas father,
furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff! _Descende,
calve, ut ne nimium decalveris_. A garland of grey hair on his
comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace
(_descende!_), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down,
baldpoll! A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the
altar’s horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their
albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of
wheat.

And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating
it. Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own
cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that,
invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled
his brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his
second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and,
rising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang
in diphthong.

Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were
awfully holy, weren’t you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you
might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue
that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from
the wet street. _O si, certo!_ Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags
pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still! On the top of the Howth
tram alone crying to the rain: _Naked women! Naked women!_ What about
that, eh?

What about what? What else were they invented for?

Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young.
You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause
earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one
saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for
titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is
wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval
leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great
libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them
there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della
Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange
pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who
once...

The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a
damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the
unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.
Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing
upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a
midden of man’s ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle
stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel:
isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze
of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the
higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams
of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.

He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara’s. Am I not going there?
Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer
sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

_—Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?_

_—C’est le pigeon, Joseph._

Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar
MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father’s a
bird, he lapped the sweet _lait chaud_ with pink young tongue, plump
bunny’s face. Lap, _lapin._ He hopes to win in the _gros lots_. About
the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me _La Vie de
Jésus_ by M. Léo 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 à mon père._

_—Il croit?_

_—Mon père, 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. _Fermé_. Hired
dog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered
walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not
hurt? O, that’s all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O,
that’s all right. Shake a shake. O, that’s all only all right.

You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery
Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt
from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: _Euge! Euge!_ Pretending to
speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence,
across the slimy pier at Newhaven. _Comment?_ Rich booty you brought
back; _Le Tutu_, five tattered numbers of _Pantalon Blanc et Culotte
Rouge_; a blue French telegram, curiosity to show:

—Mother dying come home father.

The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That’s why she won’t.

     Then here’s a health to Mulligan’s aunt
     And I’ll tell you the reason why.
     She always kept things decent in
     The Hannigan famileye.

His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by
the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled stone
mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is
there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.

Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of
farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the
air. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife’s lover’s wife, the
kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. In
Rodot’s Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering
with gold teeth _chaussons_ of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the
_pus_ of _flan bréton_. 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
sétier!_ 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,
Félix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, _bonne à
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 Gît-le-Cœur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebra
skirt, frisky as a young thing’s. Spurned and undespairing. Tell Pat
you saw me, won’t you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. _Mon
fils_, soldier of France. I taught him to sing _The boys of Kilkenny
are stout roaring blades_. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that.
Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow’s castle on the Nore. Goes like
this. _O, O_. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.

     O, O the boys of
     Kilkenny...

Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them.
Remembering thee, O Sion.

He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots.
The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of
seeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship,
am I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the
quaking soil. Turn back.

Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in
new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the
barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet
are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk,
nightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait,
their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned
platters. Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when
this night comes. A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their blind
bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no answer. He lifted
his feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take
all, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon’s
midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing
Elsinore’s tempting flood.

The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back
then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the sedge
and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a
grike.

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the
gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. _Un coche ensablé_ 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. _Natürlich_, put there for
you. Would you or would you not? The man that was drowned nine days ago
off Maiden’s rock. They are waiting for him now. The truth, spit it
out. I would want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Water
cold soft. When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Can’t
see! Who’s behind me? Out quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing
quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly,
shellcocoacoloured? If I had land under my feet. I want his life still
to be his, mine to be mine. A drowning man. His human eyes scream to me
out of horror of his death. I... With him together down... I could not
save her. Waters: bitter death: lost.

A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on
all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made
off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a
lowskimming gull. The man’s shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He
turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a
field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe of
the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout
lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented
towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth,
breaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.

Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and, stooping,
soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelped
running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again
reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them
as they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf’s tongue redpanting
from his jaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped
off at a calf’s gallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped,
sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it,
sniffling rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog’s bedraggled fell.
Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one great goal. Ah,
poor dogsbody! Here lies poor dogsbody’s body.

—Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel!

The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless
kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight. He
slunk back in a curve. Doesn’t see me. Along by the edge of the mole he
lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed
against it. He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed
quick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor. His
hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.
Something he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in the sand,
dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand
again with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in
spousebreach, vulturing the dead.

After he woke me last night same dream or was it? Wait. Open hallway.
Street of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That
man led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against
my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In. Come.
Red carpet spread. You will see who.

Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians. His blued feet
out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler
strangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she followed: the
ruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand
and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face hair
trailed. Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. When
night hides her body’s flaws calling under her brown shawl from an
archway where dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal
Dublins in O’Loughlin’s of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues’ rum
lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell! A shefiend’s whiteness under her
rancid rags. Fumbally’s lane that night: the tanyard smells.

     White thy fambles, red thy gan
     And thy quarrons dainty is.
     Couch a hogshead with me then.
     In the darkmans clip and kiss.

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, _frate porcospino_.
Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: _thy quarrons
dainty is_. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads
jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their
pockets.

Passing now.

A side eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? I
am not. Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun’s
flaming sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands. She trudges,
schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering,
moondrawn, in her wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not
mine, _oinopa ponton_, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon.
In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed,
childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. _Omnis caro ad te veniet_. He
comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying
the sea, mouth to her mouth’s kiss.

Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss.
No. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her mouth’s kiss.

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her moomb.
Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched:
ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring
wayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy’s
letter. Here. Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off.
Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and
scribbled words. That’s twice I forgot to take slips from the library
counter.

His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till
the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness
shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there
with his augur’s rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid
sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth
stars. I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it
back. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here?
Who ever anywhere will read these written words? Signs on a white
field. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice. The good bishop of
Cloyne took the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space
with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Hold hard. Coloured on a
flat: yes, that’s right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far,
flat I see, east, back. Ah, see now! Falls back suddenly, frozen in
stereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words dark. Darkness is
in our souls do you not think? Flutier. Our souls, shamewounded by our
sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the
more.

She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue
hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality
of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin at
Hodges Figgis’ window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet
books you were going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through
the braided jesse of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with a
grief and kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else,
Stevie: a pickmeup. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders
and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Talk about apple
dumplings, _piuttosto_. Where are your wits?

Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me
soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone.
Sad too. Touch, touch me.

He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the
scribbled note and pencil into a pocket, his hat tilted down on his
eyes. That is Kevin Egan’s movement I made, nodding for his nap,
sabbath sleep. _Et vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona_. Alo! _Bonjour_.
Welcome as the flowers in May. Under its leaf he watched through
peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. I am caught in this burning
scene. Pan’s hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants,
milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is
far.

     And no more turn aside and brood.

His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck’s castoffs,
_nebeneinander_. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein
another’s foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the ground in
tripudium, foot I dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt’s
shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. _Tiens, quel petit pied!_
Staunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde’s love that dare not speak its
name. His arm: Cranly’s arm. He now will leave me. And the blame? As I
am. As I am. All or not at all.

In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering
greengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float
away. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the
low rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a
fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of
waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it
slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech
ceases. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower
unfurling.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and
sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water
swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by night:
lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary; and, whispered to,
they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting,
awaiting the fullness of their times, _diebus ac noctibus iniurias
patiens ingemiscit_. To no end gathered; vainly then released,
forthflowing, wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of
lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws
a toil of waters.

Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one, he
said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a
loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse
rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise
landward. There he is. Hook it quick. Pull. Sunk though he be beneath
the watery floor. We have him. Easy now.

Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a
spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. God
becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed
mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a
urinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes
upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to
the sun.

A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths
known to man. Old Father Ocean. _Prix de Paris_: beware of imitations.
Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Come. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there?
Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect,
_Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum_. No. My cockle hat and staff and
hismy sandal shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.

He took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying
still. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make
their end. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longest day.
Of all the glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn
Tennyson, gentleman poet. _Già_. For the old hag with the yellow teeth.
And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. _Già_. My teeth are very
bad. Why, I wonder. Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to
a dentist, I wonder, with that money? That one. This. Toothless Kinch,
the superman. Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps?

My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up?

His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn’t. Better buy one.

He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock,
carefully. For the rest let look who will.

Behind. Perhaps there is someone.

He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the
air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the
crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.




— II —


[ 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.

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively
and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits
narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to
the dresser, took the jug Hanlon’s milkman had just filled for him,
poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.

—Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.

He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped
three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they
can’t mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or
kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.

He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with
this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for
a mutton kidney at Buckley’s. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper.
Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz’s. While the kettle is boiling. She
lapped slower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so
rough? To lap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced
round him. No.

On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by
the bedroom door. She might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter
she likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way.

He said softly in the bare hall:

—I’m going round the corner. Be back in a minute.

And when he had heard his voice say it he added:

—You don’t want anything for breakfast?

A sleepy soft grunt answered:

—Mn.

No. She didn’t want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer,
as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled.
Must get those settled really. Pity. All the way from Gibraltar.
Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for
it. Old style. Ah yes! of course. Bought it at the governor’s auction.
Got a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. At
Plevna that was. I rose from the ranks, sir, and I’m proud of it. Still
he had brains enough to make that corner in stamps. Now that was
farseeing.

His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat
and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback
pictures. Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too. Course they do.
The sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto’s
high grade ha. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. White
slip of paper. Quite safe.

On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there.
In the trousers I left off. Must get it. Potato I have. Creaky
wardrobe. No use disturbing her. She turned over sleepily that time. He
pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf
dropped gently over the threshold, a limp lid. Looked shut. All right
till I come back anyhow.

He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number
seventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of George’s church. Be a
warm day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Black
conducts, reflects, (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldn’t go in
that light suit. Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as
he walked in happy warmth. Boland’s breadvan delivering with trays our
daily but she prefers yesterday’s loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot.
Makes you feel young. Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at
dawn. Travel round in front of the sun, steal a day’s march on him.
Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Walk along a
strand, strange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker
too, old Tweedy’s big moustaches, leaning on a long kind of a spear.
Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves of
carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking
a coiled pipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink water scented
with fennel, sherbet. Dander along all day. Might meet a robber or two.
Well, meet him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques among
the pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees,
signal, the evening wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A mother watches
me from her doorway. She calls her children home in their dark
language. High wall: beyond strings twanged. Night sky, moon, violet,
colour of Molly’s new garters. Strings. Listen. A girl playing one of
those instruments what do you call them: dulcimers. I pass.

Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read: in the track
of the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He smiled, pleasing himself.
What Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the _Freeman_
leader: a homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway
behind the bank of Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch
that: homerule sun rising up in the 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. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At
their joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom.

He halted before Dlugacz’s window, staring at the hanks of sausages,
polonies, black and white. Fifteen multiplied by. The figures whitened
in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links,
packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the
lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs’ blood.

A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last. He
stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it too,
calling the items from a slip in her hand? Chapped: washingsoda. And a
pound and a half of Denny’s sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous
hips. Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. New
blood. No followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on
the clothesline. She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked
skirt swings at each whack.

The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with
blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Sound meat there: like a stallfed heifer.

He took a page up from the pile of cut sheets: the model farm at
Kinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Can become ideal winter
sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall round
it, blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting:
read it nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle, the page
rustling. A young white heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket, the
beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the
breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a
palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there’s a prime one, unpeeled
switches in their hands. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his
senses and his will, his soft subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt
swinging, whack by whack by whack.

The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime
sausages and made a red grimace.

—Now, my miss, he said.

She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.

—Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you,
please?

Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and walk behind her if she went
slowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the
morning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines. She stood
outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He
sighed down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted
toenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. The
sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For
another: a constable off duty cuddling her in Eccles’ Lane. They like
them sizeable. Prime sausage. O please, Mr Policeman, I’m lost in the
wood.

—Threepence, please.

His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket.
Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers’ pocket and laid them
on the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid,
disc by disc, into the till.

—Thank you, sir. Another time.

A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his gaze
after an instant. No: better not: another time.

—Good morning, he said, moving away.

—Good morning, sir.

No sign. Gone. What matter?

He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely. Agendath Netaim:
planters’ company. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish
government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for shade, fuel
and construction. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa.
You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with
olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges need
artificial irrigation. Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your
name entered for life as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten
down and the balance in yearly instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34,
Berlin, W. 15.

Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it.

He looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silverpowdered
olivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Olives are packed in
jars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out.
Knows the taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates.
Citrons too. Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin’s parade. And
Mastiansky with the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in
Citron’s basketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand,
lift it to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet,
wild perfume. Always the same, year after year. They fetched high
prices too, Moisel told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant
old times. Must be without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain,
Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined up on the quayside
at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them
barefoot in soiled dungarees. There’s whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do
you? Doesn’t see. Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore. His back
is like that Norwegian captain’s. Wonder if I’ll meet him today.
Watering cart. To provoke the rain. On earth as it is in heaven.

A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far.

No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead
sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind could lift
those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called
it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All
dead names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore
the oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy’s,
clutching a naggin bottle by the neck. The oldest people. Wandered far
away over all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying,
being born everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more.
Dead: an old woman’s: the grey sunken cunt of the world.

Desolation.

Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he
turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his
veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I
am here now. Yes, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong
side of the bed. Must begin again those Sandow’s exercises. On the
hands down. Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why
is that? Valuation is only 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.

Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stooped and gathered
them. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened heart slowed at once. Bold hand.
Mrs Marion.

—Poldy!

Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm
yellow twilight towards her tousled head.

—Who are the letters for?

He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly.

—A letter for me from Milly, he said carefully, and a card to you. And
a letter for you.

He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of
her knees.

—Do you want the blind up?

Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her
glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow.

—That do? he asked, turning.

She was reading the card, propped on her elbow.

—She got the things, she said.

He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back
slowly with a snug sigh.

—Hurry up with that tea, she said. I’m parched.

—The kettle is boiling, he said.

But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled
linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed.

As he went down the kitchen stairs she called:

—Poldy!

—What?

—Scald the teapot.

On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the spout. He scalded
and rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting
the kettle then to let the water flow in. Having set it to draw he took
off the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the
lump of butter slide and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat
mewed hungrily against him. Give her too much meat she won’t mouse. Say
they won’t eat pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall
to her and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper.
He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup.

Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over. Thanks:
new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: young student: Blazes Boylan’s
seaside girls.

The tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby,
smiling. Silly Milly’s birthday gift. Only five she was then. No, wait:
four. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Putting pieces of
folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. He smiled, pouring.

     O, Milly Bloom, you are my darling.
     You are my lookingglass from night to morning.
     I’d rather have you without a farthing
     Than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden.

Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still he was a courteous
old chap. Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the platform. And
the little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought it into the
parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin’s hat! All we
laughed. Sex breaking out even then. Pert little piece she was.

He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the
teapot on the tray. Its hump bumped as he took it up. Everything on it?
Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes. He carried it
upstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.

Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it
on the chair by the bedhead.

—What a time you were! she said.

She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on
the pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large
soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat’s udder. The
warmth of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance
of the tea she poured.

A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the
act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.

—Who was the letter from? he asked.

Bold hand. Marion.

—O, Boylan, she said. He’s bringing the programme.

—What are you singing?

—_Là ci darem_ with J. C. Doyle, she said, and _Love’s Old Sweet Song_.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves
next day. Like foul flowerwater.

—Would you like the window open a little?

She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking:

—What time is the funeral?

—Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn’t see the paper.

Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled
drawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a
stocking: rumpled, shiny sole.

—No: that book.

Other stocking. Her petticoat.

—It must have fell down, she said.

He felt here and there. _Voglio e non vorrei_. Wonder if she pronounces
that right: _voglio_. Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped
and lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of
the orangekeyed chamberpot.

—Show here, she said. I put a mark in it. There’s a word I wanted to
ask you.

She swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by nothandle and,
having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to search the
text with the hairpin till she reached the word.

—Met him what? he asked.

—Here, she said. What does that mean?

He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail.

—Metempsychosis?

—Yes. Who’s he when he’s at home?

—Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It’s Greek: from the Greek. That
means the transmigration of souls.

—O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain words.

He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. The same young eyes.
The first night after the charades. Dolphin’s Barn. He turned over the
smudged pages. _Ruby: the Pride of the Ring_. Hello. Illustration.
Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the
floor naked. Sheet kindly lent. _The monster Maffei desisted and flung
his victim from him with an oath_. Cruelty behind it all. Doped
animals. Trapeze at Hengler’s. Had to look the other way. Mob gaping.
Break your neck and we’ll break our sides. Families of them. Bone them
young so they metamspychosis. That we live after death. Our souls. That
a man’s soul after he dies. Dignam’s soul...

—Did you finish it? he asked.

—Yes, she said. There’s nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the
first fellow all the time?

—Never read it. Do you want another?

—Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock’s. Nice name he has.

She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways.

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they’ll write to
Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that’s the word.

—Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in another body
after death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we
all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other
planet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their
past lives.

The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Better
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 lovely box of creams and am writing. They are lovely. I am
getting on swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of
me and Mrs. Will send when developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair
day and all the beef to the heels were in. We are going to lough Owel
on Monday with a few friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to
mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano
downstairs. There is to be a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday.
There is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his
cousins or something are big swells and he sings Boylan’s (I was on the
pop of writing Blazes Boylan’s) song about those seaside girls. Tell
him silly Milly sends my best respects. I must now close with fondest
love

                    Your fond daughter
                        Milly

P. S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Byby.

                        M.


Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first
birthday away from home. Separation. Remember the summer morning she
was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly
old woman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew
from the first poor little Rudy wouldn’t live. Well, God is good, sir.
She knew at once. He would be eleven now if he had lived.

His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse bad writing.
Hurry. Piano downstairs. Coming out of her shell. Row with her in the
XL Café about the bracelet. Wouldn’t eat her cakes or speak or look.
Saucebox. He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece
after piece of kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still, she
might do worse. Music hall stage. Young student. He drank a draught of
cooler tea to wash down his meal. Then he read the letter again: twice.

O, well: she knows how to mind herself. But if not? No, nothing has
happened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does. A wild
piece of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny.
Ripening now. Vain: very.

He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window. Day I caught
her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. Anemic a
little. Was given milk too long. On the _Erin’s King_ that day round
the Kish. Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue
scarf loose in the wind with her hair.

     All dimpled cheeks and curls,
     Your head it simply swirls.

Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers’ pockets,
jarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says.
Pier with lamps, summer evening, band.

     Those girls, those girls,
     Those lovely seaside girls.

Milly too. Young kisses: the first. Far away now past. Mrs Marion.
Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling,
braiding.

A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will
happen, yes. Prevent. Useless: can’t move. Girl’s sweet light lips.
Will happen too. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to
move now. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey woman’s lips.

Better where she is down there: away. Occupy her. Wanted a dog to pass
the time. Might take a trip down there. August bank holiday, only two
and six return. Six weeks off, however. Might work a press pass. Or
through M’Coy.

The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper,
nosed at it and stalked to the door. She looked back at him, mewing.
Wants to go out. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Let her
wait. Has the fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her
ear with her back to the fire too.

He felt heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his bowels. He stood
up, undoing the waistband of his trousers. The cat mewed to him.

—Miaow! he said in answer. Wait till I’m ready.

Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs to the
landing.

A paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope no ape comes knocking just as
I’m.

In the tabledrawer he found an old number of _Titbits_. He folded it
under his armpit, went to the door and opened it. The cat went up in
soft bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed.

Listening, he heard her voice:

—Come, come, pussy. Come.

He went out through the backdoor into the garden: stood to listen
towards the next garden. No sound. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry.
The maid was in the garden. Fine morning.

He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall.
Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to
manure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur.
All soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this
that is? The hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top
dressing. Best of all though are the cattle, especially when they are
fed on those oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies’ kid
gloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in
that corner there. Lettuce. Always have fresh greens then. Still
gardens have their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.

He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the
peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I don’t remember that. Hallstand
too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters.
Drago’s shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown
brillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder
have I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox
there got away James Stephens, they say. O’Brien.

Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is it? Now, my miss.
Enthusiast.

He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to
get these trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head
under the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy
limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he
peered through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. The king was in his
countinghouse. Nobody.

Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over
on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a
bit. Our prize titbit: _Matcham’s Masterstroke_. Written by Mr Philip
Beaufoy, Playgoers’ Club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a
column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds
three. Three pounds, thirteen and six.

Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding
but resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding,
he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading
still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope
it’s not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive.
One tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or
touch him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now.
Silly season. He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat
certainly. _Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won
the laughing witch who now_. Begins and ends morally. _Hand in hand_.
Smart. He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his
water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and
received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six.

Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story for
some proverb. Which? Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what
she said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving.
Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her.
9.15. 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 ]


By lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past
Windmill lane, Leask’s the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph
office. Could have given that address too. And past the sailors’ home.
He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through
Lime street. By Brady’s cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket
of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of
eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered
caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he won’t grow. O let him! His life
isn’t such a bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come
home to ma, da. Slack hour: won’t be many there. He crossed Townsend
street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph,
Beth. And past Nichols’ the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough.
Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O’Neill’s. Singing with his
eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark.
Police tout. Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom
tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a
whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.

In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental
Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend,
finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom
Kernan. Couldn’t ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still
read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent
his right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm
morning. Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the
leather headband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand
came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card
behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.

So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and
hair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again: choice
blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it
must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on,
cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like
that. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in _dolce far niente_,
not doing a hand’s turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too
hot to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of
idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens.
Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness
in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and
cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in
the dead sea floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open.
Couldn’t sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of
the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the
weight of the what? Or is it the volume is equal to the weight? It’s a
law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his
fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum.
What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per
second per second. Law of falling bodies: per second per second. They
all fall to the ground. The earth. It’s the force of gravity of the
earth is the weight.

He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her
sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded
_Freeman_ from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a
baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg.
Careless air: just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second
for every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance
through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one.
In.

He handed the card through the brass grill.

—Are there any letters for me? he asked.

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting
poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his
baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer
probably. Went too far last time.

The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a
letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.

Henry Flower Esq,
c/o P. O. Westland Row,
            City.


Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket,
reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where’s old Tweedy’s regiment?
Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he’s a
grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers.
Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform.
Easier to enlist and drill. Maud Gonne’s letter about taking them off
O’Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith’s
paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease:
overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like.
Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King’s own. Never see
him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.

He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if
that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger
felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks.
Women will pay a lot of heed, I don’t think. His fingers drew forth the
letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something
pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.

M’Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when
you.

—Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?

—Hello, M’Coy. Nowhere in particular.

—How’s the body?

—Fine. How are you?

—Just keeping alive, M’Coy said.

His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:

—Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you’re...

—O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.

—To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?

A photo it isn’t. A badge maybe.

—E...eleven, Mr Bloom answered.

—I must try to get out there, M’Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard
it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?

—I know.

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door
of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She
stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her,
searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll
collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless
stand of her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty
creature at the polo match. Women all for caste till you touch the
spot. Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The
honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once take
the starch out of her.

—I was with Bob Doran, he’s on one of his periodical bends, and what do
you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway’s we were.

Doran Lyons in Conway’s. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came
Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath
his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the
braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight
perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady’s hand. Which side will
she get up?

—And he said: _Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy?_ I
said. _Poor little Paddy Dignam_, he said.

Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces
dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change for?
Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two
strings to her bow.

—_Why?_ I said. _What’s wrong with him?_ I said.

Proud: rich: silk stockings.

—Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He moved a little to the side of M’Coy’s talking head. Getting up in a
minute.

—_What’s wrong with him_? He said. _He’s dead_, he said. And, faith, he
filled up. _Is it Paddy Dignam_? I said. I couldn’t believe it when I
heard it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it
in the Arch. _Yes,_ he said. _He’s gone. He died on Monday, poor
fellow_.

Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and
the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace
street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering
the display of. _Esprit de corps_. Well, what are you gaping at?

—Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.

—One of the best, M’Coy said.

The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich
gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her
hat in the sun: flicker, flick.

—Wife well, I suppose? M’Coy’s changed voice said.

—O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:

     What is home without
     Plumtree’s Potted Meat?
     Incomplete.
     With it an abode of bliss.

—My missus has just got an engagement. At least it’s not settled yet.

Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I’m off that, thanks.

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

—My wife too, he said. She’s going to sing at a swagger affair in the
Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the 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.

—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:

     Là ci darem la mano
     La la lala la la.


He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in
the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade’s timberyard. Piled balks.
Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch
court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard
a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb.
A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to
disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her.
Open it. And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame’s
school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis’s. And Mr? He opened the letter
within the newspaper.

A flower. I think it’s a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not
annoyed then? What does she say?


Dear Henry

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry
you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am
awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called
you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me
what is the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in your home
you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you.
Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the
beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you
so often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a
man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell
me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what
I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote. O how I long to
meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are
exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling, I
have such a bad headache. today. and write _by return_ to your longing

Martha


P. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to
know.


He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell
and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it
because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then
walking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and
there a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your
cactus if you don’t please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear
roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha’s
perfume. Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it
back in his sidepocket.

Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did
she wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like
me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary.
Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round
corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic.
Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course.
Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it.
Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere:
pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses
without thorns.

Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in
the Coombe, linked together in the rain.

     O, 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.
He’s not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to
baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing.
Like to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced,
listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.

The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps,
pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.

Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place
to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow
music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the
benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch
knelt at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring,
holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a
communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it
neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her
hat sank at once. Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent
down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next
one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? _Corpus:_ body. Corpse.
Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They
don’t seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a
corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by
one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in
its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear.
We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here
and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for
it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it’s that
sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes
them feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it’s called.
There’s a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you
feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one
family party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I’m
sure of that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit
spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes
cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding.
Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind
faith. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time
next year.

He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an
instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace
affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn’t know what
to do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No: I.H.S.
Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have
suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with
a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here
with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the
sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen’s evidence on the
invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion
every morning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I
am thinking of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six
children at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those
crawthumpers, now that’s a good name for them, there’s always something
shiftylooking about them. They’re not straight men of business either.
O, no, she’s not here: the flower: no, no. By the way, did I tear up
that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.

The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs
smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank
what they are used to Guinness’s porter or some temperance beverage
Wheatley’s Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane’s ginger ale
(aromatic). Doesn’t give them any of it: shew wine: only the other.
Cold comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they’d have one
old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer
the whole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.

Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music.
Pity. Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make
that instrument talk, the _vibrato_: fifty pounds a year they say he
had in Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the _Stabat
Mater_ of Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan’s sermon first. Christ or
Pilate? Christ, but don’t keep us all night over it. Music they wanted.
Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice
against that corner. I could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the
people looking up:

_Quis est homo._

Some of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last words.
Mozart’s twelfth mass: _Gloria_ in that. Those old popes keen on music,
on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example
too. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting,
regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse.
Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick.
What kind of voice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own
strong basses. Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn’t feel anything after.
Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh, don’t they? Gluttons,
tall, long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it.

He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and
bless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom
glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand
up at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again
and he sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the
altar, holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered
each other in Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a
card:

—O God, our refuge and our strength...

Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them
the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Glorious
and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More
interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful
organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants
to. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon
in their hands. More than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I
schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look
down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears.
Husband learn to his surprise. God’s little joke. Then out she comes.
Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy
Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation
army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting.
How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they
work the whole show. And don’t they rake in the money too? Bequests
also: to the P.P. for the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses
for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors.
Monasteries and convents. The priest in that Fermanagh will case in the
witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything.
Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of
the church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.

The priest prayed:

—Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our
safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God
restrain him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly
host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those
other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of
souls.

The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women
remained behind: thanksgiving.

Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate
perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.

He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the
time? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there’s a
(whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked.
Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don’t. Why didn’t you tell me
before. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn’t farther south.
He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the
main door into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black
marble bowl while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive
hands in the low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of Prescott’s
dyeworks: a widow in her weeds. Notice because I’m in mourning myself.
He covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet.
Better get that lotion made up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time.
Sweny’s in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move. Their green and gold
beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton Long’s, founded in the year of
the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.

He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other
trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair.
O well, poor fellow, it’s not his fault. When was it I got it made up
last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it
must have been or the second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions
book.

The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he
seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher’s
stone. The alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy
then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your
character. Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants.
All his alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te
Virid. Smell almost cure you like the dentist’s doorbell. Doctor Whack.
He ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first
fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples.
Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns
blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping
draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the
pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least
expect it. Clever of nature.

—About a fortnight ago, sir?

—Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the
dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling
your aches and pains.

—Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then
orangeflower water...

It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.

—And white wax also, he said.

Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to her
eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my
cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the
teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk.
Skinfood. One of the old queen’s sons, duke of Albany was it? had only
one skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to
make it worse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your?
_Peau d’Espagne_. That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these
soaps have. Pure curd soap. Time to get a bath round the corner.
Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a
nice girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious
longing I. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time
for massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather glum.

—Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a
bottle?

—No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I’ll call later in the day and
I’ll take one of these soaps. How much are they?

—Fourpence, sir.

Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.

—I’ll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.

—Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you
come back.

—Good, Mr Bloom said.

He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the
coolwrappered soap in his left hand.

At his armpit Bantam Lyons’ voice and hand said:

—Hello, Bloom. What’s the best news? Is that today’s? Show us a minute.

Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look
younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.

Bantam Lyons’s yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a
wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears’
soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.

—I want to see about that French horse that’s running today, Bantam
Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?

He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar.
Barber’s itch. Tight collar he’ll lose his hair. Better leave him the
paper and get shut of him.

—You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.

—Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the
second.

—I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

—What’s that? his sharp voice said.

—I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away
that moment.

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread
sheets back on Mr Bloom’s arms.

—I’ll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.

He sped off towards Conway’s corner. God speed scut.

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap
in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it
lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large
tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming
embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now.
They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.

He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a
mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He
eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist
doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it
round like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the
hub big: college. Something to catch the eye.

There’s Hornblower standing at the porter’s lodge. Keep him on hands:
might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower?
How do you do, sir?

Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.
Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can’t play it
here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the
Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in
their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M’Carthy took the
floor. Heatwave. Won’t last. Always passing, the stream of life, which
in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.

Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid
stream. This is my body.

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of
warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk
and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward,
lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of
his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father
of thousands, a languid floating flower.




[ 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.

All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front, turning: then nearer:
then horses’ hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking and
swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds of
the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar.
At walking pace.

They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were
passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels
rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook
rattling in the doorframes.

—What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.

—Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.

Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.

—That’s a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died
out.

All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by
passers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the
smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man,
clad in mourning, a wide hat.

—There’s a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said.

—Who is that?

—Your son and heir.

—Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.

The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway
before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving back
to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. Mr Dedalus
fell back, saying:

—Was that Mulligan cad with him? His _fidus Achates_!

—No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.

—Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding
faction, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa’s little lump
of dung, the wise child that knows her own father.

Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros: the
bottleworks: Dodder bridge.

Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding, Collis and Ward he calls
the firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great card he was. Waltzing
in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the
landlady’s two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night.
Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wife
ironing his back. Thinks he’ll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they
are. About six hundred per cent profit.

—He’s in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a
contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks
all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I’ll
make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother
or his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a
gate. I’ll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.

He cried above the clatter of the wheels:

—I won’t have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counterjumper’s
son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M’Swiney’s. Not likely.

He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power’s mild
face and Martin Cunningham’s eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Noisy
selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to hand on. If
little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house.
Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange
feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance. Must have been that
morning in Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the two dogs
at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning
up. She had that cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us
a touch, Poldy. God, I’m dying for it. How life begins.

Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her.
I could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent.
Learn German too.

—Are we late? Mr Power asked.

—Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch.

Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy oaths. O jumping
Jupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, she’s a dear girl. Soon be a
woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman too.
Life, life.

The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying.

—Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said.

—He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn’t that squint troubling him. Do
you follow me?

He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away
crustcrumbs from under his thighs.

—What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs?

—Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power
said.

All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless
leather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward
and said:

—Unless I’m greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin?

—It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet quite
clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.

Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.

—After all, he said, it’s the most natural thing in the world.

—Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of
his beard gently.

—Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He’s behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes.

—And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked.

—At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said.

—I met M’Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he’d try to come.

The carriage halted short.

—What’s wrong?

—We’re stopped.

—Where are we?

Mr Bloom put his head out of the window.

—The grand canal, he said.

Gasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good job Milly never got
it. Poor children! Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. Shame
really. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Only measles. Flaxseed
tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. Don’t miss
this chance. Dogs’ home over there. Poor old Athos! Be good to Athos,
Leopold, is my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey them in the grave.
A dying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men’s
dogs usually are.

A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an instant of shower
spray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a
colander. I thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now.

—The weather is changing, he said quietly.

—A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said.

—Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There’s the sun again coming
out.

Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled
a mute curse at the sky.

—It’s as uncertain as a child’s bottom, he said.

—We’re off again.

The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed
gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.

—Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking
him off to his face.

—O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear
him, Simon, on Ben Dollard’s singing of _The Croppy Boy_.

—Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. _His singing of that simple
ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the
whole course of my experience._

—Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He’s dead nuts on that. And the
retrospective arrangement.

—Did you read Dan Dawson’s speech? Martin Cunningham asked.

—I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it?

—In the paper this morning.

Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change
for her.

—No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on please.

Mr Bloom’s glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the
deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what
Peake is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne’s? no, Sexton,
Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper.
Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief
of his. Aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Month’s mind:
Quinlan. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.

     It is now a month since dear Henry fled
     To his home up above in the sky
     While his family weeps and mourns his loss
     Hoping some day to meet him on high.

I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it
in the bath? He patted his waistcoatpocket. There all right. Dear Henry
fled. Before my patience are exhausted.

National school. Meade’s yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nodding.
Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round
with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their
hats.

A pointsman’s back straightened itself upright suddenly against a
tramway standard by Mr Bloom’s window. Couldn’t they invent something
automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow
would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job
making the new invention?

Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a
crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law
perhaps.

They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark’s, under the railway
bridge, past the Queen’s theatre: in silence. Hoardings: Eugene
Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Could I go to see _Leah_ tonight, I
wonder. I said I. Or the _Lily of Killarney_? Elster Grimes Opera
Company. Big powerful change. Wet bright bills for next week. _Fun on
the Bristol_. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the Gaiety. Have
to stand a drink or two. As broad as it’s long.

He’s coming in the afternoon. Her songs.

Plasto’s. Sir Philip Crampton’s memorial fountain bust. Who was he?

—How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow in
salute.

—He doesn’t see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How do you do?

—Who? Mr Dedalus asked.

—Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quiff.

Just that moment I was thinking.

Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the
white disc of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed.

Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right
hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him that they she sees?
Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes
feel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I am
just looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone. Body
getting a bit softy. I would notice that: from remembering. What causes
that? I suppose the skin can’t contract quickly enough when the flesh
falls off. But the shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders.
Hips. Plump. Night of the dance dressing. Shift stuck between the
cheeks behind.

He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant
glance over their faces.

Mr Power asked:

—How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?

—O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It’s a good
idea, you see...

—Are you going yourself?

—Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to go down to the
county Clare on some private business. You see the idea is to tour the
chief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other.

—Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now.

Have you good artists?

—Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes, we’ll have all
topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in
fact.

—And _Madame_, Mr Power said smiling. Last but not least.

Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and
clasped them. Smith O’Brien. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there.
Woman. Must be his deathday. For many happy returns. The carriage
wheeling by Farrell’s statue united noiselessly their unresisting
knees.

Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his
mouth opening: oot.

—Four bootlaces for a penny.

Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume street.
Same house as Molly’s namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford.
Has that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning too.
Terrible comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at a wake.
O’Callaghan on his last legs.

And _Madame_. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. Doing
her hair, humming: _voglio e non vorrei_. No: _vorrei e non_. Looking
at the tips of her hairs to see if they are split. _Mi trema un poco
il_. Beautiful on that _tre_ her voice is: weeping tone. A thrush. A
throstle. There is a word throstle that expresses that.

His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power’s goodlooking face. Greyish over
the ears. _Madame_: smiling. I smiled back. A smile goes a long way.
Only politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is that true about the
woman he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it
told me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played
out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her
a pound of rumpsteak. What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury’s. Or the
Moira, was it?

They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator’s form.

Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.

—Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.

A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round the corner
of Elvery’s Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his
spine.

—In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.

Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly:

—The devil break the hasp of your back!

Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window as
the carriage passed Gray’s statue.

—We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly.

His eyes met Mr Bloom’s eyes. He caressed his beard, adding:

—Well, nearly all of us.

Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions’ faces.

—That’s an awfully good one that’s going the rounds about Reuben J and
the son.

—About the boatman? Mr Power asked.

—Yes. Isn’t it awfully good?

—What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn’t hear it.

—There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined to
send him to the Isle of Man out of harm’s way but when they were
both.....

—What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it?

—Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat and he tried
to drown.....

—Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did!

Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.

—No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself.....

Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely:

—Reuben J and the son were piking it down the quay next the river on
their way to the Isle of Man boat and the young chiseller suddenly got
loose and over the wall with him into the Liffey.

—For God’s sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is he dead?

—Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A boatman got a pole and fished
him out by the slack of the breeches and he was landed up to the father
on the quay more dead than alive. Half the town was there.

—Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is.....

—And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for
saving his son’s life.

A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power’s hand.

—O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a hero. A silver florin.

—Isn’t it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly.

—One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said drily.

Mr Power’s choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage.

Nelson’s pillar.

—Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny!

—We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Dedalus sighed.

—Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn’t grudge us a laugh.
Many a good one he told himself.

—The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his
fingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week ago when I saw him last
and he was in his usual health that I’d be driving after him like this.
He’s gone from us.

—As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said. He went
very suddenly.

—Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.

He tapped his chest sadly.

Blazing face: redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red nose.
Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent
colouring it.

Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.

—He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said.

—The best death, Mr Bloom said.

Their wide open eyes looked at him.

—No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like dying in sleep.

No-one spoke.

Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land agents,
temperance hotel, Falconer’s railway guide, civil service college,
Gill’s, catholic club, the industrious blind. Why? Some reason. Sun or
wind. At night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the
late Father Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart.

White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner,
galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A mourning
coach. Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for
a nun.

—Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.

A dwarf’s face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy’s was. Dwarf’s
body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society
pays. Penny a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant
nothing. Mistake of nature. If it’s healthy it’s from the mother. If
not from the man. Better luck next time.

—Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It’s well out of it.

The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his
bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.

—In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.

—But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own
life.

Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.

—The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.

—Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We
must take a charitable view of it.

—They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said.

—It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham’s
large eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent.
Like Shakespeare’s face. Always a good word to say. They have no mercy
on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to
drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn’t
broken already. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Found in the
riverbed clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of
a wife of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then
pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the
life of the damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday
morning. Start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have
looked a sight that night Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about
the place and capering with Martin’s umbrella.

     And they call me the jewel of Asia,
     Of Asia,
     The geisha.

He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.

That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The
room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight
through the slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner’s sunlit ears, big
and hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw
like yellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the
bed. Verdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son
Leopold.

No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.

The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.

—We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said.

—God grant he doesn’t upset us on the road, Mr Power said.

—I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race tomorrow
in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.

—Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith.

As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent
over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has
anybody here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead March from _Saul._
He’s as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The
_Mater Misericordiae_. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place.
Ward for incurables there. Very encouraging. Our Lady’s Hospice for the
dying. Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They
look terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the
spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student
that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. He’s gone over to the
lying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other.

The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped.

—What’s wrong now?

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching
by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony
croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their
fear.

—Emigrants, Mr Power said.

—Huuuh! the drover’s voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks.
Huuuh! out of that!

Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold
them about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for
old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter
lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a
year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries,
soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off
the train at Clonsilla.

The carriage moved on through the drove.

—I can’t make out why the corporation doesn’t run a tramline from the
parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken
in trucks down to the boats.

—Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. Quite
right. They ought to.

—Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought, is to have
municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line
out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage
and all. Don’t you see what I mean?

—O, that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and saloon
diningroom.

—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.

—Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn’t it be more decent
than galloping two abreast?

—Well, there’s something in that, Mr Dedalus granted.

—And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn’t have scenes like that when
the hearse capsized round Dunphy’s and upset the coffin on to the road.

—That was terrible, Mr Power’s shocked face said, and the corpse fell
about the road. Terrible!

—First round Dunphy’s, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.

—Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.

Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy
Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too
large for him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what’s up
now. Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides
decompose quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also.
With wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up all.

—Dunphy’s, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.

Dunphy’s corner. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. A
pause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we’ll pull up
here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation.
Elixir of life.

But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in
the knocking about? He would and he wouldn’t, I suppose. Depends on
where. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery.
It would be better to bury them in red: a dark red.

In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted
by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.

Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.

Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his dropping
barge, between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a
slacktethered horse. Aboard of the _Bugabu._

Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on
his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of
reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar,
Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or
cycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day at
the auction but a lady’s. Developing waterways. James M’Cann’s hobby to
row me o’er the ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats.
Camping out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will without
writing. Come as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by
lock to Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his
brown straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam.

They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it now.

—I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said.

—Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.

—How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping, I suppose?

—Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory dear.

The carriage steered left for Finglas road.

The stonecutter’s yard on the right. Last lap. Crowded on the spit of
land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands,
knelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white silence:
appealing. The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder
and sculptor.

Passed.

On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the sexton’s, an old tramp sat,
grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of his huge dustbrown
yawning boot. After life’s journey.

Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses.

Mr Power pointed.

—That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house.

—So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got him off.
Murdered his brother. Or so they said.

—The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said.

—Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham added. That’s the maxim of the
law. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent
person to be wrongfully condemned.

They looked. Murderer’s ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered,
tenantless, unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell. Wrongfully
condemned. Murder. The murderer’s image in the eye of the murdered.
They love reading about it. Man’s head found in a garden. Her clothing
consisted of. How she met her death. Recent outrage. The weapon used.
Murderer is still at large. Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed.
Murder will out.

Cramped in this carriage. She mightn’t like me to come that way without
letting her know. Must be careful about women. Catch them once with
their pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen.

The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Dark poplars,
rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the
trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain
gestures on the air.

The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin Cunningham put
out his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with
his knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed.

Change that soap now. Mr Bloom’s hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly
and transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket.
He stepped out of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand
still held.

Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. It’s all the same.
Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Pomp of death.
Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and
fruit. Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the dead.
Dogbiscuits. Who ate them? Mourners coming out.

He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert followed, Hynes
walking after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took
out the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy.

Where is that child’s funeral disappeared to?

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread,
dragging through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a
granite block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted.

Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse looking round at
it with his plume skeowways. Dull eye: collar tight on his neck,
pressing on a bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cart out
here every day? Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then Mount
Jerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere
every minute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick.
Thousands every hour. Too many in the world.

Mourners came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed harpy,
hard woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl’s face stained with dirt
and tears, holding the woman’s arm, looking up at her for a sign to
cry. Fish’s face, bloodless and livid.

The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So
much dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath. First
the stiff: then the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the boy
followed with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the
brother-in-law.

All walked after.

Martin Cunningham whispered:

—I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.

—What? Mr Power whispered. How so?

—His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had the
Queen’s hotel in Ennis. You heard him say he was going to Clare.
Anniversary.

—O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself?

He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed
towards the cardinal’s mausoleum. Speaking.

—Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.

—I believe so, Mr Kernan answered. But the policy was heavily
mortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.

—How many children did he leave?

—Five. Ned Lambert says he’ll try to get one of the girls into Todd’s.

—A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young children.

—A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added.

—Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.

Has the laugh at him now.

He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had
outlived him. Lost her husband. More dead for her than for me. One must
outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the
world. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you’ll soon follow
him. For Hindu widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet who
knows after. Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn on
a guncarriage. Victoria and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. But in
the end she put a few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her heart of
hearts. All for a shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the
substance. Something new to hope for not like the past she wanted back,
waiting. It never comes. One must go first: alone, under the ground:
and lie no more in her warm bed.

—How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven’t
seen you for a month of Sundays.

—Never better. How are all in Cork’s own town?

—I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert
said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.

—And how is Dick, the solid man?

—Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.

—By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?

—Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said,
pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep them going till the
insurance is cleared up.

—Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front?

—Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife’s brother. John Henry Menton is
behind. He put down his name for a quid.

—I’ll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought
to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.

—How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?

—Many a good man’s fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.

They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr Bloom stood
behind the boy with the wreath looking down at his sleekcombed hair and
at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was
he there when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last
moment and recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe
three shillings to O’Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the
coffin into the chapel. Which end is his head?

After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened
light. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow
candles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a
wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners
knelt here and there in prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the
font and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper
from his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black
hat gently on his left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.

A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out through a
door. The whitesmocked priest came after him, tidying his stole with
one hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad’s
belly. Who’ll read the book? I, said the rook.

They halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book
with a fluent croak.

Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. _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 goner.

My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That’s better.

The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy’s
bucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end
and shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As
you were before you rested. It’s all written down: he has to do it.

_—Et ne nos inducas in tentationem._

The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be
better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that, of course
...

Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed
up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up.
What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day
a fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in
childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls
with little sparrows’ breasts. All the year round he prayed the same
thing over them all and shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam
now.

_—In paradisum._

Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over
everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.

The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Corny
Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the
coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny
Kelleher gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All
followed them out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom
came last folding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at
the ground till the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal
wheels ground the gravel with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt
boots followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres.

The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn’t lilt here.

—The O’Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.

Mr Power’s soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone.

—He’s at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O’. But
his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here,
Simon!

—Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I’ll soon be stretched
beside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.

Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little
in his walk. Mr Power took his arm.

—She’s better where she is, he said kindly.

—I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp. I suppose she is in
heaven if there is a heaven.

Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to
plod by.

—Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely.

Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head.

—The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we can
do so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place.

They covered their heads.

—The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don’t you think?
Mr Kernan said with reproof.

Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret
eyes, secretsearching. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We
are the last. In the same boat. Hope he’ll say something else.

Mr Kernan added:

—The service of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more
impressive I must say.

Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course was another thing.

Mr Kernan said with solemnity:

—_I am the resurrection and the life_. That touches a man’s inmost
heart.

—It does, Mr Bloom said.

Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two
with his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat of the affections.
Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood
every day. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots of
them lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damn
the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you
are dead. That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves.
Come forth, Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last
day! Then every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and
the rest of his traps. Find damn all of himself that morning.
Pennyweight of powder in a skull. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy
measure.

Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.

—Everything went off A1, he said. What?

He looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman’s shoulders. With
your tooraloom tooraloom.

—As it should be, Mr Kernan said.

—What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.

Mr Kernan assured him.

—Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I
know his face.

Ned Lambert glanced back.

—Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the
soprano. She’s his wife.

—O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven’t seen her for some
time. 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.

Ned Lambert smiled.

—Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hely’s. A traveller for blottingpaper.

—In God’s name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a coon like
that for? She had plenty of game in her then.

—Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads.

John Henry Menton’s large eyes stared ahead.

The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the
grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps.

—John O’Connell, Mr Power said pleased. He never forgets a friend.

Mr O’Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said:

—I am come to pay you another visit.

—My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don’t want
your custom at all.

Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin
Cunningham’s side puzzling two long keys at his back.

—Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?

—I did not, Martin Cunningham said.

They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The
caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watchchain and spoke
in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.

—They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy
evening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for
Mulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was buried. After
traipsing about in the fog they found the grave sure enough. One of the
drunks spelt out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was
blinking up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up.

The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He
resumed:

—And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, _Not a bloody bit like
the man_, says he. _That’s not Mulcahy_, says he, _whoever done it_.

Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher,
accepting the dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as
he walked.

—That’s all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes.

—I know, Hynes said. I know that.

—To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It’s pure
goodheartedness: damn the thing else.

Mr Bloom admired the caretaker’s prosperous bulk. All want to be on
good terms with him. Decent fellow, John O’Connell, real good sort.
Keys: like Keyes’s ad: no fear of anyone getting out. No passout
checks. _Habeas corpus_. I must see about that ad after the funeral.
Did I write Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she
disturbed me writing to Martha? Hope it’s not chucked in the dead
letter office. Be the better of a shave. Grey sprouting beard. That’s
the first sign when the hairs come out grey. And temper getting cross.
Silver threads among the grey. Fancy being his wife. Wonder he had the
gumption to propose to any girl. Come out and live in the graveyard.
Dangle that before her. It might thrill her first. Courting death.
Shades of night hovering here with all the dead stretched about. The
shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O’Connell must be
a descendant I suppose who is this used to say he was a queer breedy
man great catholic all the same like a big giant in the dark. Will o’
the wisp. Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at
all. Women especially are so touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to
make her sleep. Have you ever seen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a
pitchdark night. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they’d
kiss all right if properly keyed up. Whores in Turkish graveyards.
Learn anything if taken young. You might pick up a young widow here.
Men like that. Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In
the midst of death we are in life. Both ends meet. Tantalising for the
poor dead. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the starving. Gnawing their
vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it at the window.
Eight children he has anyway.

He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field
after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing.
Sitting or kneeling you couldn’t. Standing? His head might come up some
day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed
the ground must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too: trim
grass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well, so
it is. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant
poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic
Gardens are just over there. It’s the blood sinking in the earth gives
new life. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy.
Every man his price. Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure,
invaluable for fruit garden. A bargain. By carcass of William
Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds
thirteen and six. With thanks.

I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh,
nails. Charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink decomposing. Rot
quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a
tallowy kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, black treacle oozing
out of them. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever
they are go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically.
Nothing to feed on feed on themselves.

But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply
swirling with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little
seaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of
power seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at
life. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one
about the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 11
p.m. (closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the
men anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what’s
in fashion. A juicy pear or ladies’ punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep
out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way.
Gravediggers in _Hamlet_. Shows the profound knowledge of the human
heart. Daren’t joke about the dead for two years at least. _De mortuis
nil nisi prius_. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral.
Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you live
longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.

—How many have you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.

—Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.

The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to
trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole,
stepping with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin
and set its nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.

Burying him. We come to bury Cæsar. His ides of March or June. He
doesn’t know who is here nor care. Now who is that lankylooking galoot
over there in the macintosh? Now who is he I’d like to know? Now I’d
give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never
dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he
could. Still he’d have to get someone to sod him after he died though
he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No, ants too.
First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was
true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a
Thursday if you come to look at it.

     O, poor Robinson Crusoe!
     How could you possibly do so?

Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of
them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could
invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let it down that
way. Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow’s.
They’re so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the
holy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one
coffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible
even in the earth. The Irishman’s house is his coffin. Embalming in
catacombs, mummies the same idea.

Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads.
Twelve. I’m thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen.
Death’s number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn’t in the
chapel, that I’ll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.

Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I had
one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he
was once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey
suit of mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It’s dyed. His wife I forgot he’s
not married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for
him.

The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the
gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.

Pause.

If we were all suddenly somebody else.

Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they
say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.

Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper. The
boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in
the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly
caretaker. Wellcut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which
will go next. Well, it is a long rest. Feel no more. It’s the moment
you feel. Must be damned unpleasant. Can’t believe it at first. Mistake
must be: someone else. Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I
haven’t yet. Then darkened deathchamber. Light they want. Whispering
around you. Would you like to see a priest? Then rambling and
wandering. Delirium all you hid all your life. The death struggle. His
sleep is not natural. Press his lower eyelid. Watching is his nose
pointed is his jaw sinking are the soles of his feet yellow. Pull the
pillow away and finish it off on the floor since he’s doomed. Devil in
that picture of sinner’s death showing him a woman. Dying to embrace
her in his shirt. Last act of _Lucia. Shall I nevermore behold thee_?
Bam! He expires. Gone at last. People talk about you a bit: forget you.
Don’t forget to pray for him. Remember him in your prayers. Even
Parnell. Ivy day dying out. Then they follow: dropping into a hole, one
after the other.

We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you’re well and
not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the fryingpan of life into the
fire of purgatory.

Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself? They say you do
when you shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it. Callboy’s warning.
Near you. Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma,
poor mamma, and little Rudy.

The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in
on the coffin. Mr Bloom turned away his face. And if he was alive all
the time? Whew! By jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of
course. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some
law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a
telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of
distress. Three days. Rather long to keep them in summer. Just as well
to get shut of them as soon as you are sure there’s no.

The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.

The caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had enough of
it. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one, covering themselves
without show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make
its way deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground,
he traversed the dismal fields.

Hynes jotting down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he
knows them all. No: coming to me.

—I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his breath. What is your
christian name? I’m not sure.

—L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might put down M’Coy’s name too. He
asked me to.

—Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the _Freeman_ once.

So he was before he got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good
idea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know. He
died of a Tuesday. Got the run. Levanted with the cash of a few ads.
Charley, you’re my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well, does
no harm. I saw to that, M’Coy. Thanks, old chap: much obliged. Leave
him under an obligation: costs nothing.

—And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in the, fellow was
over there in the...

He looked around.

—Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now?

—M’Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. I don’t know who he is. Is that his
name?

He moved away, looking about him.

—No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes!

Didn’t hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all
the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become invisible. Good
Lord, what became of him?

A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade.

—O, excuse me!

He stepped aside nimbly.

Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It rose. Nearly over.
A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested
their spades. All uncovered again for a few instants. The boy propped
his wreath against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The
gravediggers put on their caps and carried their earthy spades towards
the barrow. Then knocked the blades lightly on the turf: clean. One
bent to pluck from the haft a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his
mates, walked slowly on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing.
Silently at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. His navelcord.
The brother-in-law, turning away, placed something in his free hand.
Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir: trouble. Headshake. I know that. For
yourselves just.

The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying
at whiles to read a name on a tomb.

—Let us go round by the chief’s grave, Hynes said. We have time.

—Let us, Mr Power said.

They turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr
Power’s blank voice spoke:

—Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled
with stones. That one day he will come again.

Hynes shook his head.

—Parnell will never come again, he said. He’s there, all that was
mortal of him. Peace to his ashes.

Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses,
broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes,
old Ireland’s hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on
some charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does
anybody really? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a
coalshoot. Then lump them together to save time. All souls’ day.
Twentyseventh I’ll be at his grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He
keeps it free of weeds. Old man himself. Bent down double with his
shears clipping. Near death’s door. Who passed away. Who departed this
life. As if they did it of their own accord. Got the shove, all of
them. Who kicked the bucket. More interesting if they told you what
they were. So and So, wheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I paid
five shillings in the pound. Or a woman’s with her saucepan. I cooked
good Irish stew. Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that
poem of whose is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Entered into rest
the protestants put it. Old Dr Murren’s. The great physician called him
home. Well it’s God’s acre for them. Nice country residence. Newly
plastered and painted. Ideal spot to have a quiet smoke and read the
_Church Times._ Marriage ads they never try to beautify. Rusty wreaths
hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. Better value that for the money.
Still, the flowers are more poetical. The other gets rather tiresome,
never withering. Expresses nothing. Immortelles.

A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. Like stuffed. Like the
wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Hoo! Not a budge out of him.
Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal even
sadder. Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the kitchen
matchbox, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.

The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his sleeve. Ought to be
sideways and red it should be painted like a real heart. Ireland was
dedicated to it or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased. Why this
infliction? Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the basket
of fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the
boy. Apollo that was.

How many! All these here once walked round Dublin. Faithful departed.
As you are now so once were we.

Besides how could you remember everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the
voice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in
the house. After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather.
Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain
hellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind you of the voice like the photograph
reminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldn’t remember the face after
fifteen years, say. For instance who? For instance some fellow that
died when I was in Wisdom Hely’s.

Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop!

He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait. There he
goes.

An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the crypt, moving the
pebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes. The grey
alive crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it.
Good hidingplace for treasure.

Who lives there? Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. Robert Emmet was
buried here by torchlight, wasn’t he? Making his rounds.

Tail gone now.

One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. Pick the bones
clean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. A corpse is meat
gone bad. Well and what’s cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that
_Voyages in China_ that the Chinese say a white man smells like a
corpse. Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the
other firm. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the
plague. Quicklime feverpits to eat them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to
ashes. Or bury at sea. Where is that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by
birds. Earth, fire, water. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. See
your whole life in a flash. But being brought back to life no. Can’t
bury in the air however. Out of a flying machine. Wonder does the news
go about whenever a fresh one is let down. Underground communication.
We learned that from them. Wouldn’t be surprised. Regular square feed
for them. Flies come before he’s well dead. Got wind of Dignam. They
wouldn’t care about the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of
corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips.

The gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the world again.
Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I
was here was Mrs Sinico’s funeral. Poor papa too. The love that kills.
And even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case I
read of to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running
gravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after
death. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after
death. There is another world after death named hell. I do not like
that other world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and
feel yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their
maggoty beds. They are not going to get me this innings. Warm beds:
warm fullblooded life.

Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.

Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton, John Henry, solicitor,
commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be in his office.
Mat Dillon’s long ago. Jolly Mat. Convivial evenings. Cold fowl,
cigars, the Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got
his rag out that evening on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside
him. Pure fluke of mine: the bias. Why he took such a rooted dislike to
me. Hate at first sight. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the
lilactree, laughing. Fellow always like that, mortified if women are
by.

Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.

—Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.

They stopped.

—Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said pointing.

John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.

—There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also.

John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed
the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head
again.

—It’s all right now, Martin Cunningham said.

John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.

—Thank you, he said shortly.

They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a
few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying down the law. Martin
could wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger, without his
seeing it.

Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him.
Get the pull over him that way.

Thank you. How grand we are this morning!




[ 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!

—Come on, Sandymount Green!

Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a
singledeck moved from their railheads, swerved to the down line, glided
parallel.

—Start, Palmerston Park!

THE WEARER OF THE CROWN


Under the porch of the general post office shoeblacks called and
polished. Parked in North Prince’s street His Majesty’s vermilion
mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R., received
loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured
and paid, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.

GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS


Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince’s stores
and bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped
dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince’s
stores.

—There it is, Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes.

—Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I’ll take it round to
the _Telegraph_ office.

The door of Ruttledge’s office creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in
a large capecoat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out
with a roll of papers under his cape, a king’s courier.

Red Murray’s long shears sliced out the advertisement from the
newspaper in four clean strokes. Scissors and paste.

—I’ll go through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut
square.

—Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen behind
his ear, we can do him one.

—Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I’ll rub that in.

We.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT


Red Murray touched Mr Bloom’s arm with the shears and whispered:

—Brayden.

Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a
stately figure entered between the newsboards of the _Weekly Freeman
and National Press_ and the _Freeman’s Journal and National Press_.
Dullthudding Guinness’s barrels. It passed statelily up the staircase,
steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back
ascended each step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck,
Simon Dedalus says. Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck,
fat, neck, fat, neck.

—Don’t you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered.

The door of Ruttledge’s office whispered: ee: cree. They always build
one door opposite another for the wind to. Way in. Way out.

Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: talking in the dusk. Mary, Martha.
Steered by an umbrella sword to the footlights: Mario the tenor.

—Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.

—Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario was said to be the picture of Our
Saviour.

Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his
heart. In _Martha._

     Co-ome thou lost one,
     Co-ome thou dear one!

THE CROZIER AND THE PEN


—His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.

They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and
stepped off posthaste with a word:

_—Freeman!_

Mr Bloom said slowly:

—Well, he is one of our saviours also.

A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed
in through a sidedoor and along the warm dark stairs and passage, along
the now reverberating boards. But will he save the circulation?
Thumping. Thumping.

He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn
packing paper. Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards
Nannetti’s reading closet.

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS WE ANNOUNCE THE DISSOLUTION OF A MOST
RESPECTED DUBLIN BURGESS


Hynes here too: account of the funeral probably. Thumping. Thump. This
morning the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash a
man to atoms if they got him caught. Rule the world today. His
machineries are pegging away too. Like these, got out of hand:
fermenting. Working away, tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing
to get in.

HOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUT


Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman’s spare body, admiring a glossy
crown.

Strange he never saw his real country. Ireland my country. Member for
College green. He boomed that workaday worker tack for all it was
worth. It’s the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale news
in the official gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by authority in
the year one thousand and. Demesne situate in the townland of
Rosenallis, barony of Tinnahinch. To all whom it may concern schedule
pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules and jennets
exported from Ballina. Nature notes. Cartoons. Phil Blake’s weekly Pat
and Bull story. Uncle Toby’s page for tiny tots. Country bumpkin’s
queries. Dear Mr Editor, what is a good cure for flatulence? I’d like
that part. Learn a lot teaching others. The personal note. M. A. P.
Mainly all pictures. Shapely bathers on golden strand. World’s biggest
balloon. Double marriage of sisters celebrated. Two bridegrooms
laughing heartily at each other. Cuprani too, printer. More Irish than
the Irish.

The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thump. Now if he
got paralysed there and no-one knew how to stop them they’d clank on
and on the same, print it over and over and up and back. Monkeydoodle
the whole thing. Want a cool head.

—Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said.

Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is backing him, they say.

The foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a corner of the
sheet and made a sign to a typesetter. He handed the sheet silently
over the dirty glass screen.

—Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off.

Mr Bloom stood in his way.

—If you want to draw the cashier is just going to lunch, he said,
pointing backward with his thumb.

—Did you? Hynes asked.

—Mm, Mr Bloom said. Look sharp and you’ll catch him.

—Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I’ll tap him too.

He hurried on eagerly towards the _Freeman’s Journal_.

Three bob I lent him in Meagher’s. Three weeks. Third hint.

WE SEE THE CANVASSER AT WORK


Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti’s desk.

—Excuse me, councillor, he said. This ad, you see. Keyes, you remember?

Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded.

—He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said.

The foreman moved his pencil towards it.

—But wait, Mr Bloom said. He wants it changed. Keyes, you see. He wants
two keys at the top.

Hell of a racket they make. He doesn’t hear it. Nannan. Iron nerves.
Maybe he understands what I.

The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began
to scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket.

—Like that, Mr Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top.

Let him take that in first.

Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the
foreman’s sallow face, think he has a touch of jaundice, and beyond the
obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper. Clank it. Clank it. Miles
of it unreeled. What becomes of it after? O, wrap up meat, parcels:
various uses, thousand and one things.

Slipping his words deftly into the pauses of the clanking he drew
swiftly on the scarred woodwork.

HOUSE OF KEY(E)S


—Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name.
Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. So on.

Better not teach him his own business.

—You know yourself, councillor, just what he wants. Then round the top
in leaded: the house of keys. You see? Do you think that’s a good idea?

The foreman moved his scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched
there quietly.

—The idea, Mr Bloom said, is the house of keys. You know, councillor,
the Manx parliament. Innuendo of home rule. Tourists, you know, from
the isle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you do that?

I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that _voglio._ But then
if he didn’t know only make it awkward for him. Better not.

—We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design?

—I can get it, Mr Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny paper. He has a
house there too. I’ll just run out and ask him. Well, you can do that
and just a little par calling attention. You know the usual. Highclass
licensed premises. Longfelt want. So on.

The foreman thought for an instant.

—We can do that, he said. Let him give us a three months’ renewal.

A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage. He began to check it
silently. Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks,
watching the silent typesetters at their cases.

ORTHOGRAPHICAL


Want to be sure of his spelling. Proof fever. Martin Cunningham forgot
to give us his spellingbee conundrum this morning. It is amusing to
view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? double ess ment of
a harassed pedlar while gauging au the symmetry with a y of a peeled
pear under a cemetery wall. Silly, isn’t it? Cemetery put in of course
on account of the symmetry.

I should have said when he clapped on his topper. Thank you. I ought to
have said something about an old hat or something. No. I could have
said. Looks as good as new now. See his phiz then.

Sllt. The nethermost deck of the first machine jogged forward its
flyboard with sllt the first batch of quirefolded papers. Sllt. Almost
human the way it sllt to call attention. Doing its level best to speak.
That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaks in
its own way. Sllt.

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR


The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying:

—Wait. Where’s the archbishop’s letter? It’s to be repeated in the
_Telegraph._ Where’s what’s his name?

He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.

—Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.

—Ay. Where’s Monks?

—Monks!

Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out.

—Then I’ll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you’ll give it a
good place I know.

—Monks!

—Yes, sir.

Three months’ renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it
anyhow. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge.
Tourists over for the show.

A DAYFATHER


He walked on through the caseroom passing an old man, bowed,
spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he
must have put through his hands in his time: obituary notices, pubs’
ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his
tether now. Sober serious man with a bit in the savingsbank I’d say.
Wife a good cook and washer. Daughter working the machine in the
parlour. Plain Jane, no damn nonsense.

AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER


He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type.
Reads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some
practice that. mangiD kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadah book, reading
backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in Jerusalem. Dear,
O dear! All that long business about that brought us out of the land of
Egypt and into the house of bondage _alleluia. Shema Israel Adonai
Elohenu_. No, that’s the other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob’s sons.
And then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water
and the butcher. And then the angel of death kills the butcher and he
kills the ox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you
come to look into it well. Justice it means but it’s everybody eating
everyone else. That’s what life is after all. How quickly he does that
job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers.

Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to
the landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and then catch
him out perhaps. Better phone him up first. Number? Yes. Same as
Citron’s house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four.

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP


He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over those
walls with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy
smell there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom’s next door
when I was there.

He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap
I put there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting back his handkerchief
he took out the soap and stowed it away, buttoned, into the hip pocket
of his trousers.

What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still: tram: something
I forgot. Just to see: before: dressing. No. Here. No.

A sudden screech of laughter came from the _Evening Telegraph_ office.
Know who that is. What’s up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it
is.

He entered softly.

ERIN, GREEN GEM OF THE SILVER SEA


—The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to
the dusty windowpane.

Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert’s quizzing
face, asked of it sourly:

—Agonising Christ, wouldn’t it give you a heartburn on your arse?

Ned Lambert, seated on the table, read on:

—_Or again, note the meanderings of some purling rill as it babbles on
its way, tho’ quarrelling with the stony obstacles, to the tumbling
waters of Neptune’s blue domain, ’mid mossy banks, fanned by gentlest
zephyrs, played on by the glorious sunlight or ’neath the shadows cast
o’er its pensive bosom by the overarching leafage of the giants of the
forest_. What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his
newspaper. How’s that for high?

—Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.

Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating:

—_The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage_. O boys! O boys!

—And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking again on
the fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on the sea.

—That will do, professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don’t want to
hear any more of the stuff.

He ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had been nibbling and,
hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand.

High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see.
Rather upsets a man’s day, a funeral does. He has influence they say.
Old Chatterton, the vicechancellor, is his granduncle or his
greatgranduncle. Close on ninety they say. Subleader for his death
written this long time perhaps. Living to spite them. Might go first
himself. Johnny, make room for your uncle. The right honourable Hedges
Eyre Chatterton. Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on
gale days. Windfall when he kicks out. Alleluia.

—Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said.

—What is it? Mr Bloom asked.

—A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh answered
with pomp of tone. _Our lovely land_.

SHORT BUT TO THE POINT


—Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply.

—Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. With an
accent on the whose.

—Dan Dawson’s land Mr Dedalus said.

—Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked.

Ned Lambert nodded.

—But listen to this, he said.

The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the small of the back as the door was
pushed in.

—Excuse me, J. J. O’Molloy said, entering.

Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside.

—I beg yours, he said.

—Good day, Jack.

—Come in. Come in.

—Good day.

—How are you, Dedalus?

—Well. And yourself?

J. J. O’Molloy shook his head.

SAD


Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Decline, poor chap.
That hectic flush spells finis for a man. Touch and go with him. What’s
in the wind, I wonder. Money worry.

—_Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks._

—You’re looking extra.

—Is the editor to be seen? J. J. O’Molloy asked, looking towards the
inner door.

—Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be seen and heard. He’s in
his sanctum with Lenehan.

J. J. O’Molloy strolled to the sloping desk and began to turn back the
pink pages of the file.

Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. Gambling. Debts of
honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and
T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show the grey matter. Brains on their
sleeve like the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary work
for the _Express_ with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford
began on the _Independent._ Funny the way those newspaper men veer
about when they get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold
in the same breath. Wouldn’t know which to believe. One story good till
you hear the next. Go for one another baldheaded in the papers and then
all blows over. Hail fellow well met the next moment.

—Ah, listen to this for God’ sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. _Or again if we
but climb the serried mountain peaks..._

—Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated
windbag!

—_Peaks_, Ned Lambert went on, _towering high on high, to bathe our
souls, as it were..._

—Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he
taking anything for it?

_—As ’twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland’s portfolio,
unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize
regions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating plain and
luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent
translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight..._

HIS NATIVE DORIC


—The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.

_—That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of
the moon shine forth to irradiate her silver effulgence..._

—O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan. Shite and
onions! That’ll do, Ned. Life is too short.

He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy
moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.

Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An
instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh’s
unshaven blackspectacled face.

—Doughy Daw! he cried.

WHAT WETHERUP SAID


All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot
cake that stuff. He was in the bakery line too, wasn’t he? Why they
call him Doughy Daw. Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter engaged
to that chap in the inland revenue office with the motor. Hooked that
nicely. Entertainments. Open house. Big blowout. Wetherup always said
that. Get a grip of them by the stomach.

The inner door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested
by a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. The bold blue eyes stared
about them and the harsh voice asked:

—What is it?

—And here comes the sham squire himself! professor MacHugh said
grandly.

—Getonouthat, you bloody old pedagogue! the editor said in recognition.

—Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said, putting on his hat. I must get a drink
after that.

—Drink! the editor cried. No drinks served before mass.

—Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned.

Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. The editor’s blue eyes roved
towards Mr Bloom’s face, shadowed by a smile.

—Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked.

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED


—North Cork militia! the editor cried, striding to the mantelpiece. We
won every time! North Cork and Spanish officers!

—Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a reflective glance at
his toecaps.

—In Ohio! the editor shouted.

—So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.

Passing out he whispered to J. J. O’Molloy:

—Incipient jigs. Sad case.

—Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face.
My Ohio!

—A perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long.

O, HARP EOLIAN!


He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking
off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant
unwashed teeth.

—Bingbang, bangbang.

Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner door.

—Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said. I just want to phone about an ad.

He went in.

—What about that leader this evening? professor MacHugh asked, coming
to the editor and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.

—That’ll be all right, Myles Crawford said more calmly. Never you fret.
Hello, Jack. That’s all right.

—Good day, Myles, J. J. O’Molloy said, letting the pages he held slip
limply back on the file. Is that Canada swindle case on today?

The telephone whirred inside.

—Twentyeight... No, twenty... Double four... Yes.

SPOT THE WINNER


Lenehan came out of the inner office with _Sport_’s tissues.

—Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O.
Madden up.

He tossed the tissues on to the table.

Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door was
flung open.

—Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops.

Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin
by the collar as the others scampered out of the hall and down the
steps. The tissues rustled up in the draught, floated softly in the air
blue scrawls and under the table came to earth.

—It wasn’t me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.

—Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. There’s a hurricane
blowing.

Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he
stooped twice.

—Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat
Farrell shoved me, sir.

He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe.

—Him, sir.

—Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.

He hustled the boy out and banged the door to.

J. J. O’Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking:

—Continued on page six, column four.

—Yes, _Evening Telegraph_ here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner office.
Is the boss...? Yes, _Telegraph_... To where? Aha! Which auction
rooms?... Aha! I see... Right. I’ll catch him.

A COLLISION ENSUES


The bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped
against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.

—_Pardon, monsieur_, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and
making a grimace.

—My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I’m in a
hurry.

—Knee, Lenehan said.

He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee:

—The accumulation of the _anno Domini_.

—Sorry, Mr Bloom said.

He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J. J. O’Molloy
slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two shrill voices, a
mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on
the doorsteps:

     We are the boys of Wexford
     Who fought with heart and hand.

EXIT BLOOM


—I’m just running round to Bachelor’s walk, Mr Bloom said, about this
ad of Keyes’s. Want to fix it up. They tell me he’s round there in
Dillon’s.

He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The editor who,
leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand,
suddenly stretched forth an arm amply.

—Begone! he said. The world is before you.

—Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out.

J. J. O’Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan’s hand and read them,
blowing them apart gently, without comment.

—He’ll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through his
blackrimmed spectacles over the crossblind. Look at the young scamps
after him.

—Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window.

A STREET CORTÈGE


Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in Mr
Bloom’s wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a
tail of white bowknots.

—Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said,
and you’ll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the
walk. Small nines. Steal upon larks.

He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor on sliding
feet past the fireplace to J. J. O’Molloy who placed the tissues in his
receiving hands.

—What’s that? Myles Crawford said with a start. Where are the other two
gone?

—Who? the professor said, turning. They’re gone round to the Oval for a
drink. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came over last night.

—Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where’s my hat?

He walked jerkily into the office behind, parting the vent of his
jacket, jingling his keys in his back pocket. They jingled then in the
air and against the wood as he locked his desk drawer.

—He’s pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a low voice.

—Seems to be, J. J. O’Molloy said, taking out a cigarettecase in
murmuring meditation, but it is not always as it seems. Who has the
most matches?

THE CALUMET OF PEACE


He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan
promptly struck a match for them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J.
J. O’Molloy opened his case again and offered it.

—_Thanky vous_, Lenehan said, helping himself.

The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He
declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:

     ’Twas rank and fame that tempted thee,
     ’Twas empire charmed thy heart.

The professor grinned, locking his long lips.

—Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles Crawford said.

He took a cigarette from the open case. Lenehan, lighting it for him
with quick grace, said:

—Silence for my brandnew riddle!

—_Imperium romanum_, J. J. O’Molloy said gently. It sounds nobler than
British or Brixton. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the fire.

Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the ceiling.

—That’s it, he said. We are the fat. You and I are the fat in the fire.
We haven’t got the chance of a snowball in hell.

THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME


—Wait a moment, professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet claws. We
mustn’t be led away by words, by sounds of words. We think of Rome,
imperial, imperious, imperative.

He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing:

—What was their civilisation? Vast, I allow: but vile. Cloacae: sewers.
The Jews in the wilderness and on the mountaintop said: _It is meet to
be here. Let us build an altar to Jehovah_. The Roman, like the
Englishman who follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on
which he set his foot (on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal
obsession. He gazed about him in his toga and he said: _It is meet to
be here. Let us construct a watercloset._

—Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan said. Our old ancient
ancestors, as we read in the first chapter of Guinness’s, were partial
to the running stream.

—They were nature’s gentlemen, J. J. O’Molloy murmured. But we have
also Roman law.

—And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh responded.

—Do you know that story about chief baron Palles? J. J. O’Molloy asked.
It was at the royal university dinner. Everything was going swimmingly
...

—First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are you ready?

Mr O’Madden Burke, tall in copious grey of Donegal tweed, came in from
the hallway. Stephen Dedalus, behind him, uncovered as he entered.

—_Entrez, mes enfants!_ Lenehan cried.

—I escort a suppliant, Mr O’Madden Burke said melodiously. Youth led by
Experience visits Notoriety.

—How do you do? the editor said, holding out a hand. Come in. Your
governor is just gone.

???


Lenehan said to all:

—Silence! What opera resembles a railwayline? Reflect, ponder,
excogitate, reply.

Stephen handed over the typed sheets, pointing to the title and
signature.

—Who? the editor asked.

Bit torn off.

—Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said.

—That old pelters, the editor said. Who tore it? Was he short taken?

     On swift sail flaming
     From storm and south
     He comes, pale vampire,
     Mouth to my mouth.

—Good day, Stephen, the professor said, coming to peer over their
shoulders. Foot and mouth? Are you turned...?

Bullockbefriending bard.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT


—Good day, sir, Stephen answered blushing. The letter is not mine. Mr
Garrett Deasy asked me to...

—O, I know him, Myles Crawford said, and I knew his wife too. The
bloodiest old tartar God ever made. By Jesus, she had the foot and
mouth disease and no mistake! The night she threw the soup in the
waiter’s face in the Star and Garter. Oho!

A woman brought sin into the world. For Helen, the runaway wife of
Menelaus, ten years the Greeks. O’Rourke, prince of Breffni.

—Is he a widower? Stephen asked.

—Ay, a grass one, Myles Crawford said, his eye running down the
typescript. Emperor’s horses. Habsburg. An Irishman saved his life on
the ramparts of Vienna. Don’t you forget! Maximilian Karl O’Donnell,
graf von Tirconnell in Ireland. Sent his heir over to make the king an
Austrian fieldmarshal now. Going to be trouble there one day. Wild
geese. O yes, every time. Don’t you forget that!

—The moot point is did he forget it, J. J. O’Molloy said quietly,
turning a horseshoe paperweight. Saving princes is a thank you job.

Professor MacHugh turned on him.

—And if not? he said.

—I’ll tell you how it was, Myles Crawford began. A Hungarian it was one
day...

LOST CAUSES NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED


—We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for
us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. We were never
loyal to the successful. We serve them. I teach the blatant Latin
language. I speak the tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is
the maxim: time is money. Material domination. _Dominus!_ Lord! Where
is the spirituality? Lord Jesus? Lord Salisbury? A sofa in a westend
club. But the Greek!

KYRIE ELEISON!


A smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long
lips.

—The Greek! he said again. _Kyrios!_ Shining word! The vowels the
Semite and the Saxon know not. _Kyrie!_ The radiance of the intellect.
I ought to profess Greek, the language of the mind. _Kyrie eleison!_
The closetmaker and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit.
We are liege subjects of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered
at Trafalgar and of the empire of the spirit, not an _imperium,_ that
went under with the Athenian fleets at Aegospotami. Yes, yes. They went
under. Pyrrhus, misled by an oracle, made a last attempt to retrieve
the fortunes of Greece. Loyal to a lost cause.

He strode away from them towards the window.

—They went forth to battle, Mr O’Madden Burke said greyly, but they
always fell.

—Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to a brick received in
the latter half of the _matinée_. Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!

He whispered then near Stephen’s ear:

LENEHAN’S LIMERICK


—_There’s a ponderous pundit MacHugh
Who wears goggles of ebony hue.
As he mostly sees double
To wear them why trouble?
I can’t see the Joe Miller. Can you?_


In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother is beastly dead.

Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket.

—That’ll be all right, he said. I’ll read the rest after. That’ll be
all right.

Lenehan extended his hands in protest.

—But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a railwayline?

—Opera? Mr O’Madden Burke’s sphinx face reriddled.

Lenehan announced gladly:

—_The Rose of Castile_. See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel. Gee!

He poked Mr O’Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. Mr O’Madden Burke fell
back with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp.

—Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness.

Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with the rustling
tissues.

The professor, returning by way of the files, swept his hand across
Stephen’s and Mr O’Madden Burke’s loose ties.

—Paris, past and present, he said. You look like communards.

—Like fellows who had blown up the Bastile, J. J. O’Molloy said in
quiet mockery. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland
between you? You look as though you had done the deed. General
Bobrikoff.

OMNIUM GATHERUM


—We were only thinking about it, Stephen said.

—All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics...

—The turf, Lenehan put in.

—Literature, the press.

—If Bloom were here, the professor said. The gentle art of
advertisement.

—And Madam Bloom, Mr O’Madden Burke added. The vocal muse. Dublin’s
prime favourite.

Lenehan gave a loud cough.

—Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a fresh of breath air! I caught a
cold in the park. The gate was open.

“YOU CAN DO IT!”


The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen’s shoulder.

—I want you to write something for me, he said. Something with a bite
in it. You can do it. I see it in your face. _In the lexicon of
youth_...

See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little schemer.

—Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried in scornful invective. Great
nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. All balls! Bulldosing the
public! Give them something with a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn
its soul. Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes M’Carthy.

—We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O’Madden Burke said.

Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare.

—He wants you for the pressgang, J. J. O’Molloy said.

THE GREAT GALLAHER


—You can do it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his hand in
emphasis. Wait a minute. We’ll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher
used to say when he was on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the
Clarence. Gallaher, that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. You
know how he made his mark? I’ll tell you. That was the smartest piece
of journalism ever known. That was in eightyone, sixth of May, time of
the invincibles, murder in the Phoenix park, before you were born, I
suppose. I’ll show you.

He pushed past them to the files.

—Look at here, he said turning. The _New York World_ cabled for a
special. Remember that time?

Professor MacHugh nodded.

—_New York World_, the editor said, excitedly pushing back his straw
hat. Where it took place. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean. Joe Brady and
the rest of them. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car. Whole route, see?

—Skin-the-Goat, Mr O’Madden Burke said. Fitzharris. He has that
cabman’s shelter, they say, down there at Butt bridge. Holohan told me.
You know Holohan?

—Hop and carry one, is it? Myles Crawford said.

—And poor Gumley is down there too, so he told me, minding stones for
the corporation. A night watchman.

Stephen turned in surprise.

—Gumley? he said. You don’t say so? A friend of my father’s, is it?

—Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Let Gumley mind the
stones, see they don’t run away. Look at here. What did Ignatius
Gallaher do? I’ll tell you. Inspiration of genius. Cabled right away.
Have you _Weekly Freeman_ of 17 March? Right. Have you got that?

He flung back pages of the files and stuck his finger on a point.

—Take page four, advertisement for Bransome’s coffee, let us say. Have
you got that? Right.

The telephone whirred.

A DISTANT VOICE


—I’ll answer it, the professor said, going.

—B is parkgate. Good.

His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.

—T is viceregal lodge. C is where murder took place. K is Knockmaroon
gate.

The loose flesh of his neck shook like a cock’s wattles. An illstarched
dicky jutted up and with a rude gesture he thrust it back into his
waistcoat.

—Hello? _Evening Telegraph_ here... Hello?... Who’s there?... Yes...
Yes... Yes.

—F to P is the route Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an alibi,
Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. F.A.B.P.
Got that? X is Davy’s publichouse in upper Leeson street.

The professor came to the inner door.

—Bloom is at the telephone, he said.

—Tell him go to hell, the editor said promptly. X is Davy’s
publichouse, see?

CLEVER, VERY


—Clever, Lenehan said. Very.

—Gave it to them on a hot plate, Myles Crawford said, the whole bloody
history.

Nightmare from which you will never awake.

—I saw it, the editor said proudly. I was present. Dick Adams, the
besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the breath of life in, and
myself.

Lenehan bowed to a shape of air, announcing:

—Madam, I’m Adam. And Able was I ere I saw Elba.

—History! Myles Crawford cried. The Old Woman of Prince’s street was
there first. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth over that. Out of
an advertisement. Gregor Grey made the design for it. That gave him the
leg up. Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him on to the _Star._
Now he’s got in with Blumenfeld. That’s press. That’s talent. Pyatt! He
was all their daddies!

—The father of scare journalism, Lenehan confirmed, and the
brother-in-law of Chris Callinan.

—Hello?... Are you there?... Yes, he’s here still. Come across
yourself.

—Where do you find a pressman like that now, eh? the editor cried.

He flung the pages down.

—Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Mr O’Madden Burke.

—Very smart, Mr O’Madden Burke said.

Professor MacHugh came from the inner office.

—Talking about the invincibles, he said, did you see that some hawkers
were up before the recorder...

—O yes, J. J. O’Molloy said eagerly. Lady Dudley was walking home
through the park to see all the trees that were blown down by that
cyclone last year and thought she’d buy a view of Dublin. And it turned
out to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or
Skin-the-Goat. Right outside the viceregal lodge, imagine!

—They’re only in the hook and eye department, Myles Crawford said.
Psha! Press and the bar! Where have you a man now at the bar like those
fellows, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued O’Hagan.
Eh? Ah, bloody nonsense. Psha! Only in the halfpenny place.

His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain.

Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? How do you know? Why did you
write it then?

RHYMES AND REASONS


Mouth, south. Is the mouth south someway? Or the south a mouth? Must be
some. South, pout, out, shout, drouth. Rhymes: two men dressed the
same, looking the same, two by two.

     ........................ la tua pace
     .................. che parlar ti piace
     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 fè più ardenti._
But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth
south: tomb womb.

—Speak up for yourself, Mr O’Madden Burke said.

SUFFICIENT FOR THE DAY...


J. J. O’Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage.

—My dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigarette aside, you put a false
construction on my words. I hold no brief, as at present advised, for
the third profession _qua_ profession but your Cork legs are running
away with you. Why not bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and Demosthenes
and Edmund Burke? Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizod
boss, Harmsworth of the farthing press, and his American cousin of the
Bowery guttersheet not to mention _Paddy Kelly’s Budget_, _Pue’s
Occurrences_ and our watchful friend _The Skibbereen Eagle_. Why bring
in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside? Sufficient for the
day is the newspaper thereof.

LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF YORE


—Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the editor cried in his
face. Irish volunteers. Where are you now? Established 1763. Dr Lucas.
Who have you now like John Philpot Curran? Psha!

—Well, J. J. O’Molloy said, Bushe K.C., for example.

—Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes: Bushe, yes. He has a strain of it
in his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.

—He would have been on the bench long ago, the professor said, only for
.... But no matter.

J. J. O’Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and slowly:

—One of the most polished periods I think I ever listened to in my life
fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide,
the Childs murder case. Bushe defended him.

     _And in the porches of mine ear did pour._

By the way how did he find that out? He died in his sleep. Or the other
story, beast with two backs?

—What was that? the professor asked.

ITALIA, MAGISTRA ARTIUM


—He spoke on the law of evidence, J. J. O’Molloy said, of Roman justice
as contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the _lex talionis_. And he
cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the vatican.

—Ha.

—A few wellchosen words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence!

Pause. J. J. O’Molloy took out his cigarettecase.

False lull. Something quite ordinary.

Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar.

I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that
it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match,
that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives.

A POLISHED PERIOD


J. J. O’Molloy resumed, moulding his words:

—He said of it: _that stony effigy in frozen music, horned and
terrible, of the human form divine, that eternal symbol of wisdom and
of prophecy which, if aught that the imagination or the hand of
sculptor has wrought in marble of soultransfigured and of
soultransfiguring deserves to live, deserves to live._

His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall.

—Fine! Myles Crawford said at once.

—The divine afflatus, Mr O’Madden Burke said.

—You like it? J. J. O’Molloy asked Stephen.

Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and gesture, blushed. He
took a cigarette from the case. J. J. O’Molloy offered his case to
Myles Crawford. Lenehan lit their cigarettes as before and took his
trophy, saying:

—Muchibus thankibus.

A MAN OF HIGH MORALE


—Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you, J. J. O’Molloy said
to Stephen. What do you think really of that hermetic crowd, the opal
hush poets: A. E. the mastermystic? That Blavatsky woman started it.
She was a nice old bag of tricks. A. E. has been telling some yankee
interviewer that you came to him in the small hours of the morning to
ask him about planes of consciousness. Magennis thinks you must have
been pulling A. E.’s leg. He is a man of the very highest morale,
Magennis.

Speaking about me. What did he say? What did he say? What did he say
about me? Don’t ask.

—No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, waving the cigarettecase aside.
Wait a moment. Let me say one thing. The finest display of oratory I
ever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor at the college historical
society. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had
spoken and the paper under debate was an essay (new for those days),
advocating the revival of the Irish tongue.

He turned towards Myles Crawford and said:

—You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Then you can imagine the style of his
discourse.

—He is sitting with Tim Healy, J. J. O’Molloy said, rumour has it, on
the Trinity college estates commission.

—He is sitting with a sweet thing, Myles Crawford said, in a child’s
frock. Go on. Well?

—It was the speech, mark you, the professor said, of a finished orator,
full of courteous haughtiness and pouring in chastened diction I will
not say the vials of his wrath but pouring the proud man’s contumely
upon the new movement. It was then a new movement. We were weak,
therefore worthless.

He closed his long thin lips an instant but, eager to be on, raised an
outspanned hand to his spectacles and, with trembling thumb and
ringfinger touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to a new
focus.

IMPROMPTU


In ferial tone he addressed J. J. O’Molloy:

—Taylor had come there, you must know, from a sickbed. That he had
prepared his speech I do not believe for there was not even one
shorthandwriter in the hall. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy
beard round it. He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and altogether he
looked (though he was not) a dying man.

His gaze turned at once but slowly from J. J. O’Molloy’s towards
Stephen’s face and then bent at once to the ground, seeking. His
unglazed linen collar appeared behind his bent head, soiled by his
withering hair. Still seeking, he said:

—When Fitzgibbon’s speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply.
Briefly, as well as I can bring them to mind, his words were these.

He raised his head firmly. His eyes bethought themselves once more.
Witless shellfish swam in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking outlet.

He began:

_—Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my admiration in
listening to the remarks addressed to the youth of Ireland a moment
since by my learned friend. It seemed to me that I had been transported
into a country far away from this country, into an age remote from this
age, that I stood in ancient Egypt and that I was listening to the
speech of some highpriest of that land addressed to the youthful
Moses._

His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smokes
ascending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech. _And let our
crooked smokes._ Noble words coming. Look out. Could you try your hand
at it yourself?

_—And it seemed to me that I heard the voice of that Egyptian
highpriest raised in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. I heard
his words and their meaning was revealed to me._

FROM THE FATHERS


It was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are
corrupted which neither if they were supremely good nor unless they
were good could be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That’s saint Augustine.

_—Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our
language? You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we are a mighty people.
You have no cities nor no wealth: our cities are hives of humanity and
our galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden with all manner merchandise
furrow the waters of the known globe. You have but emerged from
primitive conditions: we have a literature, a priesthood, an agelong
history and a polity._

Nile.

Child, man, effigy.

By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man supple
in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.

_—You pray to a local and obscure idol: our temples, majestic and
mysterious, are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of Horus and Ammon Ra.
Yours serfdom, awe and humbleness: ours thunder and the seas. Israel is
weak and few are her children: Egypt is an host and terrible are her
arms. Vagrants and daylabourers are you called: the world trembles at
our name._

A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it
boldly:

_—But, ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and
accepted that view of life, had he bowed his head and bowed his will
and bowed his spirit before that arrogant admonition he would never
have brought the chosen people out of their house of bondage, nor
followed the pillar of the cloud by day. He would never have spoken
with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai’s mountaintop nor ever have
come down with the light of inspiration shining in his countenance and
bearing in his arms the tables of the law, graven in the language of
the outlaw._

He ceased and looked at them, enjoying a silence.

OMINOUS—FOR HIM!


J. J. O’Molloy said not without regret:

—And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.

—A—sudden—at—the—moment—though—from—lingering—illness—often—previously—
expectorated—demise, Lenehan added. And with a great future behind him.

The troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the hallway and
pattering up the staircase.

—That is oratory, the professor said uncontradicted.

Gone with the wind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the kings. Miles
of ears of porches. The tribune’s words, howled and scattered to the
four winds. A people sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic
records of all that ever anywhere wherever was. Love and laud him: me
no more.

I have money.

—Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motion on the agenda paper may I
suggest that the house do now adjourn?

—You take my breath away. It is not perchance a French compliment? Mr
O’Madden Burke asked. ’Tis the hour, methinks, when the winejug,
metaphorically speaking, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.

—That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All that are in favour
say ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. I declare it carried. To
which particular boosing shed...? My casting vote is: Mooney’s!

He led the way, admonishing:

—We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Yes,
we will not. By no manner of means.

Mr O’Madden Burke, following close, said with an ally’s lunge of his
umbrella:

—Lay on, Macduff!

—Chip of the old block! the editor cried, clapping Stephen on the
shoulder. Let us go. Where are those blasted keys?

He fumbled in his pocket pulling out the crushed typesheets.

—Foot and mouth. I know. That’ll be all right. That’ll go in. Where are
they? That’s all right.

He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office.

LET US HOPE


J. J. O’Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen:

—I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment.

He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.

—Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn’t it? It
has the prophetic vision. _Fuit Ilium!_ The sack of windy Troy.
Kingdoms of this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen
today.

The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and
rushed out into the street, yelling:

—Racing special!

Dublin. I have much, much to learn.

They turned to the left along Abbey street.

—I have a vision too, Stephen said.

—Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will
follow.

Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran:

—Racing special!

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN


Dubliners.

—Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty
and fiftythree years in Fumbally’s lane.

—Where is that? the professor asked.

—Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.

Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistering
tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records.
Quicker, darlint!

On now. Dare it. Let there be life.

—They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson’s pillar.
They save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox. They
shake out the threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies
with the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one and seven in
coppers. They put on their bonnets and best clothes and take their
umbrellas for fear it may come on to rain.

—Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.

LIFE ON THE RAW


—They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at
the north city diningrooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate
Collins, proprietress... They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from
a girl at the foot of Nelson’s pillar to take off the thirst of the
brawn. They give two threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile
and begin to waddle slowly up the winding staircase, grunting,
encouraging each other, afraid of the dark, panting, one asking the
other have you the brawn, praising God and the Blessed Virgin,
threatening to come down, peeping at the airslits. Glory be to God.
They had no idea it was that high.

Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the
lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a lady who
got a bottleful from a passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes a
crubeen and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.

—Antithesis, the professor said nodding twice. Vestal virgins. I can
see them. What’s keeping our friend?

He turned.

A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scattering in all
directions, yelling, their white papers fluttering. Hard after them
Myles Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet
face, talking with J. J. O’Molloy.

—Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm.

He set off again to walk by Stephen’s side.

RETURN OF BLOOM


—Yes, he said. I see them.

Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the
offices of the _Irish Catholic_ and _Dublin Penny Journal_, called:

—Mr Crawford! A moment!

—_Telegraph_! Racing special!

—What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace.

A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom’s face:

—Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a bellows!

INTERVIEW WITH THE EDITOR


—Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the steps,
puffing, and taking the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes
just now. He’ll give a renewal for two months, he says. After he’ll
see. But he wants a par to call attention in the _Telegraph_ too, the
Saturday pink. And he wants it copied if it’s not too late I told
councillor Nannetti from the _Kilkenny People_. I can have access to it
in the national library. House of keys, don’t you see? His name is
Keyes. It’s a play on the name. But he practically promised he’d give
the renewal. But he wants just a little puff. What will I tell him, Mr
Crawford?

K.M.A.


—Will you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said throwing
out his arm for emphasis. Tell him that straight from the stable.

A bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All off for a drink. Arm in arm.
Lenehan’s yachting cap on the cadge beyond. Usual blarney. Wonder is
that young Dedalus the moving spirit. Has a good pair of boots on him
today. Last time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in
muck somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?

—Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design I
suppose it’s worth a short par. He’d give the ad, I think. I’ll tell
him...

K.M.R.I.A.


—He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his
shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.

While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on
jerkily.

RAISING THE WIND


—_Nulla bona_, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I’m up to
here. I’ve been through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to
back a bill for me no later than last week. Sorry, Jack. You must take
the will for the deed. With a heart and a half if I could raise the
wind anyhow.

J. J. O’Molloy pulled a long face and walked on silently. They caught
up on the others and walked abreast.

—When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and wiped their twenty
fingers in the paper the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the
railings.

—Something for you, the professor explained to Myles Crawford. Two old
Dublin women on the top of Nelson’s pillar.

SOME COLUMN!—THAT’S WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID


—That’s new, Myles Crawford said. That’s copy. Out for the waxies’
Dargle. Two old trickies, what?

—But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went on. They see
the roofs and argue about where the different churches are: Rathmines’
blue dome, Adam and Eve’s, saint Laurence O’Toole’s. But it makes them
giddy to look so they pull up their skirts...

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES


—Easy all, Myles Crawford said. No poetic licence. We’re in the
archdiocese here.

—And settle down on their striped petticoats, peering up at the statue
of the onehandled adulterer.

—Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. I see the
idea. I see what you mean.

DAMES DONATE DUBLIN’S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, BELIEF


—It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too
tired to look up or down or to speak. They put the bag of plums between
them and eat the plums out of it, one after another, wiping off with
their handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and
spitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings.

He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. Lenehan and Mr O’Madden
Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney’s.

—Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do no worse.

SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON PROBOSCIS. SPARTANS GNASH
MOLARS. ITHACANS VOW PEN IS CHAMP.


—You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a disciple of
Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none could tell if he were
bitterer against others or against himself. He was the son of a noble
and a bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of
beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.

Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.

They made ready to cross O’Connell street.

HELLO THERE, CENTRAL!


At various points along the eight lines tramcars with motionless
trolleys stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines,
Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green,
Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper
Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs,
delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water
floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn,
rapidly.

WHAT?—AND LIKEWISE—WHERE?


—But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get the
plums?

VIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE. SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD MAN MOSES.


—Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to
reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: _deus nobis hæc otia fecit._

—No, Stephen said. I call it _A Pisgah Sight of Palestine_ or _The
Parable of The Plums._

—I see, the professor said.

He laughed richly.

—I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land.
We gave him that idea, he added to J. J. O’Molloy.

HORATIO IS CYNOSURE THIS FAIR JUNE DAY


J. J. O’Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the statue and held
his peace.

—I see, the professor said.

He halted on sir John Gray’s pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson
through the meshes of his wry smile.

DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR FRISKY FRUMPS. ANNE
WIMBLES, FLO WANGLES—YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?


—Onehandled adulterer, he said smiling grimly. That tickles me, I must
say.

—Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the God Almighty’s
truth was known.




[ 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 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
like that. Eat pig like pig. But then why is it that saltwater fish are
not salty? How is that?

His eyes sought answer from the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor
on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.

     Kino’s
     11/—
     Trousers

Good idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to the corporation. How can you
own water really? It’s always flowing in a stream, never the same,
which in the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream. All
kinds of places are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap used
to be stuck up in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly
confidential. Dr Hy Franks. Didn’t cost him a red like Maginni the
dancing master self advertisement. Got fellows to stick them up or
stick them up himself for that matter on the q. t. running in to loosen
a button. Flybynight. Just the place too. POST NO BILLS. POST 110
PILLS. Some chap with a dose burning him.

If he...?

O!

Eh?

No... No.

No, no. I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t surely?

No, no.

Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Think no more about
that. After one. Timeball on the ballastoffice is down. Dunsink time.
Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball’s. Parallax. I never
exactly understood. There’s a priest. Could ask him. Par it’s Greek:
parallel, parallax. Met him pike hoses she called it till I told her
about the transmigration. O rocks!

Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballastoffice. She’s
right after all. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the
sound. She’s not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what I was
thinking. Still, I don’t know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base
barreltone voice. He has legs like barrels and you’d think he was
singing into a barrel. Now, isn’t that wit. They used to call him big
Ben. Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an
albatross. Get outside of a baron of beef. Powerful man he was at
stowing away number one Bass. Barrel of Bass. See? It all works out.

A procession of whitesmocked sandwichmen marched slowly towards him
along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like
that priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we have suffered. He
read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. E. L. Y. S.
Wisdom Hely’s. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from under his
foreboard, crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Our
staple food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street after
street. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and skilly. They are
not Boyl: no, M’Glade’s men. Doesn’t bring in any business either. I
suggested to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls
sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. I
bet that would have caught on. Smart girls writing something catch the
eye at once. Everyone dying to know what she’s writing. Get twenty of
them round you if you stare at nothing. Have a finger in the pie. Women
too. Curiosity. Pillar of salt. Wouldn’t have it of course because he
didn’t think of it himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested with a
false stain of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like Plumtree’s
potted under the obituaries, cold meat department. You can’t lick ’em.
What? Our envelopes. Hello, Jones, where are you going? Can’t stop,
Robinson, I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser
_Kansell,_ sold by Hely’s Ltd, 85 Dame street. Well out of that ruck I
am. Devil of a job it was collecting accounts of those convents.
Tranquilla convent. That was a nice nun there, really sweet face.
Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed
in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I
disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad to communicate
with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of
Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by
the way she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they
really were short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the
same. No lard for them. My heart’s broke eating dripping. They like
buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister?
Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker’s daughter. It was a nun they say invented
barbed wire.

He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Rover
cycleshop. Those races are on today. How long ago is that? Year Phil
Gilligan died. We were in Lombard street west. Wait: was in Thom’s. Got
the job in Wisdom Hely’s year we married. Six years. Ten years ago:
ninetyfour he died yes that’s right the big fire at Arnott’s. Val
Dillon was lord mayor. The Glencree dinner. Alderman Robert O’Reilly
emptying the port into his soup before the flag fell. Bobbob lapping it
for the inner alderman. Couldn’t hear what the band played. For what we
have already received may the Lord make us. Milly was a kiddy then.
Molly had that elephantgrey dress with the braided frogs. Mantailored
with selfcovered buttons. She didn’t like it because I sprained my
ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the Sugarloaf. As if that. Old
Goodwin’s tall hat done up with some sticky stuff. Flies’ picnic too.
Never put a dress on her back like it. Fitted her like a glove,
shoulders and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbitpie we
had that day. People looking after her.

Happy. Happier then. Snug little room that was with the red wallpaper.
Dockrell’s, one and ninepence a dozen. Milly’s tubbing night. American
soap I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she
looked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa’s
daguerreotype atelier he told me of. Hereditary taste.

He walked along the curbstone.

Stream of life. What was the name of that priestylooking chap was
always squinting in when he passed? Weak eyes, woman. Stopped in
Citron’s saint Kevin’s parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory is
getting. Pen ...? Of course it’s years ago. Noise of the trams
probably. Well, if he couldn’t remember the dayfather’s name that he
sees every day.

Bartell d’Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. Seeing her home
after practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her
that song _Winds that blow from the south_.

Windy night that was I went to fetch her there was that lodge meeting
on about those lottery tickets after Goodwin’s concert in the
supperroom or oakroom of the Mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet of
her music blew out of my hand against the High school railings. Lucky
it didn’t. Thing like that spoils the effect of a night for her.
Professor Goodwin linking her in front. Shaky on his pins, poor old
sot. His farewell concerts. Positively last appearance on any stage.
May be for months and may be for never. Remember her laughing at the
wind, her blizzard collar up. Corner of Harcourt road remember that
gust. Brrfoo! Blew up all her skirts and her boa nearly smothered old
Goodwin. She did get flushed in the wind. Remember when we got home
raking up the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her
supper with the Chutney sauce she liked. And the mulled rum. Could see
her in the bedroom from the hearth unclamping the busk of her stays:
white.

Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always warm from her.
Always liked to let her self out. Sitting there after till near two
taking out her hairpins. Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. Happy.
That was the night...

—O, Mr Bloom, how do you do?

—O, how do you do, Mrs Breen?

—No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven’t seen her for
ages.

—In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily. Milly has a position down in
Mullingar, you know.

—Go away! Isn’t that grand for her?

—Yes. In a photographer’s there. Getting on like a house on fire. How
are all your charges?

—All on the baker’s list, Mrs Breen said.

How many has she? No other in sight.

—You’re in black, I see. You have no...

—No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral.

Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who’s dead, when and what did he
die of? Turn up like a bad penny.

—O, dear me, Mrs Breen said. I hope it wasn’t any near relation.

May as well get her sympathy.

—Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite suddenly,
poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning.

     Your funeral’s tomorrow
     While you’re coming through the rye.
     Diddlediddle dumdum
     Diddlediddle...

—Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen’s womaneyes said melancholily.

Now that’s quite enough about that. Just: quietly: husband.

—And your lord and master?

Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn’t lost them anyhow.

—O, don’t be talking! she said. He’s a caution to rattlesnakes. He’s in
there now with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. He has me
heartscalded. Wait till I show you.

Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured
out from Harrison’s. The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom’s
gullet. Want to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar,
or they’d taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A barefoot arab
stood over the grating, breathing in the fumes. Deaden the gnaw of
hunger that way. Pleasure or pain is it? Penny dinner. Knife and fork
chained to the table.

Opening her handbag, chipped leather. Hatpin: ought to have a guard on
those things. Stick it in a chap’s eye in the tram. Rummaging. Open.
Money. Please take one. Devils if they lose sixpence. Raise Cain.
Husband barging. Where’s the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Are
you feeding your little brother’s family? Soiled handkerchief:
medicinebottle. Pastille that was fell. What is she?...

—There must be a new moon out, she said. He’s always bad then. Do you
know what he did last night?

Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide in
alarm, yet smiling.

—What? Mr Bloom asked.

Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.

—Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.

Indiges.

—Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.

—The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.

She took a folded postcard from her handbag.

—Read that, she said. He got it this morning.

—What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U. P.?

—U. p: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It’s a great
shame for them whoever he is.

—Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.

She took back the card, sighing.

—And now he’s going round to Mr Menton’s office. He’s going to take an
action for ten thousand pounds, he says.

She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.

Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen
its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque: three
old grapes to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a
tasty dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than
Molly.

See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.

He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent.
Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I’m hungry too. Flakes of
pastry on the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her
cheek. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie
Powell that was. In Luke Doyle’s long ago. Dolphin’s Barn, the
charades. U. p: up.

Change the subject.

—Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? Mr Bloom asked.

—Mina Purefoy? she said.

Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers’ Club. Matcham often thinks of
the masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. The last act.

—Yes.

—I just called to ask on the way in is she over it. She’s in the
lying-in hospital in Holles street. Dr Horne got her in. She’s three
days bad now.

—O, Mr Bloom said. I’m sorry to hear that.

—Yes, Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kids at home. It’s a very stiff
birth, the nurse told me.

—O, Mr Bloom said.

His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. His tongue clacked in
compassion. Dth! Dth!

—I’m sorry to hear that, he said. Poor thing! Three days! That’s
terrible for her.

Mrs Breen nodded.

—She was taken bad on the Tuesday...

Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her:

—Mind! Let this man pass.

A bony form strode along the curbstone from the river staring with a
rapt gaze into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass. Tight as a
skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head. From his arm a folded dustcoat,
a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.

—Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts.
Watch!

—Who is he if it’s a fair question? Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty?

—His name is Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr
Bloom said smiling. Watch!

—He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that one of these
days.

She broke off suddenly.

—There he is, she said. I must go after him. Goodbye. Remember me to
Molly, won’t you?

—I will, Mr Bloom said.

He watched her dodge through passers towards the shopfronts. Denis
Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of
Harrison’s hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay.
Like old times. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and
thrust his dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he
spoke earnestly.

Meshuggah. Off his chump.

Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the
tight skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the two
days. Watch him! Out he goes again. One way of getting on in the world.
And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have
with him.

U. p: up. I’ll take my oath that’s Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote
it for a lark in the Scotch house I bet anything. Round to Menton’s
office. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the
gods.

He passed the _Irish Times_. There might be other answers lying there.
Like to answer them all. Good system for criminals. Code. At their
lunch now. Clerk with the glasses there doesn’t know me. O, leave them
there to simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them.
Wanted, smart lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called
you naughty darling because I do not like that other world. Please tell
me what is the meaning. Please tell me what perfume does your wife.
Tell me who made the world. The way they spring those questions on you.
And the other one Lizzie Twigg. My literary efforts have had the good
fortune to meet with the approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr Geo.
Russell). No time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of
poetry.

Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now. Cook
and general, exc. cuisine, housemaid kept. Wanted live man for spirit
counter. Resp. girl (R.C.) wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork
shop. James Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent dividend. Made
a big deal on Coates’s shares. Ca’ canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All
the toady news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the _Irish
Field_ now. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement
and rode out with the Ward Union staghounds at the enlargement
yesterday at Rathoath. Uneatable fox. Pothunters too. Fear injects
juices make it tender enough for them. Riding astride. Sit her horse
like a man. Weightcarrying huntress. No sidesaddle or pillion for her,
not for Joe. First to the meet and in at the death. Strong as a brood
mare some of those horsey women. Swagger around livery stables. Toss
off a glass of brandy neat while you’d say knife. That one at the
Grosvenor this morning. Up with her on the car: wishswish. Stonewall or
fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Think that pugnosed driver did it
out of spite. Who is this she was like? O yes! Mrs Miriam Dandrade that
sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the Shelbourne hotel.
Divorced Spanish American. Didn’t take a feather out of her my handling
them. As if I was her clotheshorse. Saw her in the viceregal party when
Stubbs the park ranger got me in with Whelan of the _Express._
Scavenging what the quality left. High tea. Mayonnaise I poured on the
plums thinking it was custard. Her ears ought to have tingled for a few
weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery work
for her, thanks.

Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his madness. Saffron bun
and milk and soda lunch in the educational dairy. Y. M. C. A. Eating
with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the minute. And still his
muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. Theodore’s
cousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative in every family. Hardy
annuals he presents her with. Saw him out at the Three Jolly Topers
marching along bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one in a
marketnet. The squallers. Poor thing! Then having to give the breast
year after year all hours of the night. Selfish those t.t’s are. Dog in
the manger. Only one lump of sugar in my tea, if you please.

He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon interval. A sixpenny at
Rowe’s? Must look up that ad in the national library. An eightpenny in
the Burton. Better. On my way.

He walked on past Bolton’s Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot
to tap Tom Kernan.

Sss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imagine groaning on a bed with a
vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her belly swollen out. Phew!
Dreadful simply! Child’s head too big: forceps. Doubled up inside her
trying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the way out. Kill me
that would. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. They ought to invent
something to stop that. Life with hard labour. Twilight sleep idea:
queen Victoria was given that. Nine she had. A good layer. Old woman
that lived in a shoe she had so many children. Suppose he was
consumptive. Time someone thought about it instead of gassing about the
what was it the pensive bosom of the silver effulgence. Flapdoodle to
feed fools on. They could easily have big establishments whole thing
quite painless out of all the taxes give every child born five quid at
compound interest up to twentyone five per cent is a hundred shillings
and five tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal system encourage
people to put by money save hundred and ten and a bit twentyone years
want to work it out on paper come to a tidy sum more than you think.

Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for
nothing.

Funny sight two of them together, their bellies out. Molly and Mrs
Moisel. Mothers’ meeting. Phthisis retires for the time being, then
returns. How flat they look all of a sudden after. Peaceful eyes.
Weight off their mind. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All my
babies, she said. The spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed them. O,
that’s nyumnyum. Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall’s son. His first
bow to the public. Head like a prize pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren. People
knocking them up at all hours. For God’ sake, doctor. Wife in her
throes. Then keep them waiting months for their fee. To attendance on
your wife. No gratitude in people. Humane doctors, most of them.

Before the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of
pigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who will we do it on? I
pick the fellow in black. Here goes. Here’s good luck. Must be
thrilling from the air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the
trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me.

A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian
file. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their
truncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their
belts. Policeman’s lot is oft a happy one. They split up in groups and
scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment
to attack one in pudding time. A punch in his dinner. A squad of
others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the
station. Bound for their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare
to receive soup.

He crossed under Tommy Moore’s roguish finger. They did right to put
him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters. Ought to be places for
women. Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. _There is not in
this wide world a vallee_. Great song of Julia Morkan’s. Kept her voice
up to the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe’s, wasn’t she?

He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack
Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. If a fellow gave them
trouble being lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the
bridewell. Can’t blame them after all with the job they have especially
the young hornies. That horsepoliceman the day Joe Chamberlain was
given his degree in Trinity he got a run for his money. My word he did!
His horse’s hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Lucky I had
the presence of mind to dive into Manning’s or I was souped. He did
come a wallop, by George. Must have cracked his skull on the
cobblestones. I oughtn’t to have got myself swept along with those
medicals. And the Trinity jibs in their mortarboards. Looking for
trouble. Still I got to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting
for me in the Mater and now he’s in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy.
Wheels within wheels. Police whistle in my ears still. All skedaddled.
Why he fixed on me. Give me in charge. Right here it began.

—Up the Boers!

—Three cheers for De Wet!

—We’ll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree.

Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. Vinegar hill.
The Butter exchange band. Few years’ time half of them magistrates and
civil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same fellows
used to. Whether on the scaffold high.

Never know who you’re talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in
his eye. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on
the invincibles. Member of the corporation too. Egging raw youths on to
get in the know all the time drawing secret service pay from the
castle. Drop him like a hot potato. Why those plainclothes men are
always courting slaveys. Easily twig a man used to uniform.
Squarepushing up against a backdoor. Maul her a bit. Then the next
thing on the menu. And who is the gentleman does be visiting there? Was
the young master saying anything? Peeping Tom through the keyhole.
Decoy duck. Hotblooded young student fooling round her fat arms
ironing.

—Are those yours, Mary?

—I don’t wear such things... Stop or I’ll tell the missus on you. Out
half the night.

—There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you see.

—Ah, gelong with your great times coming.

Barmaids too. Tobaccoshopgirls.

James Stephens’ idea was the best. He knew them. Circles of ten so that
a fellow couldn’t round on more than his own ring. Sinn Fein. Back out
you get the knife. Hidden hand. Stay in. The firing squad. Turnkey’s
daughter got him out of Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting up in the
Buckingham Palace hotel under their very noses. Garibaldi.

You must have a certain fascination: Parnell. Arthur Griffith is a
squareheaded fellow but he has no go in him for the mob. Or gas about
our lovely land. Gammon and spinach. Dublin Bakery Company’s tearoom.
Debating societies. That republicanism is the best form of government.
That the language question should take precedence of the economic
question. Have your daughters inveigling them to your house. Stuff them
up with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here’s a good lump of thyme
seasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegrease
before it gets too cold. Halffed enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk
with the band. No grace for the carver. The thought that the other chap
pays best sauce in the world. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Show
us over those apricots, meaning peaches. The not far distant day.
Homerule sun rising up in the northwest.

His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly,
shadowing Trinity’s surly front. Trams passed one another, ingoing,
outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same, day after day:
squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies
mooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a bed
groaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born every second
somewhere. Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five
minutes. Three hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born,
washing the blood off, all are washed in the blood of the lamb, bawling
maaaaaa.

Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other
coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of
pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that.
Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets
his notice to quit. They buy the place up with gold and still they have
all the gold. Swindle in it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn away
age after age. Pyramids in sand. Built on bread and onions. Slaves
Chinese wall. Babylon. Big stones left. Round towers. Rest rubble,
sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. Kerwan’s mushroom houses built of
breeze. Shelter, for the night.

No-one is anything.

This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate
this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.

Provost’s house. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Well tinned in
there. Like a mortuary chapel. Wouldn’t live in it if they paid me.
Hope they have liver and bacon today. Nature abhors a vacuum.

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the
silverware opposite in Walter Sexton’s window by which John Howard
Parnell passed, unseeing.

There he is: the brother. Image of him. Haunting face. Now that’s a
coincidence. Course hundreds of times you think of a person and don’t
meet him. Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows him. Must be a
corporation meeting today. They say he never put on the city marshal’s
uniform since he got the job. Charley Kavanagh used to come out on his
high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Look at the
woebegone walk of him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have a
pain. Great man’s brother: his brother’s brother. He’d look nice on the
city charger. Drop into the D.B.C. probably for his coffee, play chess
there. His brother used men as pawns. Let them all go to pot. Afraid to
pass a remark on him. Freeze them up with that eye of his. That’s the
fascination: the name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny and his other
sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness. Bolt upright
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.

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.

Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly
there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview
moon. She was humming. The young May moon she’s beaming, love. He other
side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm’s la-amp is gleaming, love.
Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.

Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.

Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.

With a keep quiet relief his eyes took note this is the street here
middle of the day of Bob Doran’s bottle shoulders. On his annual bend,
M’Coy said. They drink in order to say or do something or _cherchez la
femme_. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the
rest of the year sober as a judge.

Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do him
good. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the
Queen’s. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault business with his harvestmoon
face in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How time flies,
eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers, drinking,
laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. More power, Pat.
Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that white
hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harp
that once did starve us all.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was.
She twentythree. When we left Lombard street west something changed.
Could never like it again after Rudy. Can’t bring back time. Like
holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning
then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty
boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the
library.

Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin prints,
silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in
the baking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings.
Hope the rain mucks them up on her. Countrybred chawbacon. All the beef
to the heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out
of plumb.

He passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers.
Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted urn poured from its
mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenots
brought that here. _La causa è santa!_ Tara tara. Great chorus that.
Taree tara. Must be washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.

Pincushions. I’m a long time threatening to buy one. Sticking them all
over the place. Needles in window curtains.

He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not today
anyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her birthday perhaps.
Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly three months off. Then she mightn’t
like it. Women won’t pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.

Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk
stockings.

Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.

High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a woman, home
and houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. Agendath
Netaim. Wealth of the world.

A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded.
Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he
mutely craved to adore.

Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.

He turned Combridge’s corner, still pursued. Jingling, hoofthuds.
Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer
fields, tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements,
along sofas, creaking beds.

—Jack, love!

—Darling!

—Kiss me, Reggy!

—My boy!

—Love!

His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink
gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slush of greens. See
the animals feed.

Men, men, men.

Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables
calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy
food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced
young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin.
New set of microbes. A man with an infant’s saucestained napkin tucked
round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back
on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no teeth to chewchewchew
it. Chump chop from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser’s
eyes. Bitten off more than he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves
as others see us. Hungry man is an angry man. Working tooth and jaw.
Don’t! O! A bone! That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the
schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the Boyne. Wonder what
he was eating. Something galoptious. Saint Patrick converted him to
Christianity. Couldn’t swallow it all however.

—Roast beef and cabbage.

—One stew.

Smells of men. Spat-on 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.

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’hôte_ she
called it. Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose thoughts you’re
chewing. Then who’d wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all
feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.

After all there’s a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from
the earth garlic of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp
of onions mushrooms truffles. Pain to the animal too. Pluck and draw
fowl. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe
to split their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering
bob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers’ buckets wobbly lights. Give us that
brisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed
sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling
nosejam on sawdust. Top and lashers going out. Don’t maul them pieces,
young one.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed.
Insidious. Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts.

Ah, I’m hungry.

He entered Davy Byrne’s. Moral pub. He doesn’t chat. Stands a drink now
and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me once.

What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff?

—Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook.

—Hello, Flynn.

—How’s things?

—Tiptop... Let me see. I’ll take a glass of burgundy and... let me see.

Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham
and his descendants musterred and bred there. Potted meats. What is
home without Plumtree’s potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad!
Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree. Dignam’s
potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too
salty. Like pickled pork. Expect the chief consumes the parts of
honour. Ought to be tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch
the effect. _There was a right royal old nigger. Who ate or something
the somethings of the reverend Mr MacTrigger_. With it an abode of
bliss. Lord knows what concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked
and minced up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together.
Hygiene that was what they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of
inside. Peace and war depend on some fellow’s digestion. Religions.
Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat drink and be
merry. Then casual wards full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all
but itself. Mity cheese.

—Have you a cheese sandwich?

—Yes, sir.

Like a few olives too if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of
burgundy take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber,
Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served
me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion. God
made food, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab.

—Wife well?

—Quite well, thanks... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?

—Yes, sir.

Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.

—Doing any singing those times?

Look at his mouth. Could whistle in his own ear. Flap ears to match.
Music. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Still better tell him.
Does no harm. Free ad.

—She’s engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard
perhaps.

—No. O, that’s the style. Who’s getting it up?

The curate served.

—How much is that?

—Seven d., sir... Thank you, sir.

Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. _Mr MacTrigger_. Easier
than the dreamy creamy stuff. _His five hundred wives. Had the time of
their lives._

—Mustard, sir?

—Thank you.

He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. _Their lives_. I have
it. _It grew bigger and bigger and bigger_.

—Getting it up? he said. Well, it’s like a company idea, you see. Part
shares and part profits.

—Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket
to scratch his groin. Who is this was telling me? Isn’t Blazes Boylan
mixed up in it?

A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom’s heart. He
raised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock
five minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.

His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly,
longingly.

Wine.

He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to
speed it, set his wineglass delicately down.

—Yes, he said. He’s the organiser in point of fact.

No fear: no brains.

Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal.

—He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that
boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello
barracks. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlow he
was telling me...

Hope that dewdrop doesn’t come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up.

—For near a month, man, before it came off. Sucking duck eggs by God
till further orders. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is
a hairy chap.

Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves,
cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring’s blush. Whose
smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. Too much fat
on the parsnips.

—And here’s himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give
us a good one for the Gold cup?

—I’m off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a
horse.

—You’re right there, Nosey Flynn said.

Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of
disgust pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his
wine soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fuller this weather
with the chill off.

Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like
the way it curves there.

—I wouldn’t do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined
many a man, the same horses.

Vintners’ sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits
for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.

—True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you’re in the know. There’s no
straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He’s giving
Sceptre today. Zinfandel’s the favourite, Lord Howard de Walden’s, won
at Epsom. Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to one
against Saint Amant a fortnight before.

—That so? Davy Byrne said...

He went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned
its pages.

—I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. That was a rare bit of
horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm,
Rothschild’s filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow
cap. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O’Gaunt. He put me off
it. Ay.

He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the
flutes.

—Ay, he said, sighing.

Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey numbskull.
Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Better let him
forget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down
again. Cold nose he’d have kissing a woman. Still they might like.
Prickly beards they like. Dogs’ cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the
rumbling stomach’s Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling
him in her lap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish
cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I’m not thirsty. Bath
of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o’clock I can.
Six. Six. Time will be gone then. She...

Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off
colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy
lobsters’ claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of
shells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the
French eat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn
nothing in a thousand years. If you didn’t know risky putting anything
into your mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you
think good. Gaudy colour warns you off. One fellow told another and so
on. Try it on the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. Tempting
fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need
artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters.
Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too.
Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank
oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this
morning. Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed
no June has no ar no oysters. But there are people like things high.
Tainted game. Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs
fifty years old, blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each
dish harmless might mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That
archduke Leopold was it no yes or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs?
Or who was it used to eat the scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch
in town. Of course aristocrats, then the others copy to be in the
fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour. Raw pastry I like myself. Half
the catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to keep up the price.
Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock in green glasses.
Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The _élite. Crème de
la crème_. 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 _à 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_ is 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 fall see if she.

Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to do
there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and
walked, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men
lovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard.

When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:

—What is this he is? Isn’t he in the insurance line?

—He’s out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for
the _Freeman._

—I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?

—Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?

—I noticed he was in mourning.

—Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at
home. You’re right, by God. So he was.

—I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely, if I see a
gentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their
minds.

—It’s not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before
yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan’s
wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home
to his better half. She’s well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast.

—And is he doing for the _Freeman?_ Davy Byrne said.

Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.

—He doesn’t buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of
that.

—How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.

Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He
winked.

—He’s in the craft, he said.

—Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.

—Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. He’s
an excellent brother. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg
up. I was told that by a—well, I won’t say who.

—Is that a fact?

—O, it’s a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. They stick to you when you’re
down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it. But they’re as close
as damn it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it.

Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:

—Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

—There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to find
out what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and
swore her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of the saint
Legers of Doneraile.

Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes:

—And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here
and I never once saw him—you know, over the line.

—God Almighty couldn’t make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips
off when the fun gets too hot. Didn’t you see him look at his watch?
Ah, you weren’t there. If you ask him to have a drink first thing he
does he outs with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare to
God he does.

—There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He’s a safe man, I’d say.

—He’s not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He’s been known
to put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O,
Bloom has his good points. But there’s one thing he’ll never do.

His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.

—I know, Davy Byrne said.

—Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.

Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning,
a plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.

—Day, Mr Byrne.

—Day, gentlemen.

They paused at the counter.

—Who’s standing? Paddy Leonard asked.

—I’m sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.

—Well, what’ll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.

—I’ll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.

—How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God’ sake? What’s
yours, Tom?

—How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.

For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and
hiccupped.

—Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.

—Certainly, sir.

Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.

—Lord love a duck, he said. Look at what I’m standing drinks to! Cold
water and gingerpop! Two fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg.
He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip.

—Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.

Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set
before him.

—That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.

—Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.

Tom Rochford nodded and drank.

—Is it Zinfandel?

—Say nothing! Bantam Lyons winked. I’m going to plunge five bob on my
own.

—Tell us if you’re worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard
said. Who gave it to you?

Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.

—So long! Nosey Flynn said.

The others turned.

—That’s the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.

—Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we’ll take two
of your small Jamesons after that and a...

—Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.

—Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.

Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue brushing his teeth
smooth. Something green it would have to be: spinach, say. Then with
those Röntgen rays searchlight you could.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the
cobblestones and lapped it with new zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks
having fully digested the contents. First sweet then savoury. Mr Bloom
coasted warily. Ruminants. His second course. Their upper jaw they
move. Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention of
his? Wasting time explaining it to Flynn’s mouth. Lean people long
mouths. Ought to be a hall or a place where inventors could go in and
invent free. Course then you’d have all the cranks pestering.

He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars:

     Don Giovanni, a cenar teco
     M’invitasti.

Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some chap
in the blues. Dutch courage. That _Kilkenny People_ in the national
library now I must.

Bare clean closestools waiting in the window of William Miller,
plumber, turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way
down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tour
round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric
juice coils of intestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to
stand all the time with his insides entrails on show. Science.

—_A cenar teco._

What does that _teco_ mean? Tonight perhaps.

     Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited
     To come to supper tonight,
     The rum the rumdum.

Doesn’t go properly.

Keyes: two months if I get Nannetti to. That’ll be two pounds ten about
two pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Prescott’s dyeworks
van over there. If I get Billy Prescott’s ad: two fifteen. Five guineas
about. On the pig’s back.

Could buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new
garters.

Today. Today. Not think.

Tour the south then. What about English wateringplaces? Brighton,
Margate. Piers by moonlight. Her voice floating out. Those lovely
seaside girls. Against John Long’s a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy
thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Handy man wants job. Small wages.
Will eat anything.

Mr Bloom turned at Gray’s confectioner’s window of unbought tarts and
passed the reverend Thomas Connellan’s bookstore. _Why I left the
church of Rome? Birds’ Nest._ Women run him. They say they used to give
pauper children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato
blight. Society over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor
jews. Same bait. Why we left the church of Rome.

A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No
tram in sight. Wants to cross.

—Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.

The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He
moved his head uncertainly.

—You’re in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite.
Do you want to cross? There’s nothing in the way.

The cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom’s eye followed its
line and saw again the dyeworks’ van drawn up before Drago’s. Where I
saw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping. Driver in
John Long’s. Slaking his drouth.

—There’s a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it’s not moving. I’ll see you
across. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?

—Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.

—Come, Mr Bloom said.

He touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to
guide it forward.

Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust
what you tell them. Pass a common remark.

—The rain kept off.

No answer.

Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Tastes all different
for him. Have to be spoonfed first. Like a child’s hand, his hand. Like
Milly’s was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand. Wonder if
he has a name. Van. Keep his cane clear of the horse’s legs: tired
drudge get his doze. That’s right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a
horse.

—Thanks, sir.

Knows I’m a man. Voice.

—Right now? First turn to the left.

The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing
his cane back, feeling again.

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone
tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there?
Must have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense
of volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark.
Wonder would he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer
idea of Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could
he walk in a beeline if he hadn’t that cane? Bloodless pious face like
a fellow going in to be a priest.

Penrose! That was that chap’s name.

Look at all the things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers.
Tune pianos. Or we are surprised they have any brains. Why we think a
deformed person or a hunchback clever if he says something we might
say. Of course the other senses are more. Embroider. Plait baskets.
People ought to help. Workbasket I could buy for Molly’s birthday.
Hates sewing. Might take an objection. Dark men they call them.

Sense of smell must be stronger too. Smells on all sides, bunched
together. Each street different smell. Each person too. Then the
spring, the summer: smells. Tastes? They say you can’t taste wines with
your eyes shut or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say
get no pleasure.

And with a woman, for instance. More shameless not seeing. That girl
passing the Stewart institution, head in the air. Look at me. I have
them all on. Must be strange not to see her. Kind of a form in his
mind’s eye. The voice, temperatures: when he touches her with his
fingers must almost see the lines, the curves. His hands on her hair,
for instance. Say it was black, for instance. Good. We call it black.
Then passing over her white skin. Different feel perhaps. Feeling of
white.

Postoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send her a postal order two
shillings, half a crown. Accept my little present. Stationer’s just
here too. Wait. Think over it.

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above
his ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine straw. Then gently his finger felt
the skin of his right cheek. Downy hair there too. Not smooth enough.
The belly is the smoothest. No-one about. There he goes into Frederick
street. Perhaps to Levenston’s dancing academy piano. Might be settling
my braces.

Walking by Doran’s publichouse he slid his hand between his waistcoat
and trousers and, pulling aside his shirt gently, felt a slack fold of
his belly. But I know it’s whitey yellow. Want to try in the dark to
see.

He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.

Poor fellow! Quite a boy. Terrible. Really terrible. What dreams would
he have, not seeing? Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being
born that way? All those women and children excursion beanfeast burned
and drowned in New York. Holocaust. Karma they call that transmigration
for sins you did in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses.
Dear, dear, dear. Pity, of course: but somehow you can’t cotton on to
them someway.

Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons’ hall. Solemn as Troy.
After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Old legal cronies cracking a
magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the bluecoat
school. I sentenced him to ten years. I suppose he’d turn up his nose
at that stuff I drank. Vintage wine for them, the year marked on a
dusty bottle. Has his own ideas of justice in the recorder’s court.
Wellmeaning old man. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their
percentage manufacturing crime. Sends them to the rightabout. The devil
on moneylenders. Gave Reuben J a great strawcalling. Now he’s really
what they call a dirty jew. Power those judges have. Crusty old topers
in wigs. Bear with a sore paw. And may the Lord have mercy on your
soul.

Hello, placard. Mirus bazaar. His Excellency the lord lieutenant.
Sixteenth. Today it is. In aid of funds for Mercer’s hospital. _The
Messiah_ was first given for that. Yes. Handel. What about going out
there: Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use sticking to him like a
leech. Wear out my welcome. Sure to know someone on the gate.

Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library.

Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.

His heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved
to the right.

Is it? Almost certain. Won’t look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too
heady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Get on.

Making for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes.
Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not following me?

Didn’t see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.

The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold
statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute.

No. Didn’t see me. After two. Just at the gate.

My heart!

His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir
Thomas Deane was the Greek architecture.

Look for something I.

His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded
Agendath Netaim. Where did I?

Busy looking.

He thrust back quick Agendath.

Afternoon she said.

I am looking for that. Yes, that. Try all pockets. Handker. _Freeman._
Where did I? Ah, yes. Trousers. Potato. Purse. Where?

Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.

His hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap
lotion have to call tepid paper stuck. Ah soap there I yes. Gate.

Safe!




[ 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
     Then he patted her
     Then he passed the female catheter
     For he was a medical
     Jolly old medi...

—I feel you would need one more for _Hamlet._ Seven is dear to the
mystic mind. The shining seven W.B. calls them.

Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his greencapped desklamp sought
the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an ollav, holyeyed. He
laughed low: a sizar’s laugh of Trinity: unanswered.

     Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood
     Tears such as angels weep.
     Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.

He holds my follies hostage.

Cranly’s eleven true Wicklowmen to free their sireland. Gaptoothed
Kathleen, her four beautiful green fields, the stranger in her house.
And one more to hail him: _ave, rabbi_: the Tinahely twelve. In the
shadow of the glen he cooees for them. My soul’s youth I gave him,
night by night. God speed. Good hunting.

Mulligan has my telegram.

Folly. Persist.

—Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton censured, have yet to create a
figure which the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare’s Hamlet
though I admire him, as old Ben did, on this side idolatry.

—All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of his
shadow. I mean, whether Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.
Clergymen’s discussions of the historicity of Jesus. Art has to reveal
to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a
work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of
Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley,
the words of Hamlet bring our minds into contact with the eternal
wisdom, Plato’s world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of
schoolboys for schoolboys.

A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer. Wall, tarnation strike
me!

—The schoolmen were schoolboys first, Stephen said superpolitely.
Aristotle was once Plato’s schoolboy.

—And has remained so, one should hope, John Eglinton sedately said. One
can see him, a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm.

He laughed again at the now smiling bearded face.

Formless spiritual. Father, Word and Holy Breath. Allfather, the
heavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, magician of the beautiful, the Logos who
suffers in us at every moment. This verily is that. I am the fire upon
the altar. I am the sacrificial butter.

Dunlop, Judge, the noblest Roman of them all, A.E., Arval, the Name
Ineffable, in heaven hight: K.H., their master, whose identity is no
secret to adepts. Brothers of the great white lodge always watching to
see if they can help. The Christ with the bridesister, moisture of
light, born of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the
plane of buddhi. The life esoteric is not for ordinary person. O.P.
must work off bad karma first. Mrs Cooper Oakley once glimpsed our very
illustrious sister H.P.B.’s elemental.

O, fie! Out on’t! _Pfuiteufel!_ You naughtn’t to look, missus, so you
naughtn’t when a lady’s ashowing of her elemental.

Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light. He bore in his hand with
grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.

—That model schoolboy, Stephen said, would find Hamlet’s musings about
the afterlife of his princely soul, the improbable, insignificant and
undramatic monologue, as shallow as Plato’s.

John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth:

—Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle
with Plato.

—Which of the two, Stephen asked, would have banished me from his
commonwealth?

Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Horseness is the whatness of
allhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the
street: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see.
Through spaces smaller than red globules of man’s blood they
creepycrawl after Blake’s buttocks into eternity of which this
vegetable world is but a shadow. Hold to the now, the here, through
which all future plunges to the past.

Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague.

—Haines is gone, he said.

—Is he?

—I was showing him Jubainville’s book. He’s quite enthusiastic, don’t
you know, about Hyde’s _Lovesongs of Connacht._ I couldn’t bring him in
to hear the discussion. He’s gone to Gill’s to buy it.

     Bound thee forth, my booklet, quick
     To greet the callous public.
     Writ, I ween, ’twas not my wish
     In lean unlovely English.

—The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined.

We feel in England. Penitent thief. Gone. I smoked his baccy. Green
twinkling stone. An emerald set in the ring of the sea.

—People do not know how dangerous lovesongs can be, the auric egg of
Russell warned occultly. The movements which work revolutions in the
world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant’s heart on
the hillside. For them the earth is not an exploitable ground but the
living mother. The rarefied air of the academy and the arena produce
the sixshilling novel, the musichall song. France produces the finest
flower of corruption in Mallarmé but the desirable life is revealed
only to the poor of heart, the life of Homer’s Phæacians.

From these words Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen.

—Mallarmé, 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 promène, lisant au livre de lui-même_, 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
Pièce de Shakespeare_


He repeated to John Eglinton’s newgathered frown:

—_Pièce de Shakespeare_, don’t you know. It’s so French. The French
point of view. _Hamlet ou_...

—The absentminded beggar, Stephen ended.

John Eglinton laughed.

—Yes, I suppose it would be, he said. Excellent people, no doubt, but
distressingly shortsighted in some matters.

Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

—A deathsman of the soul Robert Greene called him, Stephen said. Not
for nothing was he a butcher’s son, wielding the sledded poleaxe and
spitting in his palms. Nine lives are taken off for his father’s one.
Our Father who art in purgatory. Khaki Hamlets don’t hesitate to shoot.
The bloodboltered shambles in act five is a forecast of the
concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne.

Cranly, I his mute orderly, following battles from afar.

     Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom none
     But we had spared...

Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. The devil and the deep sea.

—He will have it that _Hamlet_ is a ghoststory, John Eglinton said for
Mr Best’s behoof. Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to make our
flesh creep.

     List! List! O List!


My flesh hears him: creeping, hears.

     If thou didst ever...


—What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded
into impalpability through death, through absence, through change of
manners. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris
lies from virgin Dublin. Who is the ghost from _limbo patrum_,
returning to the world that has forgotten him? Who is King Hamlet?

John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge.

Lifted.

—It is this hour of a day in mid June, Stephen said, begging with a
swift glance their hearing. The flag is up on the playhouse by the
bankside. The bear Sackerson growls in the pit near it, Paris garden.
Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the
groundlings.

Local colour. Work in all you know. Make them accomplices.

—Shakespeare has left the huguenot’s house in Silver street and walks
by the swanmews along the riverbank. But he does not stay to feed the
pen chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. The swan of Avon
has other thoughts.

Composition of place. Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me!

—The play begins. A player comes on under the shadow, made up in the
castoff mail of a court buck, a wellset man with a bass voice. It is
the ghost, the king, a king and no king, and the player is Shakespeare
who has studied _Hamlet_ all the years of his life which were not
vanity in order to play the part of the spectre. He speaks the words to
Burbage, the young player who stands before him beyond the rack of
cerecloth, calling him by a name:

     Hamlet, I am thy father’s spirit,

bidding him list. To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince,
young Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, who has
died in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever.

Is it possible that that player Shakespeare, a ghost by absence, and in
the vesture of buried Denmark, a ghost by death, speaking his own words
to his own son’s name (had Hamnet Shakespeare lived he would have been
prince Hamlet’s twin), is it possible, I want to know, or probable that
he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those premises:
you are the dispossessed son: I am the murdered father: your mother is
the guilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway?

—But this prying into the family life of a great man, Russell began
impatiently.

Art thou there, truepenny?

—Interesting only to the parish clerk. I mean, we have the plays. I
mean when we read the poetry of _King Lear_ what is it to us how the
poet lived? As for living our servants can do that for us, Villiers de
l’Isle has said. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the day,
the poet’s drinking, the poet’s debts. We have _King Lear_: and it is
immortal.

Mr Best’s face, appealed to, agreed.

     Flow over them with your waves and with your waters,
     Mananaan, Mananaan MacLir...

How now, sirrah, that pound he lent you when you were hungry?

Marry, I wanted it.

Take thou this noble.

Go to! You spent most of it in Georgina Johnson’s bed, clergyman’s
daughter. Agenbite of inwit.

Do you intend to pay it back?

O, yes.

When? Now?

Well... No.

When, then?

I paid my way. I paid my way.

Steady on. He’s from beyant Boyne water. The northeast corner. You owe
it.

Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got
pound.

Buzz. Buzz.

But I, entelechy, form of forms, am I by memory because under
everchanging forms.

I that sinned and prayed and fasted.

A child Conmee saved from pandies.

I, I and I. I.

A.E.I.O.U.

—Do you mean to fly in the face of the tradition of three centuries?
John Eglinton’s carping voice asked. Her ghost at least has been laid
for ever. She died, for literature at least, before she was born.

—She died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was born. She
saw him into and out of the world. She took his first embraces. She
bore his children and she laid pennies on his eyes to keep his eyelids
closed when he lay on his deathbed.

Mother’s deathbed. Candle. The sheeted mirror. Who brought me into this
world lies there, bronzelidded, under few cheap flowers. _Liliata
rutilantium._

I wept alone.

John Eglinton looked in the tangled glowworm of his lamp.

—The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, and got
out of it as quickly and as best he could.

—Bosh! Stephen said rudely. A man of genius makes no mistakes. His
errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.

Portals of discovery opened to let in the quaker librarian,
softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous.

—A shrew, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is not a useful portal of
discovery, one should imagine. What useful discovery did Socrates learn
from Xanthippe?

—Dialectic, Stephen answered: and from his mother how to bring thoughts
into the world. What he learnt from his other wife Myrto (_absit
nomen!_), Socratididion’s Epipsychidion, no man, not a woman, will ever
know. But neither the midwife’s lore nor the caudlelectures saved him
from the archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock.

—But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best’s quiet voice said forgetfully. Yes, we seem
to be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.

His look went from brooder’s beard to carper’s skull, to remind, to
chide them not unkindly, then to the baldpink lollard costard,
guiltless though maligned.

—He had a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, and no truant memory.
He carried a memory in his wallet as he trudged to Romeville whistling
_The girl I left behind me._ If the earthquake did not time it we
should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in his form, the cry of
hounds, the studded bridle and her blue windows. That memory, _Venus
and Adonis_, lay in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London. Is
Katharine the shrew illfavoured? Hortensio calls her young and
beautiful. Do you think the writer of _Antony and Cleopatra_, a
passionate pilgrim, had his eyes in the back of his head that he chose
the ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to lie withal? Good: he left her
and gained the world of men. But his boywomen are the women of a boy.
Their life, thought, speech are lent them by males. He chose badly? He
was chosen, it seems to me. If others have their will Ann hath a way.
By cock, she was to blame. She put the comether on him, sweet and
twentysix. The greyeyed goddess who bends over the boy Adonis, stooping
to conquer, as prologue to the swelling act, is a boldfaced Stratford
wench who tumbles in a cornfield a lover younger than herself.

And my turn? When?

Come!

—Ryefield, Mr Best said brightly, gladly, raising his new book, gladly,
brightly.

He murmured then with blond delight for all:

     Between the acres of the rye
     These pretty countryfolk would lie.

Paris: the wellpleased pleaser.

A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its
cooperative watch.

—I am afraid I am due at the _Homestead._

Whither away? Exploitable ground.

—Are you going? John Eglinton’s active eyebrows asked. Shall we see you
at Moore’s tonight? Piper is coming.

—Piper! Mr Best piped. Is Piper back?

Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper.

—I don’t know if I can. Thursday. We have our meeting. If I can get
away in time.

Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers. _Isis Unveiled._ Their Pali book we
tried to pawn. Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones an
Aztec logos, functioning on astral levels, their oversoul, mahamahatma.
The faithful hermetists await the light, ripe for chelaship,
ringroundabout him. Louis H. Victory. T. Caulfield Irwin. Lotus ladies
tend them i’the eyes, their pineal glands aglow. Filled with his god,
he thrones, Buddh under plantain. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. Hesouls,
shesouls, shoals of souls. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled,
whirling, they bewail.

     In quintessential triviality
     For years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt.

—They say we are to have a literary surprise, the quaker librarian
said, friendly and earnest. Mr Russell, rumour has it, is gathering
together a sheaf of our younger poets’ verses. We are all looking
forward anxiously.

Anxiously he glanced in the cone of lamplight where three faces,
lighted, shone.

See this. Remember.

Stephen looked down on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his
ashplanthandle over his knee. My casque and sword. Touch lightly with
two index fingers. Aristotle’s experiment. One or two? Necessity is
that in virtue of which it is impossible that one can be otherwise.
Argal, one hat is one hat.

Listen.

Young Colum and Starkey. George Roberts is doing the commercial part.
Longworth will give it a good puff in the _Express._ O, will he? I
liked Colum’s _Drover._ Yes, I think he has that queer thing genius. Do
you think he has genius really? Yeats admired his line: _As in wild
earth a Grecian vase_. Did he? I hope you’ll be able to come tonight.
Malachi Mulligan is coming too. Moore asked him to bring Haines. Did
you hear Miss Mitchell’s joke about Moore and Martyn? That Moore is
Martyn’s wild oats? Awfully clever, isn’t it? They remind one of Don
Quixote and Sancho Panza. Our national epic has yet to be written, Dr
Sigerson says. Moore is the man for it. A knight of the rueful
countenance here in Dublin. With a saffron kilt? O’Neill Russell? O,
yes, he must speak the grand old tongue. And his Dulcinea? James
Stephens is doing some clever sketches. We are becoming important, it
seems.

Cordelia. _Cordoglio._ Lir’s loneliest daughter.

Nookshotten. Now your best French polish.

—Thank you very much, Mr Russell, Stephen said, rising. If you will be
so kind as to give the letter to Mr Norman...

—O, yes. If he considers it important it will go in. We have so much
correspondence.

—I understand, Stephen said. Thanks.

God ild you. The pigs’ paper. Bullockbefriending.

Synge has promised me an article for _Dana_ too. Are we going to be
read? I feel we are. The Gaelic league wants something in Irish. I hope
you will come round tonight. Bring Starkey.

Stephen sat down.

The quaker librarian came from the leavetakers. Blushing, his mask
said:

—Mr Dedalus, your views are most illuminating.

He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the altitude of a
chopine, and, covered by the noise of outgoing, said low:

—Is it your view, then, that she was not faithful to the poet?

Alarmed face asks me. Why did he come? Courtesy or an inward light?

—Where there is a reconciliation, Stephen said, there must have been
first a sundering.

—Yes.

Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a runaway in blighted treeforks,
from hue and cry. Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in the chase. Women
he won to him, tender people, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices,
bully tapsters’ wives. Fox and geese. And in New Place a slack
dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as fresh as
cinnamon, now her leaves falling, all, bare, frighted of the narrow
grave and unforgiven.

—Yes. So you think...

The door closed behind the outgoer.

Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of warm and
brooding air.

A vestal’s lamp.

Here he ponders things that were not: what Cæsar would have lived to do
had he believed the soothsayer: what might have been: possibilities of
the possible as possible: things not known: what name Achilles bore
when he lived among women.

Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words.
Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. And I heard the voice
of that Egyptian highpriest. _In painted chambers loaded with
tilebooks._

They are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still: but an itch of
death is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak
their will.

—Certainly, John Eglinton mused, of all great men he is the most
enigmatic. We know nothing but that he lived and suffered. Not even so
much. Others abide our question. A shadow hangs over all the rest.

—But _Hamlet_ is so personal, isn’t it? Mr Best pleaded. I mean, a kind
of private paper, don’t you know, of his private life. I mean, I don’t
care a button, don’t you know, who is killed or who is guilty...

He rested an innocent book on the edge of the desk, smiling his
defiance. His private papers in the original. _Ta an bad ar an tir.
Taim in mo shagart_. Put beurla on it, littlejohn.

Quoth littlejohn Eglinton:

—I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi Mulligan told us but I
may as well warn you that if you want to shake my belief that
Shakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before you.

Bear with me.

Stephen withstood the bane of miscreant eyes glinting stern under
wrinkled brows. A basilisk. _E quando vede l’uomo l’attosca_. Messer
Brunetto, I thank thee for the word.

—As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said,
from day to day, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so does the
artist weave and unweave his image. And as the mole on my right breast
is where it was when I was born, though all my body has been woven of
new stuff time after time, so through the ghost of the unquiet father
the image of the unliving son looks forth. In the intense instant of
imagination, when the mind, Shelley says, is a fading coal, that which
I was is that which I am and that which in possibility I may come to
be. So in the future, the sister of the past, I may see myself as I sit
here now but by reflection from that which then I shall be.

Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at that stile.

—Yes, Mr Best said youngly. I feel Hamlet quite young. The bitterness
might be from the father but the passages with Ophelia are surely from
the son.

Has the wrong sow by the lug. He is in my father. I am in his son.

—That mole is the last to go, Stephen said, laughing.

John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow.

—If that were the birthmark of genius, he said, genius would be a drug
in the market. The plays of Shakespeare’s later years which Renan
admired so much breathe another spirit.

—The spirit of reconciliation, the quaker librarian breathed.

—There can be no reconciliation, Stephen said, if there has not been a
sundering.

Said that.

—If you want to know what are the events which cast their shadow over
the hell of time of _King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida,_
look to see when and how the shadow lifts. What softens the heart of a
man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles,
prince of Tyre?

Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.

—A child, a girl, placed in his arms, Marina.

—The leaning of sophists towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a constant
quantity, John Eglinton detected. The highroads are dreary but they
lead to the town.

Good Bacon: gone musty. Shakespeare Bacon’s wild oats. Cypherjugglers
going the highroads. Seekers on the great quest. What town, good
masters? Mummed in names: A. E., eon: Magee, John Eglinton. East of the
sun, west of the moon: _Tir na n-og_. Booted the twain and staved.

     How many miles to Dublin?
     Three score and ten, sir.
     Will we be there by candlelight?

—Mr Brandes accepts it, Stephen said, as the first play of the closing
period.

—Does he? What does Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his
name is, say of it?

—Marina, Stephen said, a child of storm, Miranda, a wonder, Perdita,
that which was lost. What was lost is given back to him: his daughter’s
child. _My dearest wife_, Pericles says, _was like this maid._ Will any
man love the daughter if he has not loved the mother?

—The art of being a grandfather, Mr Best gan murmur. _L’art d’être
grand_...

—Will he not see reborn in her, with the memory of his own youth added,
another image?

Do you know what you are talking about? Love, yes. Word known to all
men. _Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus
..._

—His own image to a man with that queer thing genius is the standard of
all experience, material and moral. Such an appeal will touch him. The
images of other males of his blood will repel him. He will see in them
grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.

The benign forehead of the quaker librarian enkindled rosily with hope.

—I hope Mr Dedalus will work out his theory for the enlightenment of
the public. And we ought to mention another Irish commentator, Mr
George Bernard Shaw. Nor should we forget Mr Frank Harris. His articles
on Shakespeare in the _Saturday Review_ were surely brilliant. Oddly
enough he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the dark lady of
the sonnets. The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. I
own that if the poet must be rejected such a rejection would seem more
in harmony with—what shall I say?—our notions of what ought not to have
been.

Felicitously he ceased and held a meek head among them, auk’s egg,
prize of their fray.

He thous and thees her with grave husbandwords. Dost love, Miriam? Dost
love thy man?

—That may be too, Stephen said. There’s a saying of Goethe’s which Mr
Magee likes to quote. Beware of what you wish for in youth because you
will get it in middle life. Why does he send to one who is a
_buonaroba,_ a bay where all men ride, a maid of honour with a
scandalous girlhood, a lordling to woo for him? He was himself a lord
of language and had made himself a coistrel gentleman and he had
written _Romeo and Juliet_. Why? Belief in himself has been untimely
killed. He was overborne in a cornfield first (ryefield, I should say)
and he will never be a victor in his own eyes after nor play
victoriously the game of laugh and lie down. Assumed dongiovannism will
not save him. No later undoing will undo the first undoing. The tusk of
the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding. If the shrew
is worsted yet there remains to her woman’s invisible weapon. There is,
I feel in the words, some goad of the flesh driving him into a new
passion, a darker shadow of the first, darkening even his own
understanding of himself. A like fate awaits him and the two rages
commingle in a whirlpool.

They list. And in the porches of their ears I pour.

—The soul has been before stricken mortally, a poison poured in the
porch of a sleeping ear. But those who are done to death in sleep
cannot know the manner of their quell unless their Creator endow their
souls with that knowledge in the life to come. The poisoning and the
beast with two backs that urged it King Hamlet’s ghost could not know
of were he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. That is why the
speech (his lean unlovely English) is always turned elsewhere,
backward. Ravisher and ravished, what he would but would not, go with
him from Lucrece’s bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen’s breast, bare,
with its mole cinquespotted. He goes back, weary of the creation he has
piled up to hide him from himself, an old dog licking an old sore. But,
because loss is his gain, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished
personality, untaught by the wisdom he has written or by the laws he
has revealed. His beaver is up. He is a ghost, a shadow now, the wind
by Elsinore’s rocks or what you will, the sea’s voice, a voice heard
only in the heart of him who is the substance of his shadow, the son
consubstantial with the father.

—Amen! was responded from the doorway.

Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?

_Entr’acte_.

A ribald face, sullen as a dean’s, Buck Mulligan came forward, then
blithe in motley, towards the greeting of their smiles. My telegram.

—You were speaking of the gaseous vertebrate, if I mistake not? he
asked of Stephen.

Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as with a
bauble.

They make him welcome. _Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen._

Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most.

He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself,
Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who, put upon by His fiends,
stripped and whipped, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on
crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven
and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the right hand of His
Own Self but yet shall come in the latter day to doom the quick and
dead when all the quick shall be dead already.

[Illustration]

He lifts his hands. Veils fall. O, flowers! Bells with bells with bells
aquiring.

—Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. A most instructive discussion.
Mr Mulligan, I’ll be bound, has his theory too of the play and of
Shakespeare. All sides of life should be represented.

He smiled on all sides equally.

Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled:

—Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name.

A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features.

—To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like
Synge.

Mr Best turned to him.

—Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He’ll see you after at
the D. B. C. He’s gone to Gill’s to buy Hyde’s _Lovesongs of Connacht_.

—I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here?

—The bard’s fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired
perhaps of our brilliancies of theorising. I hear that an actress
played Hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin.
Vining held that the prince was a woman. Has no-one made him out to be
an Irishman? Judge Barton, I believe, is searching for some clues. He
swears (His Highness not His Lordship) by saint Patrick.

—The most brilliant of all is that story of Wilde’s, Mr Best said,
lifting his brilliant notebook. That _Portrait of Mr W. H._ where he
proves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all
hues.

—For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked.

Or Hughie Wills? Mr William Himself. W. H.: who am I?

—I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, amending his gloss easily. Of
course it’s all paradox, don’t you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the
colour, but it’s so typical the way he works it out. It’s the very
essence of Wilde, don’t you know. The light touch.

His glance touched their faces lightly as he smiled, a blond ephebe.
Tame essence of Wilde.

You’re darned witty. Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan
Deasy’s ducats.

How much did I spend? O, a few shillings.

For a plump of pressmen. Humour wet and dry.

Wit. You would give your five wits for youth’s proud livery he pranks
in. Lineaments of gratified desire.

There be many mo. Take her for me. In pairing time. Jove, a cool
ruttime send them. Yea, turtledove her.

Eve. Naked wheatbellied sin. A snake coils her, fang in’s kiss.

—Do you think it is only a paradox? the quaker librarian was asking.
The mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious.

They talked seriously of mocker’s seriousness.

Buck Mulligan’s again heavy face eyed Stephen awhile. Then, his head
wagging, he came near, drew a folded telegram from his pocket. His
mobile lips read, smiling with new delight.

—Telegram! he said. Wonderful inspiration! Telegram! A papal bull!

He sat on a corner of the unlit desk, reading aloud joyfully:

—_The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the
immense debtorship for a thing done._ Signed: Dedalus. Where did you
launch it from? The kips? No. College Green. Have you drunk the four
quid? The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father. Telegram!
Malachi Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street. O, you peerless mummer!
O, you priestified Kinchite!

Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a pocket but keened in a
querulous brogue:

—It’s what I’m telling you, mister honey, it’s queer and sick we were,
Haines and myself, the time himself brought it in. ’Twas murmur we did
for a gallus potion would rouse a friar, I’m thinking, and he limp with
leching. And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery’s
sitting civil waiting for pints apiece.

He wailed:

—And we to be there, mavrone, and you to be unbeknownst sending us your
conglomerations the way we to have our tongues out a yard long like the
drouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful.

Stephen laughed.

Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan bent down.

—The tramper Synge is looking for you, he said, to murder you. He heard
you pissed on his halldoor in Glasthule. He’s out in pampooties to
murder you.

—Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your contribution to literature.

Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing to the dark eavesdropping
ceiling.

—Murder you! he laughed.

Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash of
lights in rue Saint-André-des-Arts. In words of words for words,
palabras. Oisin with Patrick. Faunman he met in Clamart woods,
brandishing a winebottle. _C’est vendredi saint!_ Murthering Irish. His
image, wandering, he met. I mine. I met a fool i’the forest.

—Mr Lyster, an attendant said from the door ajar.

—... in which everyone can find his own. So Mr Justice Madden in his
_Diary of Master William Silence_ has found the hunting terms... Yes?
What is it?

—There’s a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said, coming forward and
offering a card. From the _Freeman._ He wants to see the files of the
_Kilkenny People_ for last year.

—Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is the gentleman?...

He took the eager card, glanced, not saw, laid down unglanced, looked,
asked, creaked, asked:

—Is he?... O, there!

Brisk in a galliard he was off, out. In the daylit corridor he talked
with voluble pains of zeal, in duty bound, most fair, most kind, most
honest broadbrim.

—This gentleman? _Freeman’s Journal? Kilkenny People?_ To be sure. Good
day, sir. _Kilkenny_... We have certainly...

A patient silhouette waited, listening.

—All the leading provincial... _Northern Whig, Cork Examiner,
Enniscorthy Guardian,_ 1903... Will you please?... Evans, conduct this
gentleman... If you just follow the atten... Or, please allow me...
This way... Please, sir...

Voluble, dutiful, he led the way to all the provincial papers, a bowing
dark figure following his hasty heels.

The door closed.

—The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried.

He jumped up and snatched the card.

—What’s his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom.

He rattled on:

—Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no more. I found him over in the
museum where I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. The Greek mouth
that has never been twisted in prayer. Every day we must do homage to
her. _Life of life, thy lips enkindle._

Suddenly he turned to Stephen:

—He knows you. He knows your old fellow. O, I fear me, he is Greeker
than the Greeks. His pale Galilean eyes were upon her mesial groove.
Venus Kallipyge. O, the thunder of those loins! _The god pursuing the
maiden hid_.

—We want to hear more, John Eglinton decided with Mr Best’s approval.
We begin to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of her, if
at all, as a patient Griselda, a Penelope stayathome.

—Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, took the palm of beauty
from Kyrios Menelaus’ brooddam, Argive Helen, the wooden mare of Troy
in whom a score of heroes slept, and handed it to poor Penelope. Twenty
years he lived in London and, during part of that time, he drew a
salary equal to that of the lord chancellor of Ireland. His life was
rich. His art, more than the art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called
it, is the art of surfeit. Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack,
honeysauces, sugar of roses, marchpane, gooseberried pigeons,
ringocandies. Sir Walter Raleigh, when they arrested him, had half a
million francs on his back including a pair of fancy stays. The
gombeenwoman Eliza Tudor had underlinen enough to vie with her of
Sheba. Twenty years he dallied there between conjugial love and its
chaste delights and scortatory love and its foul pleasures. You know
Manningham’s story of the burgher’s wife who bade Dick Burbage to her
bed after she had seen him in _Richard III_ and how Shakespeare,
overhearing, without more ado about nothing, took the cow by the horns
and, when Burbage came knocking at the gate, answered from the capon’s
blankets: _William the conqueror came before Richard III_. And the gay
lakin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry O, and his dainty birdsnies, lady
Penelope Rich, a clean quality woman is suited for a player, and the
punks of the bankside, a penny a time.

Cours la Reine. _Encore vingt sous. Nous ferons de petites
cochonneries. Minette? Tu veux?_

—The height of fine society. And sir William Davenant of Oxford’s
mother with her cup of canary for any cockcanary.

Buck Mulligan, his pious eyes upturned, prayed:

—Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!

—And Harry of six wives’ daughter. And other lady friends from
neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. But all those
twenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope in Stratford was doing
behind the diamond panes?

Do and do. Thing done. In a rosery of Fetter lane of Gerard, herbalist,
he walks, greyedauburn. An azured harebell like her veins. Lids of
Juno’s eyes, violets. He walks. One life is all. One body. Do. But do.
Afar, in a reek of lust and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.

Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton’s desk sharply.

—Whom do you suspect? he challenged.

—Say that he is the spurned lover in the sonnets. Once spurned twice
spurned. But the court wanton spurned him for a lord, his dearmylove.

Love that dare not speak its name.

—As an Englishman, you mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he loved a
lord.

Old wall where sudden lizards flash. At Charenton I watched them.

—It seems so, Stephen said, when he wants to do for him, and for all
other and singular uneared wombs, the holy office an ostler does for
the stallion. Maybe, like Socrates, he had a midwife to mother as he
had a shrew to wife. But she, the giglot wanton, did not break a
bedvow. Two deeds are rank in that ghost’s mind: a broken vow and the
dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband’s
brother. Sweet Ann, I take it, was hot in the blood. Once a wooer,
twice a wooer.

Stephen turned boldly in his chair.

—The burden of proof is with you not with me, he said frowning. If you
deny that in the fifth scene of _Hamlet_ he has branded her with infamy
tell me why there is no mention of her during the thirtyfour years
between the day she married him and the day she buried him. All those
women saw their men down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Ann, her
poor dear Willun, when he went and died on her, raging that he was the
first to go, Joan, her four brothers, Judith, her husband and all her
sons, Susan, her husband too, while Susan’s daughter, Elizabeth, to use
granddaddy’s words, wed her second, having killed her first.

O, yes, mention there is. In the years when he was living richly in
royal London to pay a debt she had to borrow forty shillings from her
father’s shepherd. Explain you then. Explain the swansong too wherein
he has commended her to posterity.

He faced their silence.

To whom thus Eglinton: You mean the will.
But that has been explained, I believe, by jurists.
She was entitled to her widow’s dower
At common law. His legal knowledge was great
Our judges tell us.
            Him Satan fleers,
Mocker:
            And therefore he left out her name
From the first draft but he did not leave out
The presents for his granddaughter, for his daughters,
For his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford
And in London. And therefore when he was urged,
As I believe, to name her
He left her his
Secondbest
Bed.

            _Punkt._

Leftherhis
Secondbest
Leftherhis
Bestabed
Secabest
Leftabed.

Woa!

—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 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 hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit
amicitia inter multos._

—Saint Thomas, Stephen began...

—_Ora pro nobis_, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a chair.

There he keened a wailing rune.

—_Pogue mahone! Acushla machree!_ It’s destroyed we are from this day!
It’s destroyed we are surely!

All smiled their smiles.

—Saint Thomas, Stephen smiling said, whose gorbellied works I enjoy
reading in the original, writing of incest from a standpoint different
from that of the new Viennese school Mr Magee spoke of, likens it in
his wise and curious way to an avarice of the emotions. He means that
the love so given to one near in blood is covetously withheld from some
stranger who, it may be, hungers for it. Jews, whom christians tax with
avarice, are of all races the most given to intermarriage. Accusations
are made in anger. The christian laws which built up the hoards of the
jews (for whom, as for the lollards, storm was shelter) bound their
affections too with hoops of steel. Whether these be sins or virtues
old Nobodaddy will tell us at doomsday leet. But a man who holds so
tightly to what he calls his rights over what he calls his debts will
hold tightly also to what he calls his rights over her whom he calls
his wife. No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his wife or his
manservant or his maidservant or his jackass.

—Or his jennyass, Buck Mulligan antiphoned.

—Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best said gently.

—Which will? gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan. We are getting mixed.

—The will to live, John Eglinton philosophised, for poor Ann, Will’s
widow, is the will to die.

_—Requiescat!_ Stephen prayed.

     What of all the will to do?
     It has vanished long ago...

—She lies laid out in stark stiffness in that secondbest bed, the
mobled queen, even though you prove that a bed in those days was as
rare as a motorcar is now and that its carvings were the wonder of
seven parishes. In old age she takes up with gospellers (one stayed
with her at New Place and drank a quart of sack the town council paid
for but in which bed he slept it skills not to ask) and heard she had a
soul. She read or had read to her his chapbooks preferring them to the
_Merry Wives_ and, loosing her nightly waters on the jordan, she
thought over _Hooks and Eyes for Believers’ Breeches_ and _The most
Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze_. Venus has
twisted her lips in prayer. Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.
It is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for its god.

—History shows that to be true, _inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos_. The
ages succeed one another. But we have it on high authority that a man’s
worst enemies shall be those of his own house and family. I feel that
Russell is right. What do we care for his wife or father? I should say
that only family poets have family lives. Falstaff was not a family
man. I feel that the fat knight is his supreme creation.

Lean, he lay back. Shy, deny thy kindred, the unco guid. Shy, supping
with the godless, he sneaks the cup. A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it
him. Visits him here on quarter days. Mr Magee, sir, there’s a
gentleman to see you. Me? Says he’s your father, sir. Give me my
Wordsworth. Enter Magee Mor Matthew, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in
strossers with a buttoned codpiece, his nether stocks bemired with
clauber of ten forests, a wand of wilding in his hand.

Your own? He knows your old fellow. The widower.

Hurrying to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the quayside I
touched his hand. The voice, new warmth, speaking. Dr Bob Kenny is
attending her. The eyes that wish me well. But do not know me.

—A father, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is a necessary
evil. He wrote the play in the months that followed his father’s death.
If you hold that he, a greying man with two marriageable daughters,
with thirtyfive years of life, _nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita_,
with fifty of experience, is the beardless undergraduate from
Wittenberg then you must hold that his seventyyear old mother is the
lustful queen. No. The corpse of John Shakespeare does not walk the
night. From hour to hour it rots and rots. He rests, disarmed of
fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate upon his son.
Boccaccio’s Calandrino was the first and last man who felt himself with
child. Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to
man. It is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, from only
begetter to only begotten. On that mystery and not on the madonna which
the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe the church is
founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the world, macro
and microcosm, upon the void. Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood.
_Amor matris_, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true
thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of
any son that any son should love him or he any son?

What the hell are you driving at?

I know. Shut up. Blast you. I have reasons.

_Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea._

Are you condemned to do this?

—They are sundered by a bodily shame so steadfast that the criminal
annals of the world, stained with all other incests and bestialities,
hardly record its breach. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters,
lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak their name, nephews with
grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. The son
unborn mars beauty: born, he brings pain, divides affection, increases
care. He is a new male: his growth is his father’s decline, his youth
his father’s envy, his friend his father’s enemy.

In rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought it.

—What links them in nature? An instant of blind rut.

Am I a father? If I were?

Shrunken uncertain hand.

—Sabellius, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the beasts of the
field, held that the Father was Himself His Own Son. The bulldog of
Aquin, with whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him. Well: if the
father who has not a son be not a father can the son who has not a
father be a son? When Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or another
poet of the same name in the comedy of errors wrote _Hamlet_ he was not
the father of his own son merely but, being no more a son, he was and
felt himself the father of all his race, the father of his own
grandfather, the father of his unborn grandson who, by the same token,
never was born, for nature, as Mr Magee understands her, abhors
perfection.

Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly. Gladly
glancing, a merry puritan, through the twisted eglantine.

Flatter. Rarely. But flatter.

—Himself his own father, Sonmulligan told himself. Wait. I am big with
child. I have an unborn child in my brain. Pallas Athena! A play! The
play’s the thing! Let me parturiate!

He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands.

—As for his family, Stephen said, his mother’s name lives in the forest
of Arden. Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in
_Coriolanus._ His boyson’s death is the deathscene of young Arthur in
_King John._ Hamlet, the black prince, is Hamnet Shakespeare. Who the
girls in _The Tempest_, in _Pericles,_ in _Winter’s Tale_ are we know.
Who Cleopatra, fleshpot of Egypt, and Cressid and Venus are we may
guess. But there is another member of his family who is recorded.

—The plot thickens, John Eglinton said.

The quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, quake, his mask, quake, with
haste, quake, quack.

Door closed. Cell. Day.

They list. Three. They.

I you he they.

Come, mess.

STEPHEN: He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard. Gilbert in
his old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister
Gatherer one time mass he did and he seen his brud Maister Wull the
playwriter up in Lunnon in a wrastling play wud a man on’s back. The
playhouse sausage filled Gilbert’s soul. He is nowhere: but an Edmund
and a Richard are recorded in the works of sweet William.

MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! What’s in a name?

BEST: That is my name, Richard, don’t you know. I hope you are going to
say a good word for Richard, don’t you know, for my sake. _(Laughter)_

BUCKMULLIGAN: (_Piano, diminuendo_)

     Then outspoke medical Dick
     To his comrade medical Davy...

STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the villain shakebags, Iago,
Richard Crookback, Edmund in _King Lear_, two bear the wicked uncles’
names. Nay, that last play was written or being written while his
brother Edmund lay dying in Southwark.

BEST: I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don’t want Richard, my name
...

_(Laughter)_

QUAKERLYSTER: (_A tempo_) But he that filches from me my good name...

STEPHEN: _(Stringendo)_ He has hidden his own name, a fair name,
William, in the plays, a super here, a clown there, as a painter of old
Italy set his face in a dark corner of his canvas. He has revealed it
in the sonnets where there is Will in overplus. Like John o’Gaunt his
name is dear to him, as dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a
bend sable a spear or steeled argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus,
dearer than his glory of greatest shakescene in the country. What’s in
a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the
name that we are told is ours. A star, a daystar, a firedrake, rose at
his birth. It shone by day in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in
the night, and by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the
recumbent constellation which is the signature of his initial among the
stars. His eyes watched it, lowlying on the horizon, eastward of the
bear, as he walked by the slumberous summer fields at midnight
returning from Shottery and from her arms.

Both satisfied. I too.

Don’t tell them he was nine years old when it was quenched.

And from her arms.

Wait to be wooed and won. Ay, meacock. Who will woo you?

Read the skies. _Autontimorumenos. Bous Stephanoumenos._ Where’s your
configuration? Stephen, Stephen, cut the bread even. S. D: _sua donna.
Già: di lui. Gelindo risolve di non amare S. D._

—What is that, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked. Was it a
celestial phenomenon?

—A star by night, Stephen said. A pillar of the cloud by day.

What more’s to speak?

Stephen looked on his hat, his stick, his boots.

_Stephanos,_ my crown. My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of my
feet. Buy a pair. Holes in my socks. Handkerchief too.

—You make good use of the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own name is
strange enough. I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.

Me, Magee and Mulligan.

Fabulous artificer. The hawklike man. You flew. Whereto?
Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Paris and back. Lapwing. Icarus.
_Pater, ait._ Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. Lapwing you are. Lapwing
be.

Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his book to say:

—That’s very interesting because that brother motive, don’t you know,
we find also in the old Irish myths. Just what you say. The three
brothers Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don’t you know, the fairytales. The
third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best
prize.

Best of Best brothers. Good, better, best.

The quaker librarian springhalted near.

—I should like to know, he said, which brother you... I understand you
to suggest there was misconduct with one of the brothers... But perhaps
I am anticipating?

He caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained.

An attendant from the doorway called:

—Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants...

—O, Father Dineen! Directly.

Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly gone.

John Eglinton touched the foil.

—Come, he said. Let us hear what you have to say of Richard and Edmund.
You kept them for the last, didn’t you?

—In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and
nuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps. A
brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

Lapwing.

Where is your brother? Apothecaries’ hall. My whetstone. Him, then
Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They
mock to try you. Act. Be acted on.

Lapwing.

I am tired of my voice, the voice of Esau. My kingdom for a drink.

On.

—You will say those names were already in the chronicles from which he
took the stuff of his plays. Why did he take them rather than others?
Richard, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann
(what’s in a name?), woos and wins her, a whoreson merry widow. Richard
the conqueror, third brother, came after William the conquered. The
other four acts of that play hang limply from that first. Of all his
kings Richard is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare’s reverence,
the angel of the world. Why is the underplot of _King Lear_ in which
Edmund figures lifted out of Sidney’s _Arcadia_ and spatchcocked on to
a Celtic legend older than history?

—That was Will’s way, John Eglinton defended. We should not now combine
a Norse saga with an excerpt from a novel by George Meredith. _Que
voulez-vous?_ Moore would say. He puts Bohemia on the seacoast and
makes Ulysses quote Aristotle.

—Why? Stephen answered himself. Because the theme of the false or the
usurping or the adulterous brother or all three in one is to
Shakespeare, what the poor are not, always with him. The note of
banishment, banishment from the heart, banishment from home, sounds
uninterruptedly from _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_ onward till Prospero
breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the earth and drowns his
book. It doubles itself in the middle of his life, reflects itself in
another, repeats itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe.
It repeats itself again when he is near the grave, when his married
daughter Susan, chip of the old block, is accused of adultery. But it
was the original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will
and left in him a strong inclination to evil. The words are those of my
lords bishops of Maynooth. An original sin and, like original sin,
committed by another in whose sin he too has sinned. It is between the
lines of his last written words, it is petrified on his tombstone under
which her four bones are not to be laid. Age has not withered it.
Beauty and peace have not done it away. It is in infinite variety
everywhere in the world he has created, in _Much Ado about Nothing_,
twice in _As you like It_, in _The Tempest_, in _Hamlet,_ in _Measure
for Measure_—and in all the other plays which I have not read.

He laughed to free his mind from his mind’s bondage.

Judge Eglinton summed up.

—The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost and the prince. He
is all in all.

—He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one is the mature man of act five.
All in all. In _Cymbeline,_ in _Othello_ he is bawd and cuckold. He
acts and is acted on. Lover of an ideal or a perversion, like José 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 _père?)_ 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 _père_ and Hamlet _fils._ A
king and a prince at last in death, with incidental music. And, what
though murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for,
Dane or Dubliner, sorrow for the dead is the only husband from whom
they refuse to be divorced. If you like the epilogue look long on it:
prosperous Prospero, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa’s lump of
love, and nuncle Richie, the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the
place where the bad niggers go. Strong curtain. He found in the world
without as actual what was in his world within as possible. Maeterlinck
says: _If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sage seated
on his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps
will tend._ Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through
ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives,
widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves. The playwright
who wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly (He gave us light
first and the sun two days later), the lord of things as they are whom
the most Roman of catholics call _dio boia_, hangman god, is doubtless
all in all in all of us, ostler and butcher, and would be bawd and
cuckold too but that in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet,
there are no more marriages, glorified man, an androgynous angel, being
a wife unto himself.

_—Eureka!_ Buck Mulligan cried. _Eureka!_

Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton’s
desk.

—May I? he said. The Lord has spoken to Malachi.

He began to scribble on a slip of paper.

Take some slips from the counter going out.

—Those who are married, Mr Best, douce herald, said, all save one,
shall live. The rest shall keep as they are.

He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.

Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they fingerponder nightly each his
variorum edition of _The Taming of the Shrew._

—You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have
brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe
your own theory?

—No, Stephen said promptly.

—Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a
dialogue, don’t you know, like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.

John Eclecticon doubly smiled.

—Well, in that case, he said, I don’t see why you should expect payment
for it since you don’t believe it yourself. Dowden believes there is
some mystery in _Hamlet_ but will say no more. Herr Bleibtreu, the man
Piper met in Berlin, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes
that the secret is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going to
visit the present duke, Piper says, and prove to him that his ancestor
wrote the plays. It will come as a surprise to his grace. But he
believes his theory.

I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is, help me to believe or
help me to unbelieve? Who helps to believe? _Egomen._ Who to unbelieve?
Other chap.

—You are the only contributor to _Dana_ who asks for pieces of silver.
Then I don’t know about the next number. Fred Ryan wants space for an
article on economics.

Fraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me. Tide you over. Economics.

—For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this interview.

Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and then
gravely said, honeying malice:

—I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper
Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the _Summa
contra Gentiles_ in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly
and Rosalie, the coalquay whore.

He broke away.

—Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Ængus of the birds.

Come, Kinch. You have eaten all we left. Ay. I will serve you your orts
and offals.

Stephen rose.

Life is many days. This will end.

—We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. _Notre ami_ Moore says
Malachi Mulligan must be there.

Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.

—Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters to the youth of
Ireland. I’ll be there. Come, Kinch, the bards must drink. Can you walk
straight?

Laughing, he...

Swill till eleven. Irish nights entertainment.

Lubber...

Stephen followed a lubber...

One day in the national library we had a discussion. Shakes. After. His
lub back: I followed. I gall his kibe.

Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a
wellkempt head, newbarbered, out of the vaulted cell into a shattering
daylight of no thought.

What have I learned? Of them? Of me?

Walk like Haines now.

The constant readers’ room. In the readers’ book Cashel Boyle O’Connor
Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Item: was Hamlet
mad? The quaker’s pate godlily with a priesteen in booktalk.

—O please do, sir... I shall be most pleased...

Amused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself,
selfnodding:

—A pleased bottom.

The turnstile.

Is that?... Blueribboned hat... Idly writing... What? Looked?...

The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling:

     John Eglinton, my jo, John,
     Why won’t you wed a wife?

He spluttered to the air:

—O, the chinless Chinaman! Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. We went over to their
playbox, Haines and I, the plumbers’ hall. Our players are creating a
new art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. Abbey Theatre! I
smell the pubic sweat of monks.

He spat blank.

Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him. And
left the _femme de trente ans._ And why no other children born? And his
first child a girl?

Afterwit. Go back.

The dour recluse still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling,
minion of pleasure, Phedo’s toyable fair hair.

Eh... I just eh... wanted... I forgot... he...

—Longworth and M’Curdy Atkinson were there...

Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling:

     I hardly hear the purlieu cry
     Or a Tommy talk as I pass one by
     Before my thoughts begin to run
     On F. M’Curdy Atkinson,
     The same that had the wooden leg
     And that filibustering filibeg
     That never dared to slake his drouth,
     Magee that had the chinless mouth.
     Being afraid to marry on earth
     They masturbated for all they were worth.

Jest on. Know thyself.

Halted, below me, a quizzer looks at me. I halt.

—Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned. Synge has left off wearing
black to be like nature. Only crows, priests and English coal are
black.

A laugh tripped over his lips.

—Longworth is awfully sick, he said, after what you wrote about that
old hake Gregory. O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit! She gets you a
job on the paper and then you go and slate her drivel to Jaysus.
Couldn’t you do the Yeats touch?

He went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms:

—The most beautiful book that has come out of our country in my time.
One thinks of Homer.

He stopped at the stairfoot.

—I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly.

The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined. Gone the nine men’s
morrice with caps of indices.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet:

_Everyman His Own Wife
or
A Honeymoon in the Hand
(a national immorality in three orgasms)
by
Ballocky Mulligan._


He turned a happy patch’s smirk to Stephen, saying:

—The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.

He read, _marcato:_

—Characters:

     TOBY 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. Ængus of the birds. They go, they
come. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men wondered. Street of harlots
after. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see.

—The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown’s awe. Did you
see his eye? He looked upon you to lust after you. I fear thee, ancient
mariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril. Get thee a breechpad.

Manner of Oxenford.

Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.

A dark back went before them, step of a pard, down, out by the gateway,
under portcullis barbs.

They followed.

Offend me still. Speak on.

Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street. No birds.
Frail from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and in
a flaw of softness softly were blown.

Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic:
from wide earth an altar.

            Laud we the gods
     And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
     From our bless’d altars.




[ 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?

O, lest he forget. That letter to father provincial.

Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy
square. Yes: they were from Belvedere. The little house. Aha. And were
they good boys at school? O. That was very good now. And what was his
name? Jack Sohan. And his name? Ger. Gallaher. And the other little
man? His name was Brunny Lynam. O, that was a very nice name to have.

Father Conmee gave a letter from his breast to Master Brunny Lynam and
pointed to the red pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon street.

—But mind you don’t post yourself into the box, little man, he said.

The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed:

—O, sir.

—Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Conmee said.

Master Brunny Lynam ran across the road and put Father Conmee’s letter
to father provincial into the mouth of the bright red letterbox. Father
Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoy square
east.

Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, in silk hat, slate
frockcoat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender
trousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking with grave
deportment most respectfully took the curbstone as he passed lady
Maxwell at the corner of Dignam’s court.

Was that not Mrs M’Guinness?

Mrs M’Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee from the
farther footpath along which she sailed. And Father Conmee smiled and
saluted. How did she do?

A fine carriage she had. Like Mary, queen of Scots, something. And to
think that she was a pawnbroker! Well, now! Such a... what should he
say?... such a queenly mien.

Father Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced at the
shutup free church on his left. The reverend T. R. Greene B.A. will
(D.V.) speak. The incumbent they called him. He felt it incumbent on
him to say a few words. But one should be charitable. Invincible
ignorance. They acted according to their lights.

Father Conmee turned the corner and walked along the North Circular
road. It was a wonder that there was not a tramline in such an
important thoroughfare. Surely, there ought to be.

A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street. All
raised untidy caps. Father Conmee greeted them more than once benignly.
Christian brother boys.

Father Conmee smelt incense on his right hand as he walked. Saint
Joseph’s church, Portland row. For aged and virtuous females. Father
Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament. Virtuous: but
occasionally they were also badtempered.

Near Aldborough house Father Conmee thought of that spendthrift
nobleman. And now it was an office or something.

Father Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and was saluted
by Mr William Gallagher who stood in the doorway of his shop. Father
Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came
from baconflitches and ample cools of butter. He passed Grogan’s the
Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a dreadful
catastrophe in New York. In America those things were continually
happening. Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared. Still, an
act of perfect contrition.

Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin’s publichouse against the window of
which two unlabouring men lounged. They saluted him and were saluted.

Father Conmee passed H. J. O’Neill’s funeral establishment where Corny
Kelleher totted figures in the daybook while he chewed a blade of hay.
A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and Father Conmee saluted
the constable. In Youkstetter’s, the porkbutcher’s, Father Conmee
observed pig’s puddings, white and black and red, lie neatly curled in
tubes.

Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw a
turfbarge, a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with a hat of dirty
straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar above
him. It was idyllic: and Father Conmee reflected on the providence of
the Creator who had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig it out
and bring it to town and hamlet to make fires in the houses of poor
people.

On Newcomen bridge the very reverend John Conmee S. J. of saint Francis
Xavier’s church, upper Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward bound
tram.

Off an inward bound tram stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley C. C. of
saint Agatha’s church, north William street, on to Newcomen bridge.

At Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound tram for
he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island.

Father Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked with
care in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a
sixpence and five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalm into
his purse. Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket
inspector usually made his visit when one had carelessly thrown away
the ticket. The solemnity of the occupants of the car seemed to Father
Conmee excessive for a journey so short and cheap. Father Conmee liked
cheerful decorum.

It was a peaceful day. The gentleman with the glasses opposite Father
Conmee had finished explaining and looked down. His wife, Father Conmee
supposed. A tiny yawn opened the mouth of the wife of the gentleman
with the glasses. She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so
gently, tiptapping her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and
smiled tinily, sweetly.

Father Conmee perceived her perfume in the car. He perceived also that
the awkward man at the other side of her was sitting on the edge of the
seat.

Father Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the
mouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head.

At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an old
woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The conductor pulled the
bellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with her basket and a
marketnet: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and
basket down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed
the end of the penny fare, she was one of those good souls who had
always to be told twice _bless you, my child,_ that they have been
absolved, _pray for me._ But they had so many worries in life, so many
cares, poor creatures.

From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at
Father Conmee.

Father Conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow men
and of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S. J. and the African mission
and of the propagation of the faith and of the millions of black and
brown and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when
their last hour came like a thief in the night. That book by the
Belgian jesuit, _Le Nombre des Élus,_ seemed to Father Conmee a
reasonable plea. Those were millions of human souls created by God in
His Own likeness to whom the faith had not (D.V.) been brought. But
they were God’s souls, created by God. It seemed to Father Conmee a
pity that they should all be lost, a waste, if one might say.

At the Howth road stop Father Conmee alighted, was saluted by the
conductor and saluted in his turn.

The Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Conmee, road and name.
The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de Malahide,
immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the seas adjoining.
Then came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and widow in one day.
Those were old worldish days, loyal times in joyous townlands, old
times in the barony.

Father Conmee, walking, thought of his little book _Old Times in the
Barony_ and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and
of Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of
Belvedere.

A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel,
Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening,
not startled when an otter plunged. Who could know the truth? Not the
jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had not committed
adultery fully, _eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris,_ with
her husband’s brother? She would half confess if she had not all sinned
as women did. Only God knew and she and he, her husband’s brother.

Father Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed however
for man’s race on earth, and of the ways of God which were not our
ways.

Don John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore. He was humane and
honoured there. He bore in mind secrets confessed and he smiled at
smiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with full fruit
clusters. And the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom, noble to noble,
were impalmed by Don John Conmee.

It was a charming day.

The lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of cabbages,
curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of
small white clouds going slowly down the wind. _Moutonner,_ the French
said. A just and homely word.

Father Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning clouds
over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the stubble of
Clongowes field. He walked there, reading in the evening, and heard the
cries of the boys’ lines at their play, young cries in the quiet
evening. He was their rector: his reign was mild.

Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out.
An ivory bookmark told him the page.

Nones. He should have read that before lunch. But lady Maxwell had
come.

Father Conmee read in secret _Pater_ and _Ave_ and crossed his breast.
_Deus in adiutorium._

He walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till he
came to _Res_ in _Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum veritas:
in eternum omnia iudicia iustitiæ tuæ._

A flushed young man came from a gap of a hedge and after him came a
young woman with wild nodding daisies in her hand. The young man raised
his cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent and with slow care
detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.

Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his
breviary. _Sin: Principes persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis
formidavit cor meum._

*    *    *


Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced with his drooping
eye at a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. He pulled himself erect,
went to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass
furnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by and came
to the doorway. There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes
and leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out.

Father John Conmee stepped into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge.

Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his hat
downtilted, chewing his blade of hay.

Constable 57C, on his beat, stood to pass the time of day.

—That’s a fine day, Mr Kelleher.

—Ay, Corny Kelleher said.

—It’s very close, the constable said.

Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his mouth
while a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a
coin.

—What’s the best news? he asked.

—I seen that particular party last evening, the constable said with
bated breath.

*    *    *


A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell’s corner, skirting
Rabaiotti’s icecream car, and jerked himself up Eccles street. Towards
Larry O’Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he growled unamiably:

—_For England_...

He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted
and growled:

—_home and beauty._

J. J. O’Molloy’s white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was in
the warehouse with a visitor.

A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and dropped it
into the cap held out to her. The sailor grumbled thanks, glanced
sourly at the unheeding windows, sank his head and swung himself
forward four strides.

He halted and growled angrily:

—_For England_...

Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near him,
gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.

He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head
towards a window and bayed deeply:

—_home and beauty._

The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased.
The blind of the window was drawn aside. A card _Unfurnished
Apartments_ slipped from the sash and fell. A plump bare generous arm
shone, was seen, held forth from a white petticoatbodice and taut
shiftstraps. A woman’s hand flung forth a coin over the area railings.
It fell on the path.

One of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the
minstrel’s cap, saying:

—There, sir.

*    *    *


Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the closesteaming
kitchen.

—Did you put in the books? Boody asked.

Maggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds
twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.

—They wouldn’t give anything on them, she said.

Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles
tickled by stubble.

—Where did you try? Boody asked.

—M’Guinness’s.

Boody stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table.

—Bad cess to her big face! she cried.

Katey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes.

—What’s in the pot? she asked.

—Shirts, Maggy said.

Boody cried angrily:

—Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

Katey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked:

—And what’s in this?

A heavy fume gushed in answer.

—Peasoup, Maggy said.

—Where did you get it? Katey asked.

—Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said.

The lacquey rang his bell.

—Barang!

Boody sat down at the table and said hungrily:

—Give us it here.

Maggy poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katey,
sitting opposite Boody, said quietly, as her fingertip lifted to her
mouth random crumbs:

—A good job we have that much. Where’s Dilly?

—Gone to meet father, Maggy said.

Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added:

—Our father who art not in heaven.

Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey’s bowl, exclaimed:

—Boody! For shame!

A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the
Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed
around the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls and anchorchains,
between the Customhouse old dock and George’s quay.

*    *    *


The blond girl in Thornton’s bedded the wicker basket with rustling
fibre. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper
and a small jar.

—Put these in first, will you? he said.

—Yes, sir, the blond girl said. And the fruit on top.

—That’ll do, game ball, Blazes Boylan said.

She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe
shamefaced peaches.

Blazes Boylan walked here and there in new tan shoes about the
fruitsmelling shop, lifting fruits, young juicy crinkled and plump red
tomatoes, sniffing smells.

H. E. L. Y.’S filed before him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane,
plodding towards their goal.

He turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from
his fob and held it at its chain’s length.

—Can you send them by tram? Now?

A darkbacked figure under Merchants’ arch scanned books on the hawker’s
cart.

—Certainly, sir. Is it in the city?

—O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes.

The blond girl handed him a docket and pencil.

—Will you write the address, sir?

Blazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her.

—Send it at once, will you? he said. It’s for an invalid.

—Yes, sir. I will, sir.

Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers’ pocket.

—What’s the damage? he asked.

The blond girl’s slim fingers reckoned the fruits.

Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet. He
took a red carnation from the tall stemglass.

—This for me? he asked gallantly.

The blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie
a bit crooked, blushing.

—Yes, sir, she said.

Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.

Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the
red flower between his smiling teeth.

—May I say a word to your telephone, missy? he asked roguishly.

*    *    *


_—Ma!_ Almidano Artifoni said.

He gazed over Stephen’s shoulder at Goldsmith’s knobby poll.

Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore,
gripping the handrests. Palefaces. Men’s arms frankly round their
stunted forms. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of
the bank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed.

—_Anch’io ho avuto di queste idee_, Almidano Artifoni said, _quand’ ero
giovine come Lei. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo è una bestia. È
peccato. Perchè 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 rifletterò,_ Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg.

—_Ma, sul serio, eh?_ Almidano Artifoni said.

His heavy hand took Stephen’s firmly. Human eyes. They gazed curiously
an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.

_—Eccolo,_ Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. _Venga a trovarmi
e ci pensi. Addio, caro._

—_Arrivederla, maestro,_ Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand
was freed. _E grazie._

—_Di che?_ Almidano Artifoni said. _Scusi, eh? Tante belle cose!_

Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal,
trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. In vain he trotted,
signalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling
implements of music through Trinity gates.

*    *    *


Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of _The Woman in White_
far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her
typewriter.

Too much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion?
Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.

The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them:
six.

Miss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:

—16 June 1904.

Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny’s corner and the slab
where Wolfe Tone’s statue was not, eeled themselves turning H. E. L.
Y.’S and plodded back as they had come.

Then she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming
soubrette, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jotter sixteens
and capital esses. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She’s not
nicelooking, is she? The way she’s holding up her bit of a skirt.
Wonder will that fellow be at the band tonight. If I could get that
dressmaker to make a concertina skirt like Susy Nagle’s. They kick out
grand. Shannon and all the boatclub swells never took his eyes off her.
Hope to goodness he won’t keep me here till seven.

The telephone rang rudely by her ear.

—Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll ring them up after five. Only
those two, sir, for Belfast and Liverpool. All right, sir. Then I can
go after six if you’re not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir. Twentyseven
and six. I’ll tell him. Yes: one, seven, six.

She scribbled three figures on an envelope.

—Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from _Sport_ was in looking for you.
Mr Lenehan, yes. He said he’ll be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes,
sir. I’ll ring them up after five.

*    *    *


Two pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch.

—Who’s that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty?

—Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold.

—Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his
pliant lath among the flickering arches. Come on. Mind your steps
there.

The vesta in the clergyman’s uplifted hand consumed itself in a long
soft flame and was let fall. At their feet its red speck died: and
mouldy air closed round them.

—How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom.

—Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic
council chamber of saint Mary’s abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed
himself a rebel in 1534. This is the most historic spot in all Dublin.
O’Madden Burke is going to write something about it one of these days.
The old bank of Ireland was over the way till the time of the union and
the original jews’ temple was here too before they built their
synagogue over in Adelaide road. You were never here before, Jack, were
you?

—No, Ned.

—He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, if my memory
serves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court.

—That’s right, Ned Lambert said. That’s quite right, sir.

—If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to
allow me perhaps...

—Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring the camera whenever you like. I’ll
get those bags cleared away from the windows. You can take it from here
or from here.

In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the
piled seedbags and points of vantage on the floor.

From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.

—I’m deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won’t trespass
on your valuable time...

—You’re welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next
week, say. Can you see?

—Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met you.

—Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.

He followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away
among the pillars. With J. J. O’Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary’s
abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut
meal, O’Connor, Wexford.

He stood to read the card in his hand.

—The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Present address: Saint
Michael’s, Sallins. Nice young chap he is. He’s writing a book about
the Fitzgeralds he told me. He’s well up in history, faith.

The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging
twig.

—I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O’Molloy said.

Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.

—God! he cried. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare
after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? _I’m bloody
sorry I did it,_ says he, _but I declare to God I thought the
archbishop was inside._ He mightn’t like it, though. What? God, I’ll
tell him anyhow. That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot
members they were all of them, the Geraldines.

The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He
slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:

—Woa, sonny!

He turned to J. J. O’Molloy and asked:

—Well, Jack. What is it? What’s the trouble? Wait awhile. Hold hard.

With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an
instant, sneezed loudly.

—Chow! he said. Blast you!

—The dust from those sacks, J. J. O’Molloy said politely.

—No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a... cold night before... blast your
soul... night before last... and there was a hell of a lot of
draught...

He held his handkerchief ready for the coming...

—I was... Glasnevin this morning... poor little... what do you call
him... Chow!... Mother of Moses!

*    *    *


Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his
claret waistcoat.

—See? he said. Say it’s turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.

He slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove,
wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: six.

Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the
consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying
the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the
admiralty division of king’s bench to the court of appeal an elderly
female with false teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirt of
great amplitude.

—See? he said. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over.
The impact. Leverage, see?

He showed them the rising column of disks on the right.

—Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in late
can see what turn is on and what turns are over.

—See? Tom Rochford said.

He slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle,
stop: four. Turn Now On.

—I’ll see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and sound him. One good
turn deserves another.

—Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I’m Boylan with impatience.

—Goodnight, M’Coy said abruptly. When you two begin...

Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.

—But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked.

—Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later.

He followed M’Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.

—He’s a hero, he said simply.

—I know, M’Coy said. The drain, you mean.

—Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole.

They passed Dan Lowry’s musichall where Marie Kendall, charming
soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.

Going down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall
Lenehan showed M’Coy how the whole thing was. One of those manholes
like a bloody gaspipe and there was the poor devil stuck down in it,
half choked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky’s vest
and all, with the rope round him. And be damned but he got the rope
round the poor devil and the two were hauled up.

—The act of a hero, he said.

At the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past
them for Jervis street.

—This way, he said, walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam’s to
see Sceptre’s starting price. What’s the time by your gold watch and
chain?

M’Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses’ sombre office, then at
O’Neill’s clock.

—After three, he said. Who’s riding her?

—O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is.

While he waited in Temple bar M’Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle
pushes of his toe from the path to the gutter. Fellow might damn easy
get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.

The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal
cavalcade.

—Even money, Lenehan said returning. I knocked against Bantam Lyons in
there going to back a bloody horse someone gave him that hasn’t an
earthly. Through here.

They went up the steps and under Merchants’ arch. A darkbacked figure
scanned books on the hawker’s cart.

—There he is, Lenehan said.

—Wonder what he’s buying, M’Coy said, glancing behind.

—_Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye,_ Lenehan said.

—He’s dead nuts on sales, M’Coy said. I was with him one day and he
bought a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob. There were
fine plates in it worth double the money, the stars and the moon and
comets with long tails. Astronomy it was about.

Lenehan laughed.

—I’ll tell you a damn good one about comets’ tails, he said. Come over
in the sun.

They crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the
riverwall.

Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan’s, late Fehrenbach’s,
carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.

—There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said
eagerly. The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord
mayor was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan
Dawson spoke and there was music. Bartell d’Arcy sang and Benjamin
Dollard...

—I know, M’Coy broke in. My missus sang there once.

—Did she? Lenehan said.

A card _Unfurnished Apartments_ reappeared on the windowsash of number
7 Eccles street.

He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.

—But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the
catering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife
were there. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and
curacoa to which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After
liquids came solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies...

—I know, M’Coy said. The year the missus was there...

Lenehan linked his arm warmly.

—But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after
all the jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o’clock the
morning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter’s
night on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one
side of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We started
singing glees and duets: _Lo, the early beam of morning_. She was well
primed with a good load of Delahunt’s port under her bellyband. Every
jolt the bloody car gave I had her bumping up against me. Hell’s
delights! She has a fine pair, God bless her. Like that.

He held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning:

—I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the time.
Know what I mean?

His hands moulded ample curves of air. He shut his eyes tight in
delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips.

—The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She’s a gamey
mare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the
comets in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the great bear
and Hercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I
was lost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At
last she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. _And what star is that,
Poldy?_ says she. By God, she had Bloom cornered. _That one, is it?_
says Chris Callinan, _sure that’s only what you might call a pinprick._
By God, he wasn’t far wide of the mark.

Lenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft
laughter.

—I’m weak, he gasped.

M’Coy’s white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave. Lenehan
walked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead
rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M’Coy.

—He’s a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He’s not one
of your common or garden... you know... There’s a touch of the artist
about old Bloom.

*    *    *


Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of _The Awful Disclosures of Maria
Monk_, then of Aristotle’s _Masterpiece._ Crooked botched print.
Plates: infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of
slaughtered cows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the
world. All butting with their skulls to get out of it. Child born every
minute somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.

He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: _Tales of the
Ghetto_ by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.

—That I had, he said, pushing it by.

The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.

—Them are two good ones, he said.

Onions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined mouth.
He bent to make a bundle of the other books, hugged them against his
unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain.

On O’Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay
apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c.

Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. _Fair Tyrants_ by James
Lovebirch. Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.

He opened it. Thought so.

A woman’s voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: the man.

No: she wouldn’t like that much. Got her it once.

He read the other title: _Sweets of Sin_. More in her line. Let us see.

He read where his finger opened.

_—All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on
wondrous gowns and costliest frillies. For him! For Raoul!_

Yes. This. Here. Try.

—_Her mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands
felt for the opulent curves inside her déshabillé._

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! Crished! Sulphur dung of lions!

Young! Young!

An elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts of
chancery, king’s bench, exchequer and common pleas, having heard in the
lord chancellor’s court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the
admiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the
Lady Cairns versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court of
appeal reservation of judgment in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean
Accident and Guarantee Corporation.

Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy
curtains. The shopman’s uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven
reddened face, coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on
the floor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along
it, and bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.

Mr Bloom beheld it.

Mastering his troubled breath, he said:

—I’ll take this one.

The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum.

—_Sweets of Sin,_ he said, tapping on it. That’s a good one.

*    *    *


The lacquey by the door of Dillon’s auctionrooms shook his handbell
twice again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet.

Dilly Dedalus, loitering by the curbstone, heard the beats of the bell,
the cries of the auctioneer within. Four and nine. Those lovely
curtains. Five shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling new at two guineas.
Any advance on five shillings? Going for five shillings.

The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it:

—Barang!

Bang of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint.
J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their stretched
necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College library.

Mr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, came round from Williams’s row.
He halted near his daughter.

—It’s time for you, she said.

—Stand up straight for the love of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus said. Are
you trying to imitate your uncle John, the cornetplayer, head upon
shoulder? Melancholy God!

Dilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and
held them back.

—Stand up straight, girl, he said. You’ll get curvature of the spine.
Do you know what you look like?

He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his shoulders
and dropping his underjaw.

—Give it up, father, Dilly said. All the people are looking at you.

Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache.

—Did you get any money? Dilly asked.

—Where would I get money? Mr Dedalus said. There is no-one in Dublin
would lend me fourpence.

—You got some, Dilly said, looking in his eyes.

—How do you know that? Mr Dedalus asked, his tongue in his cheek.

Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked, walked boldly along
James’s street.

—I know you did, Dilly answered. Were you in the Scotch house now?

—I was not, then, Mr Dedalus said, smiling. Was it the little nuns
taught you to be so saucy? Here.

He handed her a shilling.

—See if you can do anything with that, he said.

—I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give me more than that.

—Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said threateningly. You’re like the rest of
them, are you? An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor
mother died. But wait awhile. You’ll all get a short shrift and a long
day from me. Low blackguardism! I’m going to get rid of you. Wouldn’t
care if I was stretched out stiff. He’s dead. The man upstairs is dead.

He left her and walked on. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat.

—Well, what is it? he said, stopping.

The lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.

—Barang!

—Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him.

The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his bell
but feebly:

—Bang!

Mr Dedalus stared at him.

—Watch him, he said. It’s instructive. I wonder will he allow us to
talk.

—You got more than that, father, Dilly said.

—I’m going to show you a little trick, Mr Dedalus said. I’ll leave you
all where Jesus left the jews. Look, there’s all I have. I got two
shillings from Jack Power and I spent twopence for a shave for the
funeral.

He drew forth a handful of copper coins, nervously.

—Can’t you look for some money somewhere? Dilly said.

Mr Dedalus thought and nodded.

—I will, he said gravely. I looked all along the gutter in O’Connell
street. I’ll try this one now.

—You’re very funny, Dilly said, grinning.

—Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies. Get a glass of milk
for yourself and a bun or a something. I’ll be home shortly.

He put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on.

The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out of
Parkgate.

—I’m sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.

The lacquey banged loudly.

Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a pursing
mincing mouth gently:

—The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they wouldn’t do
anything! O, sure they wouldn’t really! Is it little sister Monica!

*    *    *


From the sundial towards James’s gate walked Mr Kernan, pleased with
the order he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James’s
street, past Shackleton’s offices. Got round him all right. How do you
do, Mr Crimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be up in your
other establishment in Pimlico. How are things going? Just keeping
alive. Lovely weather we’re having. Yes, indeed. Good for the country.
Those farmers are always grumbling. I’ll just take a thimbleful of your
best gin, Mr Crimmins. A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible affair that
_General Slocum_ explosion. Terrible, terrible! A thousand casualties.
And heartrending scenes. Men trampling down women and children. Most
brutal thing. What do they say was the cause? Spontaneous combustion.
Most scandalous revelation. Not a single lifeboat would float and the
firehose all burst. What I can’t understand is how the inspectors ever
allowed a boat like that... Now, you’re talking straight, Mr Crimmins.
You know why? Palm oil. Is that a fact? Without a doubt. Well now, look
at that. And America they say is the land of the free. I thought we
were bad here.

I smiled at him. _America,_ I said quietly, just like that. _What is
it? The sweepings of every country including our own. Isn’t that true?_
That’s a fact.

Graft, my dear sir. Well, of course, where there’s money going there’s
always someone to pick it up.

Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress does it. Nothing like a dressy
appearance. Bowls them over.

—Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?

—Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter
Kennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson
street. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Never built
under three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some Kildare street
club toff had it probably. John Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernian
bank, gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he
remembered me.

Aham! Must dress the character for those fellows. Knight of the road.
Gentleman. And now, Mr Crimmins, may we have the honour of your custom
again, sir. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as the old saying
has it.

North wall and sir John Rogerson’s quay, with hulls and anchorchains,
sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on
the ferrywash, Elijah is coming.

Mr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image. High colour, of course.
Grizzled moustache. Returned Indian officer. Bravely he bore his stumpy
body forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Is that Ned
Lambert’s brother over the way, Sam? What? Yes. He’s as like it as damn
it. No. The windscreen of that motorcar in the sun there. Just a flash
like that. Damn like him.

Aham! Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath.
Good drop of gin, that was. His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to
his fat strut.

Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Greasy black rope.
Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant’s wife
drove by in her noddy.

Bad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with. Great topers too.
Fourbottle men.

Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michan’s? Or no, there was a midnight
burial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through a secret door in the
wall. Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well. Better turn
down here. Make a detour.

Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling street by the
corner of Guinness’s visitors’ waitingroom. Outside the Dublin
Distillers Company’s stores an outside car without fare or jarvey
stood, the reins knotted to the wheel. Damn dangerous thing. Some
Tipperary bosthoon endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway
horse.

Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John
Henry Menton’s office, led his wife over O’Connell bridge, bound for
the office of Messrs Collis and Ward.

Mr Kernan approached Island street.

Times of the troubles. Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those
reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. When you look back on it all now
in a kind of retrospective arrangement. Gaming at Daly’s. No
cardsharping then. One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the
table by a dagger. Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from
major Sirr. Stables behind Moira house.

Damn good gin that was.

Fine dashing young nobleman. Good stock, of course. That ruffian, that
sham squire, with his violet gloves gave him away. Course they were on
the wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days. Fine poem that is:
Ingram. They were gentlemen. Ben Dollard does sing that ballad
touchingly. Masterly rendition.

_At the siege of Ross did my father fall._

A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping,
leaping in their, in their saddles. Frockcoats. Cream sunshades.

Mr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily.

His Excellency! Too bad! Just missed that by a hair. Damn it! What a
pity!

*    *    *


Stephen Dedalus watched through the webbed window the lapidary’s
fingers prove a timedulled chain. Dust webbed the window and the
showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails.
Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on
rubies, leprous and winedark stones.

Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights
shining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of
their brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest
them.

She dances in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. A sailorman,
rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. A long and seafed
silent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her
hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.

Old Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned
it and held it at the point of his Moses’ beard. Grandfather ape
gloating on a stolen hoard.

And you who wrest old images from the burial earth? The brainsick words
of sophists: Antisthenes. A lore of drugs. Orient and immortal wheat
standing from everlasting to everlasting.

Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged through
Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a sanded tired umbrella,
one with a midwife’s bag in which eleven cockles rolled.

The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the
powerhouse urged Stephen to be on. Beingless beings. Stop! Throb always
without you and the throb always within. Your heart you sing of. I
between them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I.
Shatter them, one and both. But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter me
you who can. Bawd and butcher were the words. I say! Not yet awhile. A
look around.

Yes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. You
say right, sir. A Monday morning, ’twas so, indeed.

Stephen went down Bedford row, the handle of the ash clacking against
his shoulderblade. In Clohissey’s window a faded 1860 print of Heenan
boxing Sayers held his eye. Staring backers with square hats stood
round the roped prizering. The heavyweights in tight loincloths
proposed gently each to other his bulbous fists. And they are
throbbing: heroes’ hearts.

He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.

—Twopence each, the huckster said. Four for sixpence.

Tattered pages. _The Irish Beekeeper. Life and Miracles of the Curé of
Ars. Pocket Guide to Killarney._

I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. _Stephano Dedalo,
alumno optimo, palmam ferenti._

Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the hamlet
of Donnycarney, murmuring vespers.

Binding too good probably. What is this? Eighth and ninth book of
Moses. Secret of all secrets. Seal of King David. Thumbed pages: read
and read. Who has passed here before me? How to soften chapped hands.
Recipe for white wine vinegar. How to win a woman’s love. For me this.
Say the following talisman three times with hands folded:

—_Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! Amor me solo! Sanktus! Amen._

Who wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most blessed abbot Peter
Salanka to all true believers divulged. As good as any other abbot’s
charms, as mumbling Joachim’s. Down, baldynoddle, or we’ll wool your
wool.

—What are you doing here, Stephen?

Dilly’s high shoulders and shabby dress.

Shut the book quick. Don’t let see.

—What are you doing? Stephen said.

A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. It
glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. I told her
of Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a
pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly’s token. _Nebrakada femininum._

—What have you there? Stephen asked.

—I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing
nervously. Is it any good?

My eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? Quick, far and daring.
Shadow of my mind.

He took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal’s French primer.

—What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French?

She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips.

Show no surprise. Quite natural.

—Here, Stephen said. It’s all right. Mind Maggy doesn’t pawn it on you.
I suppose all my books are gone.

—Some, Dilly said. We had to.

She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will
drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me,
my heart, my soul. Salt green death.

We.

Agenbite of inwit. Inwit’s agenbite.

Misery! Misery!

*    *    *


—Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?

—Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter’s. Father Cowley
brushed his moustache often downward with a scooping hand.

—What’s the best news? Mr Dedalus said.

—Why then not much, Father Cowley said. I’m barricaded up, Simon, with
two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance.

—Jolly, Mr Dedalus said. Who is it?

—O, Father Cowley said. A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance.

—With a broken back, is it? Mr Dedalus asked.

—The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben of that ilk. I’m just
waiting for Ben Dollard. He’s going to say a word to long John to get
him to take those two men off. All I want is a little time.

He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in
his neck.

—I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He’s always
doing a good turn for someone. Hold hard!

He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.

—There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.

Ben Dollard’s loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops
crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came towards
them at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails.

As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted:

—Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.

—Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.

Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben
Dollard’s figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he
muttered sneeringly:

—That’s a pretty garment, isn’t it, for a summer’s day?

—Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I
threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.

He stood beside them beaming, on them first and on his roomy clothes
from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying:

—They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow.

—Bad luck to the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be to
God he’s not paid yet.

—And how is that _basso profondo_, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked.

Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring,
glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club.

Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter’s mouth, gave forth
a deep note.

—Aw! he said.

—That’s the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone.

—What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty? What?

He turned to both.

—That’ll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also.

The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old chapterhouse of saint
Mary’s abbey past James and Charles Kennedy’s, rectifiers, attended by
Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of
hurdles.

Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them forward,
his joyful fingers in the air.

—Come along with me to the subsheriff’s office, he said. I want to show
you the new beauty Rock has for a bailiff. He’s a cross between
Lobengula and Lynchehaun. He’s well worth seeing, mind you. Come along.
I saw John Henry Menton casually in the Bodega just now and it will
cost me a fall if I don’t... Wait awhile... We’re on the right lay,
Bob, believe you me.

—For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said anxiously.

Ben Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a dangling button
of his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he wiped away the
heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright.

—What few days? he boomed. Hasn’t your landlord distrained for rent?

—He has, Father Cowley said.

—Then our friend’s writ is not worth the paper it’s printed on, Ben
Dollard said. The landlord has the prior claim. I gave him all the
particulars. 29 Windsor avenue. Love is the name?

—That’s right, Father Cowley said. The reverend Mr Love. He’s a
minister in the country somewhere. But are you sure of that?

—You can tell Barabbas from me, Ben Dollard said, that he can put that
writ where Jacko put the nuts.

He led Father Cowley boldly forward, linked to his bulk.

—Filberts I believe they were, Mr Dedalus said, as he dropped his
glasses on his coatfront, following them.

*    *    *


—The youngster will be all right, Martin Cunningham said, as they
passed out of the Castleyard gate.

The policeman touched his forehead.

—God bless you, Martin Cunningham said, cheerily.

He signed to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the reins and set on
towards Lord Edward street.

Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy’s head by Miss Douce’s head, appeared
above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel.

—Yes, Martin Cunningham said, fingering his beard. I wrote to Father
Conmee and laid the whole case before him.

—You could try our friend, Mr Power suggested backward.

—Boyd? Martin Cunningham said shortly. Touch me not.

John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them
quickly down Cork hill.

On the steps of the City hall Councillor Nannetti, descending, hailed
Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending.

The castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street.

—Look here, Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them at the _Mail_
office. I see Bloom put his name down for five shillings.

—Quite right, Martin Cunningham said, taking the list. And put down the
five shillings too.

—Without a second word either, Mr Power said.

—Strange but true, Martin Cunningham added.

John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.

—I’ll say there is much kindness in the jew, he quoted, elegantly.

They went down Parliament street.

—There’s Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said, just heading for Kavanagh’s.

—Righto, Martin Cunningham said. Here goes.

Outside _la Maison Claire_ Blazes Boylan waylaid Jack Mooney’s
brother-in-law, humpy, tight, making for the liberties.

John Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power, while Martin Cunningham took
the elbow of a dapper little man in a shower of hail suit, who walked
uncertainly, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson’s watches.

—The assistant town clerk’s corns are giving him some trouble, John
Wyse Nolan told Mr Power.

They followed round the corner towards James Kavanagh’s winerooms. The
empty castle car fronted them at rest in Essex gate. Martin Cunningham,
speaking always, showed often the list at which Jimmy Henry did not
glance.

—And long John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, as large as
life.

The tall form of long John Fanning filled the doorway where he stood.

—Good day, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said, as all halted and
greeted.

Long John Fanning made no way for them. He removed his large Henry Clay
decisively and his large fierce eyes scowled intelligently over all
their faces.

—Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations? he
said with rich acrid utterance to the assistant town clerk.

Hell open to christians they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly,
about their damned Irish language. Where was the marshal, he wanted to
know, to keep order in the council chamber. And old Barlow the
macebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in order,
no quorum even, and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little
Lorcan Sherlock doing _locum tenens_ for him. Damned Irish language,
language of our forefathers.

Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips.

Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his beard, to
the assistant town clerk and the subsheriff, while John Wyse Nolan held
his peace.

—What Dignam was that? long John Fanning asked.

Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot.

—O, my corns! he said plaintively. Come upstairs for goodness’ sake
till I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!

Testily he made room for himself beside long John Fanning’s flank and
passed in and up the stairs.

—Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff. I don’t think
you knew him or perhaps you did, though.

With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.

—Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said to the stalwart back of long
John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning in the mirror.

—Rather lowsized. Dignam of Menton’s office that was, Martin Cunningham
said.

Long John Fanning could not remember him.

Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.

—What’s that? Martin Cunningham said.

All turned where they stood. John Wyse Nolan came down again. From the
cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street,
harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. Gaily they went
past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of the
leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders.

—What was it? Martin Cunningham asked, as they went on up the
staircase.

—The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse
Nolan answered from the stairfoot.

*    *    *


As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his
Panama to Haines:

—Parnell’s brother. There in the corner.

They chose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man
whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard.

—Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.

—Yes, Mulligan said. That’s John Howard, his brother, our city marshal.

John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey claw
went up again to his forehead whereat it rested. An instant after,
under its screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at his foe and
fell once more upon a working corner.

—I’ll take a _mélange,_ Haines said to the waitress.

—Two _mélanges,_ 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 Ængus I call him.

—I am sure he has an _idée fixe,_ Haines said, pinching his chin
thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I am speculating what it
would be likely to be. Such persons always have.

Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.

—They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell. He will never
capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white
death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet.
The joy of creation...

—Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled him
this morning on belief. There was something on his mind, I saw. It’s
rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an
interesting point out of that.

Buck Mulligan’s watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to
unload her tray.

—He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said, amid
the cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny,
of retribution. Rather strange he should have just that fixed idea.
Does he write anything for your movement?

He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream.
Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over
its smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.

—Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write
something in ten years.

—Seems a long way off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon.
Still, I shouldn’t wonder if he did after all.

He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.

—This is real Irish cream I take it, he said with forbearance. I don’t
want to be imposed on.

Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by flanks of
ships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping
street past Benson’s ferry, and by the threemasted schooner _Rosevean_
from Bridgwater with bricks.

*    *    *


Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street, past Sewell’s yard. Behind
him Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, with
stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith’s
house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square. Distantly behind him
a blind stripling tapped his way by the wall of College park.

Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as Mr
Lewis Werner’s cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along
Merrion square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.

At the corner of Wilde’s house he halted, frowned at Elijah’s name
announced on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at the distant pleasance of
duke’s lawn. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. With ratsteeth
bared he muttered:

—_Coactus volui._

He strode on for Clare street, grinding his fierce word.

As he strode past Mr Bloom’s dental windows the sway of his dustcoat
brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept onwards,
having buffeted a thewless body. The blind stripling turned his sickly
face after the striding form.

—God’s curse on you, he said sourly, whoever you are! You’re blinder
nor I am, you bitch’s bastard!

*    *    *


Opposite Ruggy O’Donohoe’s Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the
pound and a half of Mangan’s, late Fehrenbach’s, porksteaks he had been
sent for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling. It was too blooming
dull sitting in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and Mrs
MacDowell and the blind down and they all at their sniffles and sipping
sups of the superior tawny sherry uncle Barney brought from Tunney’s.
And they eating crumbs of the cottage fruitcake, jawing the whole
blooming time and sighing.

After Wicklow lane the window of Madame Doyle, courtdress milliner,
stopped him. He stood looking in at the two puckers stripped to their
pelts and putting up their props. From the sidemirrors two mourning
Masters Dignam gaped silently. Myler Keogh, Dublin’s pet lamb, will
meet sergeantmajor Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of
fifty sovereigns. Gob, that’d be a good pucking match to see. Myler
Keogh, that’s the chap sparring out to him with the green sash. Two bar
entrance, soldiers half price. I could easy do a bunk on ma. Master
Dignam on his left turned as he turned. That’s me in mourning. When is
it? May the twentysecond. Sure, the blooming thing is all over. He
turned to the right and on his right Master Dignam turned, his cap
awry, his collar sticking up. Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he
saw the image of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, beside the two
puckers. One of them mots that do be in the packets of fags Stoer
smokes that his old fellow welted hell out of him for one time he found
out.

Master Dignam got his collar down and dawdled on. The best pucker going
for strength was Fitzsimons. One puck in the wind from that fellow
would knock you into the middle of next week, man. But the best pucker
for science was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out
of him, dodging and all.

In Grafton street Master Dignam saw a red flower in a toff’s mouth and
a swell pair of kicks on him and he listening to what the drunk was
telling him and grinning all the time.

No Sandymount tram.

Master Dignam walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to his
other hand. His collar sprang up again and he tugged it down. The
blooming stud was too small for the buttonhole of the shirt, blooming
end to it. He met schoolboys with satchels. I’m not going tomorrow
either, stay away till Monday. He met other schoolboys. Do they notice
I’m in mourning? Uncle Barney said he’d get it into the paper tonight.
Then they’ll all see it in the paper and read my name printed and pa’s
name.

His face got all grey instead of being red like it was and there was a
fly walking over it up to his eye. The scrunch that was when they were
screwing the screws into the coffin: and the bumps when they were
bringing it downstairs.

Pa was inside it and ma crying in the parlour and uncle Barney telling
the men how to get it round the bend. A big coffin it was, and high and
heavylooking. How was that? The last night pa was boosed he was
standing on the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out to
Tunney’s for to boose more and he looked butty and short in his shirt.
Never see him again. Death, that is. Pa is dead. My father is dead. He
told me to be a good son to ma. I couldn’t hear the other things he
said but I saw his tongue and his teeth trying to say it better. Poor
pa. That was Mr Dignam, my father. I hope he’s in purgatory now because
he went to confession to Father Conroy on Saturday night.

*    *    *


William Humble, earl of Dudley, and lady Dudley, accompanied by
lieutenantcolonel Heseltine, drove out after luncheon from the
viceregal lodge. In the following carriage were the honourable Mrs
Paget, Miss de Courcy and the honourable Gerald Ward A. D. C. in
attendance.

The cavalcade passed out by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by
obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern
quays. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his way through the
metropolis. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted
him vainly from afar. Between Queen’s and Whitworth bridges lord
Dudley’s viceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley
White, B. L., M. A., who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M. E. White’s,
the pawnbroker’s, at the corner of Arran street west stroking his nose
with his forefinger, undecided whether he should arrive at Phibsborough
more quickly by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot
through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. In the
porch of Four Courts Richie Goulding with the costbag of Goulding,
Collis and Ward saw him with surprise. Past Richmond bridge at the
doorstep of the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent for the
Patriotic Insurance Company, an elderly female about to enter changed
her plan and retracing her steps by King’s windows smiled credulously
on the representative of His Majesty. From its sluice in Wood quay wall
under Tom Devan’s office Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue of
liquid sewage. Above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel, gold by
bronze, Miss Kennedy’s head by Miss Douce’s head watched and admired.
On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way from the greenhouse
for the subsheriff’s office, stood still in midstreet and brought his
hat low. His Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus’ greeting. From
Cahill’s corner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M. A., made obeisance
unperceived, mindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant had held
of yore rich advowsons. On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M’Coy, taking
leave of each other, watched the carriages go by. Passing by Roger
Greene’s office and Dollard’s big red printinghouse Gerty MacDowell,
carrying the Catesby’s cork lino letters for her father who was laid
up, knew by the style it was the lord and lady lieutenant but she
couldn’t see what Her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring’s
big yellow furniture van had to stop in front of her on account of its
being the lord lieutenant. Beyond Lundy Foot’s from the shaded door of
Kavanagh’s winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness
towards the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland. The
Right Honourable William Humble, earl of Dudley, G. C. V. O., passed
Micky Anderson’s all times ticking watches and Henry and James’s wax
smartsuited freshcheeked models, the gentleman Henry, _dernier cri_
James. Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the
approach of the cavalcade. Tom Rochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley
fixed on him, took his thumbs quickly out of the pockets of his claret
waistcoat and doffed his cap to her. A charming _soubrette,_ great
Marie Kendall, with dauby cheeks and lifted skirt smiled daubily from
her poster upon William Humble, earl of Dudley, and upon
lieutenantcolonel H. G. Heseltine, and also upon the honourable Gerald
Ward A. D. C. From the window of the D. B. C. Buck Mulligan gaily, and
Haines gravely, gazed down on the viceregal equipage over the shoulders
of eager guests, whose mass of forms darkened the chessboard whereon
John Howard Parnell looked intently. In Fownes’s street Dilly Dedalus,
straining her sight upward from Chardenal’s first French primer, saw
sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the glare. John Henry
Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from
winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in
his fat left hand not feeling it. Where the foreleg of King Billy’s
horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from
under the hoofs of the outriders. She shouted in his ear the tidings.
Understanding, he shifted his tomes to his left breast and saluted the
second carriage. The honourable Gerald Ward A. D. C., agreeably
surprised, made haste to reply. At Ponsonby’s corner a jaded white
flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him,
E.L.Y.’S, while outriders pranced past and carriages. Opposite Pigott’s
music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, gaily
apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and unobserved. By
the provost’s wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes
and socks with skyblue clocks to the refrain of _My girl’s a Yorkshire
girl._

Blazes Boylan presented to the leaders’ skyblue frontlets and high
action a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a
suit of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets forgot to salute
but he offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and
the red flower between his lips. As they drove along Nassau street His
Excellency drew the attention of his bowing consort to the programme of
music which was being discoursed in College park. Unseen brazen
highland laddies blared and drumthumped after the _cortège_:

     But though she’s a factory lass
     And wears no fancy clothes.
     Baraabum.
     Yet I’ve a sort of a
     Yorkshire relish for
     My little Yorkshire rose.
     Baraabum.

Thither of the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M. C. Green, H.
Shrift, T. M. Patey, C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F.
Stevenson, C. Adderly and W. C. Huggard, started in pursuit. Striding
past Finn’s hotel Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell
stared through a fierce eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr
M. E. Solomons in the window of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate.
Deep in Leinster street by Trinity’s postern a loyal king’s man,
Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. As the glossy horses pranced by
Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, waiting, saw salutes
being given to the gent with the topper and raised also his new black
cap with fingers greased by porksteak paper. His collar too sprang up.
The viceroy, on his way to inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of funds
for Mercer’s hospital, drove with his following towards Lower Mount
street. He passed a blind stripling opposite Broadbent’s. In Lower
Mount street a pedestrian in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread,
passed swiftly and unscathed across the viceroy’s path. At the Royal
Canal bridge, from his hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips
agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. At Haddington road
corner two sanded women halted themselves, an umbrella and a bag in
which eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder the lord mayor and lady
mayoress without his golden chain. On Northumberland and Lansdowne
roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male
walkers, the salute of two small schoolboys at the garden gate of the
house said to have been admired by the late queen when visiting the
Irish capital with her husband, the prince consort, in 1849 and the
salute of Almidano Artifoni’s sturdy trousers swallowed by a closing
door.




[ 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.

One rapped, one tapped, with a carra, with a cock.

Pray for him! Pray, good people!

His gouty fingers nakkering.

Big Benaben. Big Benben.

Last rose Castile of summer left bloom I feel so sad alone.

Pwee! Little wind piped wee.

True men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll. Ay, ay. Like you men. Will lift your
tschink with tschunk.

Fff! Oo!

Where bronze from anear? Where gold from afar? Where hoofs?

Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.

Then not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be pfrwritt.

Done.

Begin!



Bronze by gold, miss Douce’s head by miss Kennedy’s head, over the
crossblind of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofs go by, ringing
steel.

—Is that her? asked miss Kennedy.

Miss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex, pearl grey and _eau de Nil._

—Exquisite contrast, miss Kennedy said.

When all agog miss Douce said eagerly:

—Look at the fellow in the tall silk.

—Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly.

—In the second carriage, miss Douce’s wet lips said, laughing in the
sun.

He’s looking. Mind till I see.

She darted, bronze, to the backmost corner, flattening her face against
the pane in a halo of hurried breath.

Her wet lips tittered:

—He’s killed looking back.

She laughed:

—O wept! Aren’t men frightful idiots?

With sadness.

Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hair
behind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a
hair. Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.

—It’s them has the fine times, sadly then she said.

A man.

Bloowho went by by Moulang’s pipes bearing in his breast the sweets of
sin, by Wine’s antiques, in memory bearing sweet sinful words, by
Carroll’s dusky battered plate, for Raoul.

The boots to them, them in the bar, them barmaids came. For them
unheeding him he banged on the counter his tray of chattering china.
And

—There’s your teas, he said.

Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray down to an upturned
lithia crate, safe from eyes, low.

—What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.

—Find out, miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.

—Your _beau,_ is it?

A haughty bronze replied:

—I’ll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I hear any more of your
impertinent insolence.

—Imperthnthn thnthnthn, bootssnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated as
she threatened as he had come.

Bloom.

On her flower frowning miss Douce said:

—Most aggravating that young brat is. If he doesn’t conduct himself
I’ll wring his ear for him a yard long.

Ladylike in exquisite contrast.

—Take no notice, miss Kennedy rejoined.

She poured in a teacup tea, then back in the teapot tea. They cowered
under their reef of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned,
waiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, both of black
satin, two and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and
seven.

Yes, bronze from anear, by gold from afar, heard steel from anear,
hoofs ring from afar, and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel.

—Am I awfully sunburnt?

Miss bronze unbloused her neck.

—No, said miss Kennedy. It gets brown after. Did you try the borax with
the cherry laurel water?

Miss Douce halfstood to see her skin askance in the barmirror
gildedlettered where hock and claret glasses shimmered and in their
midst a shell.

—And leave it to my hands, she said.

—Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedy advised.

Bidding her neck and hands adieu miss Douce

—Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. I asked that
old fogey in Boyd’s for something for my skin.

Miss Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, grimaced and prayed:

—O, don’t remind me of him for mercy’ sake!

—But wait till I tell you, miss Douce entreated.

Sweet tea miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears
with little fingers.

—No, don’t, she cried.

—I won’t listen, she cried.

But Bloom?

Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey’s tone:

—For your what? says he.

Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak: but said, but prayed
again:

—Don’t let me think of him or I’ll expire. The hideous old wretch! That
night in the Antient Concert Rooms.

She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip, sipped, sweet tea.

—Here he was, miss Douce said, cocking her bronze head three quarters,
ruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa!

Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy’s throat. Miss Douce
huffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like a
snout in quest.

—O! shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever forget his goggle eye?

Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, shouting:

—And your other eye!

Bloowhose dark eye read Aaron Figatner’s name. Why do I always think
Figather? Gathering figs, I think. And Prosper Loré’s huguenot name. By
Bassi’s blessed virgins Bloom’s dark eyes went by. Bluerobed, white
under, come to me. God they believe she is: or goddess. Those today. I
could not see. That fellow spoke. A student. After with Dedalus’ son.
He might be Mulligan. All comely virgins. That brings those rakes of
fellows in: her white.

By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the sweets.

Of sin.

In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy
your other eye. They threw young heads back, bronze gigglegold, to let
freefly their laughter, screaming, your other, signals to each other,
high piercing notes.

Ah, panting, sighing, sighing, ah, fordone, their mirth died down.

Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, raised, drank a sip and
gigglegiggled. Miss Douce, bending over the teatray, ruffled again her
nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles, stooping, her
fair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed,
spluttered out of her mouth her tea, choking in tea and laughter,
coughing with choking, crying:

—O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to a man like that! she cried.
With his bit of beard!

Douce gave full vent to a splendid yell, a full yell of full woman,
delight, joy, indignation.

—Married to the greasy nose! she yelled.

Shrill, with deep laughter, after, gold after bronze, they urged each
each to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze,
shrilldeep, to laughter after laughter. And then laughed more. Greasy I
knows. Exhausted, breathless, their shaken heads they laid, braided and
pinnacled by glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!),
panting, sweating (O!), all breathless.

Married to Bloom, to greaseabloom.

—O saints above! miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. I
wished I hadn’t laughed so much. I feel all wet.

—O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing!

And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly.

By Cantwell’s offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi’s virgins, bright of
their oils. Nannetti’s father hawked those things about, wheedling at
doors as I. Religion pays. Must see him for that par. Eat first. I
want. Not yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing. Clockhands
turning. On. Where eat? The Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I
net five guineas with those ads. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet.
The sweets of sin.

Flushed less, still less, goldenly paled.

Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips off one of his
rocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled.

—O, welcome back, miss Douce.

He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays?

—Tiptop.

He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor.

—Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am. Lying out on the
strand all day.

Bronze whiteness.

—That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed
her hand indulgently. Tempting poor simple males.

Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.

—O go away! she said. You’re very simple, I don’t think.

He was.

—Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they
christened me simple Simon.

—You must have been a doaty, miss Douce made answer. And what did the
doctor order today?

—Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I’ll trouble
you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.

Jingle.

—With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed.

With grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane’s
she turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold whisky from
her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalus brought
pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky
fifenotes.

—By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must be
a great tonic in the air down there. But a long threatening comes at
last, they say. Yes. Yes.

Yes. He fingered shreds of hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid’s, into
the bowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute.

None nought said nothing. Yes.

Gaily miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling:

—_O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas!_

—Was Mr Lidwell in today?

In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. Mr Bloom reached Essex
bridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write.
Buy paper. Daly’s. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue bloom is on
the rye.

—He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce said.

Lenehan came forward.

—Was Mr Boylan looking for me?

He asked. She answered:

—Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs?

She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised, her
gaze upon a page:

—No. He was not.

Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the
sandwichbell wound his round body round.

—Peep! Who’s in the corner?

No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made overtures. To mind her
stops. To read only the black ones: round o and crooked ess.

Jingle jaunty jingle.

Girlgold she read and did not glance. Take no notice. She took no
notice while he read by rote a solfa fable for her, plappering flatly:

—Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your
bill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone?

He droned in vain. Miss Douce turned to her tea aside.

He sighed aside:

—Ah me! O my!

He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod.

—Greetings from the famous son of a famous father.

—Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked.

Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who?

—Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask? Stephen, the youthful bard.

Dry.

Mr Dedalus, famous father, laid by his dry filled pipe.

—I see, he said. I didn’t recognise him for the moment. I hear he is
keeping very select company. Have you seen him lately?

He had.

—I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this very day, said Lenehan. In
Mooney’s _en ville_ and in Mooney’s _sur mer._ He had received the
rhino for the labour of his muse.

He smiled at bronze’s teabathed lips, at listening lips and eyes:

—The _élite_ of Erin hung upon his lips. The ponderous pundit, Hugh
MacHugh, Dublin’s most brilliant scribe and editor and that minstrel
boy of the wild wet west who is known by the euphonious appellation of
the O’Madden Burke.

After an interval Mr Dedalus raised his grog and

—That must have been highly diverting, said he. I see.

He see. He drank. With faraway mourning mountain eye. Set down his
glass.

He looked towards the saloon door.

—I see you have moved the piano.

—The tuner was in today, miss Douce replied, tuning it for the smoking
concert and I never heard such an exquisite player.

—Is that a fact?

—Didn’t he, miss Kennedy? The real classical, you know. And blind too,
poor fellow. Not twenty I’m sure he was.

—Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said.

He drank and strayed away.

—So sad to look at his face, miss Douce condoled.

God’s curse on bitch’s bastard.

Tink to her pity cried a diner’s bell. To the door of the bar and
diningroom came bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter of
Ormond. Lager for diner. Lager without alacrity she served.

With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan with impatience, for
jinglejaunty blazes boy.

Upholding the lid he (who?) gazed in the coffin (coffin?) at the
oblique triple (piano!) wires. He pressed (the same who pressed
indulgently her hand), soft pedalling, a triple of keys to see the
thicknesses of felt advancing, to hear the muffled hammerfall in
action.

Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I was in
Wisdom Hely’s wise Bloom in Daly’s Henry Flower bought. Are you not
happy in your home? Flower to console me and a pin cuts lo. Means
something, language of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is.
Respectable girl meet after mass. Thanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloom
eyed on the door a poster, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves.
Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all. Hair streaming: lovelorn. For
some man. For Raoul. He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat
riding on a jaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence.

Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond quay.
Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now. Out.

—Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say.

—Aha... I was forgetting... Excuse...

—And four.

At four she. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhom smiled. Bloo smi qui go.
Ternoon. Think you’re the only pebble on the beach? Does that to all.

For men.

In drowsy silence gold bent on her page.

From the saloon a call came, long in dying. That was a tuningfork the
tuner had that he forgot that he now struck. A call again. That he now
poised that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure, purer, softly
and softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.

Pat paid for diner’s popcorked bottle: and over tumbler, tray and
popcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald and bothered, with miss
Douce.

—_The bright stars fade_...

A voiceless song sang from within, singing:

—... _the morn is breaking._

A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive
hands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording,
called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love’s
leavetaking, life’s, love’s morn.

—_The dewdrops pearl_...

Lenehan’s lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy.

—But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.

Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.

She rose and closed her reading, rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn,
dreamily rose.

—Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her.

She answered, slighting:

—Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies.

Like lady, ladylike.

Blazes Boylan’s smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor where he
strode. Yes, gold from anear by bronze from afar. Lenehan heard and
knew and hailed him:

—See the conquering hero comes.

Between the car and window, warily walking, went Bloom, unconquered
hero. See me he might. The seat he sat on: warm. Black wary hecat
walked towards Richie Goulding’s legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting.

—_And I from thee_...

—I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.

He touched to fair miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw. She smiled
on him. But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her richer
hair, a bosom and a rose.

Smart Boylan bespoke potions.

—What’s your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please, and a
sloegin for me. Wire in yet?

Not yet. At four she. Who said four?

Cowley’s red lugs and bulging apple in the door of the sheriff’s
office.

Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting.
Wait.

Hello. Where off to? Something to eat? I too was just. In here. What,
Ormond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom. Sit tight there.
See, not be seen. I think I’ll join you. Come on. Richie led on. Bloom
followed bag. Dinner fit for a prince.

Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm, her
bust, that all but burst, so high.

—O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. O!

But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.

—Why don’t you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.

Shebronze, dealing from her oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for his
lips, looked as it flowed (flower in his coat: who gave him?), and
syrupped with her voice:

—Fine goods in small parcels.

That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.

—Here’s fortune, Blazes said.

He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.

—Hold on, said Lenehan, till I...

—Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.

—Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.

—I plunged a bit, said Boylan winking and drinking. Not on my own, you
know. Fancy of a friend of mine.

Lenehan still drank and grinned at his tilted ale and at miss Douce’s
lips that all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips had trilled.
Idolores. The eastern seas.

Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way (flower, wonder who gave),
bearing away teatray. Clock clacked.

Miss Douce took Boylan’s coin, struck boldly the cashregister. It
clanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in the till
and hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack. For
me.

—What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four?

O’clock.

Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming, tugged
Blazes Boylan’s elbowsleeve.

—Let’s hear the time, he said.

The bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom flowered
tables. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table
near the door. Be near. At four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps a trick. Not
come: whet appetite. I couldn’t do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited.

Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure’s skyblue bow and eyes.

—Go on, pressed Lenehan. There’s no-one. He never heard.

—... _to Flora’s lips did hie._

High, a high note pealed in the treble clear.

Bronzedouce communing with her rose that sank and rose sought Blazes
Boylan’s flower and eyes.

—Please, please.

He pleaded over returning phrases of avowal.

—_I could not leave thee_...

—Afterwits, miss Douce promised coyly.

—No, now, urged Lenehan. _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.

—_La cloche!_ cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No sawdust
there.

She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren’t men?), but, lightward
gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.

—You’re the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said.

Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off his
chalice tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops. His spellbound
eyes went after, after her gliding head as it went down the bar by
mirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses
shimmering, a spiky shell, where it concerted, mirrored, bronze with
sunnier bronze.

Yes, bronze from anearby.

—... _Sweetheart, goodbye!_

—I’m off, said Boylan with impatience.

He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.

—Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted to tell you.
Tom Rochford...

—Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going.

Lenehan gulped to go.

—Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I’m coming.

He followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the
threshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender.

—How do you do, Mr Dollard?

—Eh? How do? How do? Ben Dollard’s vague bass answered, turning an
instant from Father Cowley’s woe. He won’t give you any trouble, Bob.
Alf Bergan will speak to the long fellow. We’ll put a barleystraw in
that Judas Iscariot’s ear this time.

Sighing Mr Dedalus came through the saloon, a finger soothing an
eyelid.

—Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Come on, Simon. Give us a
ditty. We heard the piano.

Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for drink orders. Power for Richie.
And Bloom? Let me see. Not make him walk twice. His corns. Four now.
How warm this black is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?) heat.
Let me see. Cider. Yes, bottle of cider.

—What’s that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only vamping, man.

—Come on, come on, Ben Dollard called. Begone dull care. Come, Bob.

He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them (hold that fellow with the:
hold him now) into the saloon. He plumped him Dollard on the stool. His
gouty paws plumped chords. Plumped, stopped abrupt.

Bald Pat in the doorway met tealess gold returning. Bothered, he wanted
Power and cider. Bronze by the window, watched, bronze from afar.

Jingle a tinkle jaunted.

Bloom heard a jing, a little sound. He’s off. Light sob of breath Bloom
sighed on the silent bluehued flowers. Jingling. He’s gone. Jingle.
Hear.

—Love and War, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God be with old times.

Miss Douce’s brave eyes, unregarded, turned from the crossblind,
smitten by sunlight. Gone. Pensive (who knows?), smitten (the smiting
light), she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She drew down
pensive (why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze, over the bar
where bald stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast
inexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of
shadow, _eau de Nil._

—Poor old Goodwin was the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded
them. There was a slight difference of opinion between himself and the
Collard grand.

There was.

—A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said. The devil wouldn’t stop him.
He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of drink.

—God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from the
punished keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment.

They laughed all three. He had no wed. All trio laughed. No wedding
garment.

—Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus said. Where’s
my pipe, by the way?

He wandered back to the bar to the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried
two diners’ drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowley laughed again.

—I saved the situation, Ben, I think.

—You did, averred Ben Dollard. I remember those tight trousers too.
That was a brilliant idea, Bob.

Father Cowley blushed to his brilliant purply lobes. He saved the
situa. Tight trou. Brilliant ide.

—I knew he was on the rocks, he said. The wife was playing the piano in
the coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration and
who was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other business? Do you
remember? We had to search all Holles street to find them till the chap
in Keogh’s gave us the number. Remember?

Ben remembered, his broad visage wondering.

—By God, she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there.

Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.

—Merrion square style. Balldresses, by God, and court dresses. He
wouldn’t take any money either. What? Any God’s quantity of cocked hats
and boleros and trunkhose. What?

—Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion Bloom has left off clothes of
all descriptions.

Jingle jaunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres.

Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right, sir. Right, Pat.

Mrs Marion. Met him pike hoses. Smell of burn. Of Paul de Kock. Nice
name he.

—What’s this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion...

—Tweedy.

—Yes. Is she alive?

—And kicking.

—She was a daughter of...

—Daughter of the regiment.

—Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.

Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after

—Irish? I don’t know, faith. Is she, Simon?

Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.

—Buccinator muscle is... What?... Bit rusty... O, she is... My Irish
Molly, O.

He puffed a pungent plumy blast.

—From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.

They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the beerpull, bronze by
maraschino, thoughtful all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace,
Drumcondra with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent.

Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before
he ate with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods’ roes
while Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, steak then
kidney, bite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.

Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners fit for princes.

By Bachelor’s walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sun in
heat, mare’s glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding tyres:
sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Horn. Have you
the? Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn.

Over their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding
chords:

—_When love absorbs my ardent soul_...

Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roofpanes.

—War! War! cried Father Cowley. You’re the warrior.

—So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking of your landlord. Love or
money.

He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge.

—Sure, you’d burst the tympanum of her ear, man, Mr Dedalus said
through smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.

In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He would.

—Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time, Ben.
_Amoroso ma non troppo._ Let me there.

Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen with tankards of cool stout. She
passed a remark. It was indeed, first gentleman said, beautiful
weather. They drank cool stout. Did she know where the lord lieutenant
was going? And heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldn’t say.
But it would be in the paper. O, she need not trouble. No trouble. She
waved about her outspread _Independent,_ searching, the lord
lieutenant, her pinnacles of hair slowmoving, lord lieuten. Too much
trouble, first gentleman said. O, not in the least. Way he looked that.
Lord lieutenant. Gold by bronze heard iron steel.

 —............ _my ardent soul
I care not foror the morrow._

In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and War someone is.
Ben Dollard’s famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress suit
for that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musical porkers.
Molly did laugh when he went out. Threw herself back across the bed,
screaming, kicking. With all his belongings on show. O saints above,
I’m drenched! O, the women in the front row! O, I never laughed so
many! Well, of course that’s what gives him the base barreltone. For
instance eunuchs. Wonder who’s playing. Nice touch. Must be Cowley.
Musical. Knows whatever note you play. Bad breath he has, poor chap.
Stopped.

Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, George
Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist (a
lady’s) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back. To the
old dingdong again.

—Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.

George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.

Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. That chap in the
Burton, gummy with gristle. No-one here: Goulding and I. Clean tables,
flowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and fro. Bald Pat. Nothing to do.
Best value in Dub.

Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it, like one together,
mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the
bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her high long snore.
Night we were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus,
between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle.
Conductor’s legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide
them.

Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.

Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of a
lovely. Gravy’s rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that
once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their
harps. I. He. Old. Young.

—Ah, I couldn’t, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.

Strongly.

—Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits.

—_M’appari,_ Simon, Father Cowley said.

Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long
arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly
he sang to a dusty seascape there: _A Last Farewell._ A headland, a
ship, a sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave
upon the wind upon the headland, wind around her.

Cowley sang:

_—M’appari tutt’amor:
Il mio sguardo l’incontr..._

She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil, to one departing, dear one, to
wind, love, speeding sail, return.

—Go on, Simon.

—Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben... Well...

Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting,
touched the obedient keys.

—No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat.

The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.

Up stage strode Father Cowley.

—Here, Simon, I’ll accompany you, he said. Get up.

By Graham Lemon’s pineapple rock, by Elvery’s elephant jingly jogged.

Steak, kidney, liver, mashed, at meat fit for princes sat princes Bloom
and Goulding. Princes at meat they raised and drank, Power and cider.

Most beautiful tenor air ever written, Richie said: _Sonnambula._ He
heard Joe Maas sing that one night. Ah, what M’Guckin! Yes. In his way.
Choirboy style. Maas was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor if you like.
Never forget it. Never.

Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened features strain.
Backache he. Bright’s bright eye. Next item on the programme. Paying
the piper. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Stave it off
awhile. Sings too: _Down among the dead men._ Appropriate. Kidney pie.
Sweets to the. Not making much hand of it. Best value in.
Characteristic of him. Power. Particular about his drink. Flaw in the
glass, fresh Vartry water. Fecking matches from counters to save. Then
squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs. And when he’s wanted not a
farthing. Screwed refusing to pay his fare. Curious types.

Never would Richie forget that night. As long as he lived: never. In
the gods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the first note.

Speech paused on Richie’s lips.

Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about damn all. Believes his
own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But want a good memory.

—Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.

—_All is lost now_.

Richie cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet banshee
murmured: all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teeth
he’s proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Two
notes in one there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my
motives he twined and turned them. All most too new call is lost in
all. Echo. How sweet the answer. How is that done? All lost now.
Mournful he whistled. Fall, surrender, lost.

Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the vase.
Order. Yes, I remember. Lovely air. In sleep she went to him. Innocence
in the moon. Brave. Don’t know their danger. Still hold her back. Call
name. Touch water. Jingle jaunty. Too late. She longed to go. That’s
why. Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost.

—A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.

Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.

He knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his daughter. Wise
child that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?

Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. Rollicking
Richie once. Jokes old stale now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his
eye. Now begging letters he sends his son with. Crosseyed Walter sir I
did sir. Wouldn’t trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise.

Piano again. Sounds better than last time I heard. Tuned probably.
Stopped again.

Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it.

—With it, Simon.

—It, Simon.

—Ladies and gentlemen, I am most deeply obliged by your kind
solicitations.

—It, Simon.

—I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shall
endeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down.

By the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her bronze and rose, a
lady’s grace, gave and withheld: as in cool glaucous _eau de Nil_ Mina
to tankards two her pinnacles of gold.

The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord, longdrawn, expectant,
drew a voice away.

—_When first I saw that form endearing_...

Richie turned.

—Si Dedalus’ voice, he said.

Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that flow
endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. Bloom signed to
Pat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajar the door of the
bar. The door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited,
waiting to hear, for he was hard of hear by the door.

—_Sorrow from me seemed to depart._

Through the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves
in murmur, like no voice of strings or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem
dulcimers touching their still ears with words, still hearts of their
each his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from them each
seemed to from both depart when first they heard. When first they saw,
lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn’t expect
it in the least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word.

Love that is singing: love’s old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the
elastic band of his packet. Love’s old sweet _sonnez la_ gold. Bloom
wound a skein round four forkfingers, stretched it, relaxed, and wound
it round his troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast.

—_Full of hope and all delighted_...

Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at his
feet. When will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle all delighted. He
can’t sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him.
What perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jing. Stop. Knock. Last
look at mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? How
do you? I do well. There? What? Or? Phial of cachous, kissing comfits,
in her satchel. Yes? Hands felt for the opulent.

Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud.

—_But alas, ’twas idle dreaming_...

Glorious tone he has still. Cork air softer also their brogue. Silly
man! Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out his
wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. If he
doesn’t break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feet sing
too. Drink. Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. Jenny Lind
soup: stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy.

Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full it throbbed. That’s the
chat. Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect.

Words? Music? No: it’s what’s behind.

Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.

Bloom. Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music
out, in desire, dark to lick flow invading. Tipping her tepping her
tapping her topping her. Tup. Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy
the feel the warm the. Tup. To pour o’er sluices pouring gushes. Flood,
gush, flow, joygush, tupthrob. Now! Language of love.

—... _ray of hope is_...

Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse
unsqueaked a ray of hopk.

_Martha_ it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel’s song. Lovely
name you have. Can’t write. Accept my little pres. Play on her
heartstrings pursestrings too. She’s a. I called you naughty boy. Still
the name: Martha. How strange! Today.

The voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. It sang again to
Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting to
wait. How first he saw that form endearing, how sorrow seemed to part,
how look, form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom’s heart.

Wish I could see his face, though. Explain better. Why the barber in
Drago’s always looked my face when I spoke his face in the glass. Still
hear it better here than in the bar though farther.

—_Each graceful look_...

First night when first I saw her at Mat Dillon’s in Terenure. Yellow,
black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her.
Fate. Round and round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt. Down
she sat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.

—_Charmed my eye_...

Singing. _Waiting_ she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume
of what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full, throat
warbling. First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate. Spanishy
eyes. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in
shadow Dolores shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.

—_Martha! Ah, Martha!_

Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant
to love to return with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony. In
cry of lionel loneliness that she should know, must martha feel. For
only her he waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where.
Somewhere.

—_Co-ome, thou lost one!

Co-ome, thou dear one!_

Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chestnote, return!

_—Come!_

It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver
orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out
too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high
resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high,
of the etherial bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere
all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness...

—_To me!_

Siopold!

Consumed.

Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To me, to him, to
her, you too, me, us.

—Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon. Clappyclapclap. Encore! Clapclipclap
clap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap,
said, cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell,
Pat, Mina Kennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first gent
with tank and bronze Miss Douce and gold 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.

That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It’s in the silence after you
feel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.

Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked the
slender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz, it twanged. While
Goulding talked of Barraclough’s voice production, while Tom Kernan,
harking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked to listening
Father Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. While
big Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he
smoked, who smoked.

Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his
string. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure them
on. Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head.
Outtohelloutofthat. Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat’s tail wriggling!
Five bob I gave. _Corpus paradisum._ Corncrake croaker: belly like a
poisoned pup. Gone. They sing. Forgotten. I too. And one day she with.
Leave her: get tired. Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling
at nothing. Her wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:’d.

Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not happy in
your? Twang. It snapped.

Jingle into Dorset street.

Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.

—Don’t make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted.

George Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe.

First gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so. And
second tankard told her so. That that was so.

Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: miss Kennedy, Mina, did not
believe: George Lidwell, no: miss Dou did not: the first, the first:
gent with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell:
the tank.

Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.

Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He went. A
pad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.

—Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing the curling catgut line. It certainly is.
Few lines will do. My present. All that Italian florid music is. Who is
this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet notepaper,
envelope: unconcerned. It’s so characteristic.

—Grandest number in the whole opera, Goulding said.

—It is, Bloom said.

Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two
divided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus
two plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling.
Always find out this equal to that. Symmetry under a cemetery wall. He
doesn’t see my mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics.
And you think you’re listening to the etherial. But suppose you said it
like: Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall
quite flat. It’s on account of the sounds it is.

Instance he’s playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like, till
you hear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: then
hear chords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks, over
barrels, through wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune.
Question of mood you’re in. Still always nice to hear. Except scales up
and down, girls learning. Two together nextdoor neighbours. Ought to
invent dummy pianos for that. _Blumenlied_ I bought for her. The name.
Playing it slow, a girl, night I came home, the girl. Door of the
stables near Cecilia street. Milly no taste. Queer because we both, I
mean.

Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quite
flat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.

It was the only language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a boy
in Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles.
Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, in
the moonlight with those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God,
such music, Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.

Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed a
moonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.

Down the edge of his _Freeman_ baton ranged Bloom’s, your other eye,
scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick.
Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking...

Hope he’s not looking, cute as a rat. He held unfurled his _Freeman._
Can’t see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear
sir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and flow. Hell did I
put? Some pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline _imposs._ To
write today.

Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am just reflecting
fingers on flat pad Pat brought.

On. Know what I mean. No, change that ee. Accep my poor litt pres
enclos. Ask her no answ. Hold on. Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the
gulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne’s. Is eight about. Say half a
crown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six. Write me a long. Do you
despise? Jingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught?
You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her. Bye for today. Yes,
yes, will tell you. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Other
world she wrote. My patience are exhaust. To keep it up. You must
believe. Believe. The tank. It. Is. True.

Folly am I writing? Husbands don’t. That’s marriage does, their wives.
Because I’m away from. Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young. If she
found out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless pain. If
they don’t see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.

A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James
of number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a young
gentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by George
Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of number five Eden quay, and wearing
a straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one Great
Brunswick street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle that joggled and
jingled. By Dlugacz’ porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a
gallantbuttocked mare.

—Answering an ad? keen Richie’s eyes asked Bloom.

—Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect.

Bloom mur: best references. But Henry wrote: it will excite me. You
know how. In haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better add postscript. What is he
playing now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum tum tum. How will
you pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I
want to. Know. O. Course if I didn’t I wouldn’t ask. La la la ree.
Trails off there sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like sad
tail at end. P. P. S. La la la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So
lonely. Dee.

He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel. Address. Just copy out of paper.
Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. Henry wrote:

Miss Martha Clifford
    c/o P. O.
        Dolphin’s Barn Lane
            Dublin.

Blot over the other so he can’t read. There. Right. Idea prize titbit.
Something detective read off blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guinea
per col. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs Purefoy. U.
P: up.

Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that. Music hath charms.
Shakespeare said. Quotations every day in the year. To be or not to be.
Wisdom while you wait.

In Gerard’s rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyedauburn. One life is
all. One body. Do. But do.

Done anyhow. Postal order, stamp. Postoffice lower down. Walk now.
Enough. Barney Kiernan’s I promised to meet them. Dislike that job.
House of mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn’t hear. Deaf beetle he is.

Car near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn’t. Settling those napkins.
Lot of ground he must cover in the day. Paint face behind on him then
he’d be two. Wish they’d sing more. Keep my mind off.

Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of
his hearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee.
He waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. He
waits while you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while you
wait. Hee hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait.

Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose.

She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. And look at the lovely shell
she brought.

To the end of the bar to him she bore lightly the spiked and winding
seahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor, might hear.

—Listen! she bade him.

Under Tom Kernan’s ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow.
Authentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice. Well, sir, the husband
took him by the throat. _Scoundrel,_ said he, _You’ll sing no more
lovesongs._ He did, faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get wom.
Cowley lay back.

Ah, now he heard, she holding it to his ear. Hear! He heard. Wonderful.
She held it to her own. And through the sifted light pale gold in
contrast glided. To hear.

Tap.

Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell held at their ears. He heard more
faintly that that they heard, each for herself alone, then each for
other, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent roar.

Bronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, they listened.

Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there. Been to the seaside.
Lovely seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should have put on coldcream
first make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn’t forget.
Fever near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shell
with seaweed. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks
the mouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet. Yashmak. Find the way in. A
cave. No admittance except on business.

The sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood it is. Souse
in the ear sometimes. Well, it’s a sea. Corpuscle islands.

Wonderful really. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur,
hearing: then laid it by, gently.

—What are the wild waves saying? he asked her, smiled.

Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.

Tap.

By Larry O’Rourke’s, by Larry, bold Larry O’, Boylan swayed and Boylan
turned.

From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her tankards waiting. No,
she was not so lonely archly miss Douce’s head let Mr Lidwell know.
Walks in the moonlight by the sea. No, not alone. With whom? She nobly
answered: with a gentleman friend.

Bob Cowley’s twinkling fingers in the treble played again. The landlord
has the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben. Lightly he played a
light bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and smiling,
and for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one, one,
one: two, one, three, four.

Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the cattlemarket,
cocks, hens don’t crow, snakes hissss. There’s music everywhere.
Ruttledge’s door: ee creaking. No, that’s noise. Minuet of _Don
Giovanni_ he’s playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle
chambers dancing. Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces eating
dockleaves. Nice that is. Look: look, look, look, look, look: you look
at us.

That’s joyful I can feel. Never have written it. Why? My joy is other
joy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must be. Mere fact of music shows
you are. Often thought she was in the dumps till she began to lilt.
Then know.

M’Coy valise. My wife and your wife. Squealing cat. Like tearing silk.
Tongue when she talks like the clapper of a bellows. They can’t manage
men’s intervals. Gap in their voices too. Fill me. I’m warm, dark,
open. Molly in _quis est homo_: Mercadante. My ear against the wall to
hear. Want a woman who can deliver the goods.

Jog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblue
clocks came light to earth.

O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on that. It
is a kind of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that is.
Tinkling. Empty vessels make most noise. Because the acoustics, the
resonance changes according as the weight of the water is equal to the
law of falling water. Like those rhapsodies of Liszt’s, Hungarian,
gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle.
Hissss. Now. Maybe now. Before.

One rapped on a door, one tapped with a knock, did he knock Paul de
Kock with a loud proud knocker with a cock carracarracarra cock.
Cockcock.

Tap.

—_Qui sdegno,_ Ben, said Father Cowley.

—No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. _The Croppy Boy._ Our native Doric.

—Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true.

—Do, do, they begged in one.

I’ll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not stay. To
me. How much?

—What key? Six sharps?

—F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.

Bob Cowley’s outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords.

Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must.
Got money somewhere. He’s on for a razzle backache spree. Much? He
seehears lipspeech. One and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Give him
twopence tip. Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family
waiting, waiting Patty come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while they
wait.

But wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of the
dark middle earth. Embedded ore. Lumpmusic.

The voice of dark age, of unlove, earth’s fatigue made grave approach
and painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good men
and true. The priest he sought. With him would he speak a word.

Tap.

Ben Dollard’s voice. Base barreltone. Doing his level best to say it.
Croak of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. Other comedown. Big
ships’ chandler’s business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships’
lanterns. Failed to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveagh
home. Cubicle number so and so. Number one Bass did that for him.

The priest’s at home. A false priest’s servant bade him welcome. Step
in. The holy father. With bows a traitor servant. Curlycues of chords.

Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them cubicles to end their
days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.

The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had entered a
lonely hall, told them how solemn fell his footsteps there, told them
the gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive.

Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he’ll win in _Answers_, poets’
picture puzzle. We hand you crisp five pound note. Bird sitting
hatching in a nest. Lay of the last minstrel he thought it was. See
blank tee what domestic animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner.
Good voice he has still. No eunuch yet with all his belongings.

Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by the door deaf
Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened.

The chords harped slower.

The voice of penance and of grief came slow, embellished, tremulous.
Ben’s contrite beard confessed. _in nomine Domini,_ in God’s name he
knelt. He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: _mea culpa._

Latin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest with the communion
corpus for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffin or coffey,
_corpusnomine._ Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape.

Tap.

They listened. Tankards and miss Kennedy. George Lidwell, eyelid well
expressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si.

The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since Easter he had cursed
three times. You bitch’s bast. And once at masstime he had gone to
play. Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother’s rest he
had not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.

Bronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed far away. Soulfully. Doesn’t
half know I’m. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.

Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best side of her face?
They always know. Knock at the door. Last tip to titivate.

Cockcarracarra.

What do they think when they hear music? Way to catch rattlesnakes.
Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah of Persia liked
that best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtain
too. Custom his country perhaps. That’s music too. Not as bad as it
sounds. Tootling. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasses
helpless, gashes in their sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Semigrand open
crocodile music hath jaws. Woodwind like Goodwin’s name.

She looked fine. Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on show.
Clove her breath was always in theatre when she bent to ask a question.
Told her what Spinoza says in that book of poor papa’s. Hypnotised,
listening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle staring down
into her with his operaglass for all he was worth. Beauty of music you
must hear twice. Nature woman half a look. God made the country man the
tune. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!

All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his
brothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford, he would. Last
of his name and race.

I too. Last of my race. Milly young student. Well, my fault perhaps. No
son. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still?

He bore no hate.

Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old.

Big Ben his voice unfolded. Great voice Richie Goulding said, a flush
struggling in his pale, to Bloom soon old. But when was young?

Ireland comes now. My country above the king. She listens. Who fears to
speak of nineteen four? Time to be shoving. Looked enough.

—_Bless me, father,_ Dollard the croppy cried. _Bless me and let me
go._

Tap.

Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week.
Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep your weathereye open. Those
girls, those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl’s romance.
Letters read out for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy’s owny
Mumpsypum. Laughter in court. Henry. I never signed it. The lovely name
you.

Low sank the music, air and words. Then hastened. The false priest
rustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman captain. They know it all
by heart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap.

Tap. Tap.

Thrilled she listened, bending in sympathy to hear.

Blank face. Virgin should say: or fingered only. Write something on it:
page. If not what becomes of them? Decline, despair. Keeps them young.
Even admire themselves. See. Play on her. Lip blow. Body of white
woman, a flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes, all women.
Goddess I didn’t see. They want it. Not too much polite. That’s why he
gets them. Gold in your pocket, brass in your face. Say something. Make
her hear. With look to look. Songs without words. Molly, that
hurdygurdy boy. She knew he meant the monkey was sick. Or because so
like the Spanish. Understand animals too that way. Solomon did. Gift of
nature.

Ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in my stom. What?

Will? You? I. Want. You. To.

With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in apoplectic bitch’s
bastard. A good thought, boy, to come. One hour’s your time to live,
your last.

Tap. Tap.

Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for martyrs that want
to, dying to, die. For all things dying, for all things born. Poor Mrs
Purefoy. Hope she’s over. Because their wombs.

A liquid of womb of woman eyeball gazed under a fence of lashes,
calmly, hearing. See real beauty of the eye when she not speaks. On
yonder river. At each slow satiny heaving bosom’s wave (her heaving
embon) red rose rose slowly sank red rose. Heartbeats: her breath:
breath that is life. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of
maidenhair.

But look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castile. The morn. Ha.
Lidwell. For him then not for. Infatuated. I like that? See her from
here though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.

On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave
it to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over the
polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and
finger passed in pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, then slid
so smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton protruding
through their sliding ring.

With a cock with a carra.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing.

The chords consented. Very sad thing. But had to be.

Get out before the end. Thanks, that was heavenly. Where’s my hat. Pass
by her. Can leave that _Freeman_. Letter I have. Suppose she were the?
No. Walk, walk, walk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice
Tisntdall Farrell. Waaaaaaalk.

Well, I must be. Are you off? Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup. O’er ryehigh blue.
Ow. Bloom stood up. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Must have
sweated: music. That lotion, remember. Well, so long. High grade. Card
inside. Yes.

By deaf Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed.

At Geneva barrack that young man died. At Passage was his body laid.
Dolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the mournful chanter called to
dolorous prayer.

By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by slops, by empties,
by popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze
and faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel so
lonely Bloom.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Pray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard. You who hear in peace.
Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good men, good people. He was the croppy
boy.

Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond hallway
heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their boots all
treading, boots not the boots the boy. General chorus off for a swill
to wash it down. Glad I avoided.

—Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus cried. By God, you’re as good as ever you
were.

—Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchant rendition of that ballad,
upon my soul and honour it is.

—Lablache, said Father Cowley.

Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the bar, mightily praisefed and
all big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkering
castagnettes in the air.

Big Benaben Dollard. Big Benben. Big Benben.

Rrr.

And deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn nose, all
laughing they brought him forth, Ben Dollard, in right good cheer.

—You’re looking rubicund, George Lidwell said.

Miss Douce composed her rose to wait.

—Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus, clapping Ben’s fat back shoulderblade.
Fit as a fiddle only he has a lot of adipose tissue concealed about his
person.

Rrrrrrrsss.

—Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growled.

Richie rift in the lute alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. Uncertainly
he waited. Unpaid Pat too.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Miss Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of tankard one.

—Mr Dollard, they murmured low.

—Dollard, murmured tankard.

Tank one believed: miss Kenn when she: that doll he was: she doll: the
tank.

He murmured that he knew the name. The name was familiar to him, that
is to say. That was to say he had heard the name of. Dollard, was it?
Dollard, yes.

Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He sang that song lovely,
murmured Mina. Mr Dollard. And _The last rose of summer_ was a lovely
song. Mina loved that song. Tankard loved the song that Mina.

’Tis the last rose of summer dollard left bloom felt wind wound round
inside.

Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J’s
one and eightpence too. Get shut of it. Dodge round by Greek street.
Wish I hadn’t promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on your
nerves. Beerpull. Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth.
That rules the world.

Far. Far. Far. Far.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for Mady,
with sweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met him pike hoses went
Poldy on.

Tap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone tapping, tap by tap.

Cowley, he stuns himself with it: kind of drunkenness. Better give way
only half way the way of a man with a maid. Instance enthusiasts. All
ears. Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes shut. Head nodding in time.
Dotty. You daren’t budge. Thinking strictly prohibited. Always talking
shop. Fiddlefaddle about notes.

All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when it stops because you
never know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn fifty quid a year.
Queer up there in the cockloft, alone, with stops and locks and keys.
Seated all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himself
or the other fellow blowing the bellows. Growl angry, then shriek
cursing (want to have wadding or something in his no don’t she cried),
then all of a soft sudden wee little wee little pipy wind.

Pwee! A wee little wind piped eeee. In Bloom’s little wee.

—Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returning with fetched pipe. I was with him
this morning at poor little Paddy Dignam’s...

—Ay, the Lord have mercy on him.

—By the bye there’s a tuningfork in there on the...

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

—The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What? Lidwell asked.

—O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw,
forgot it when he was here.

Blind he was she told George Lidwell second I saw. And played so
exquisitely, treat to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid, minagold.

—Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out!

—’lldo! cried Father Cowley.

Rrrrrr.

I feel I want...

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap

—Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine.

Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier of bread one last, one lonely,
last sardine of summer. Bloom alone.

—Very, he stared. The lower register, for choice.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Bloom went by Barry’s. Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if I had.
Twentyfour solicitors in that one house. Counted them. Litigation. Love
one another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power of
attorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward.

But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation:
Mickey Rooney’s band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at home
after pig’s cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsing
his band part. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses’ skins. Welt
them through life, then wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be
what you call yashmak or I mean kismet. Fate.

Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a tapping cane came taptaptapping by
Daly’s window where a mermaid hair all streaming (but he couldn’t see)
blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn’t), mermaid, coolest whiff of
all.

Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands, then blow. Even comb
and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly in her shift in
Lombard street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade made its
own, don’t you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? _Cloche.
Sonnez la._ Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle.
Locks and keys! Sweep! Four o’clock’s all’s well! Sleep! All is lost
now. Drum? Pompedy. Wait. I know. Towncrier, bumbailiff. Long John.
Waken the dead. Pom. Dignam. Poor little _nominedomine._ Pom. It is
music. I mean of course it’s all pom pom pom very much what they call
_da capo._ Still you can hear. As we march, we march along, march
along. Pom.

I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of
custom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the same he
must have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap.
Muffled up. Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown macin.
O, the whore of the lane!

A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the
day along the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form
endearing? Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Horn.
Who had the? Heehaw shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she.
Psst! Any chance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady
does be with you in the brown costume. Put you off your stroke, that.
Appointment we made knowing we’d never, well hardly ever. Too dear too
near to home sweet home. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day.
Face like dip. Damn her. O, well, she has to live like the rest. Look
in here.

In Lionel Marks’s antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold
dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered
candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain: six bob. Might
learn to play. Cheap. Let her pass. Course everything is dear if you
don’t want it. That’s what good salesman is. Make you buy what he wants
to sell. Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. Wanted to
charge me for the edge he gave it. She’s passing now. Six bob.

Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.

Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked their clinking
glasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia’s tempting
last rose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a
fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard.

Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.

Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks’s window. Robert
Emmet’s last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is.

—True men like you men.

—Ay, ay, Ben.

—Will lift your glass with us.

They lifted.

Tschink. Tschunk.

Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He saw
not gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor
Richie nor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see.

Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Softly. _When my country
takes her place among._

Prrprr.

Must be the bur.

Fff! Oo. Rrpr.

_Nations of the earth._ No-one behind. She’s passed. _Then and not till
then._ Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I’m
sure it’s the burgund. Yes. One, two. _Let my epitaph be._ Kraaaaaa.
_Written. I have._

Pprrpffrrppffff.

_Done._




[ 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 he, _I’ll have him
summonsed up before the court, so I will, for trading without a
licence._ And he after stuffing himself till he’s fit to burst. Jesus,
I had to laugh at the little jewy getting his shirt out. _He drink me
my teas. He eat me my sugars. Because he no pay me my moneys?_

For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin’s
parade in the city of Dublin, Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter
called the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael E. Geraghty,
esquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the city of Dublin, Arran quay ward,
gentleman, hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds
avoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and no pence per
pound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed
crystal, at threepence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor
to the said vendor of one pound five shillings and sixpence sterling
for value received which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said
vendor in weekly instalments every seven calendar days of three
shillings and no pence sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall
not be pawned or pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said
purchaser but shall be and remain and be held to be the sole and
exclusive property of the said vendor to be disposed of at his good
will and pleasure until the said amount shall have been duly paid by
the said purchaser to the said vendor in the manner herein set forth as
this day hereby agreed between the said vendor, his heirs, successors,
trustees and assigns of the one part and the said purchaser, his heirs,
successors, trustees and assigns of the other part.

—Are you a strict t.t.? says Joe.

—Not taking anything between drinks, says I.

—What about paying our respects to our friend? says Joe.

—Who? says I. Sure, he’s out in John of God’s off his head, poor man.

—Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.

—Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.

—Come around to Barney Kiernan’s, says Joe. I want to see the citizen.

—Barney mavourneen’s be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe?

—Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms.

—What was that, Joe? says I.

—Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want to
give the citizen the hard word about it.

So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the
courthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he
has it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn’t get over
that bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a
licence, says he.

In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There
rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead as
in life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant
land it is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport
the gurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock,
the grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed
coarse fish generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too
numerous to be enumerated. In the mild breezes of the west and of the
east the lofty trees wave in different directions their firstclass
foliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted
planetree, the eugenic eucalyptus and other ornaments of the arboreal
world with which that region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovely
maidens sit in close proximity to the roots of the lovely trees singing
the most lovely songs while they play with all kinds of lovely objects
as for example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts
of eels, codlings, creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful
insects. And heroes voyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana to
Slievemargy, the peerless princes of unfettered Munster and of Connacht
the just and of smooth sleek Leinster and of Cruachan’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 longwools and storesheep and
Cuffe’s prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the
various different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus
heifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime
premiated milchcows and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling,
cackling, roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting,
champing, chewing, of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from
pasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy
vales of Thomond, from the M’Gillicuddy’s reeks the inaccessible and
lordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from the gentle declivities of the
place of the race of Kiar, their udders distended with superabundance
of milk and butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmer’s firkins
and targets of lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs in great
hundreds, various in size, the agate with this dun.

So we turned into Barney Kiernan’s and there, sure enough, was the
citizen up in the corner having a great confab with himself and that
bloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he waiting for what the sky would
drop in the way of drink.

—There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his
load of papers, working for the cause.

The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him would give you the creeps.
Be a corporal work of mercy if someone would take the life of that
bloody dog. I’m told for a fact he ate a good part of the breeches off
a constabulary man in Santry that came round one time with a blue paper
about a licence.

—Stand and deliver, says he.

—That’s all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here.

—Pass, friends, says he.

Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he:

—What’s your opinion of the times?

Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But, begob, Joe was equal to
the occasion.

—I think the markets are on a rise, says he, sliding his hand down his
fork.

So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says:

—Foreign wars is the cause of it.

And says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket:

—It’s the Russians wish to tyrannise.

—Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. I’ve a thirst on me
I wouldn’t sell for half a crown.

—Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.

—Wine of the country, says he.

—What’s yours? says Joe.

—Ditto MacAnaspey, says I.

—Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how’s the old heart, citizen? says
he.

—Never better, _a chara_, says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh?

And with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck
and, by Jesus, he near throttled him.

The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower was
that of a broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired
freelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed longheaded
deepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced sinewyarmed
hero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and his
rocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was likewise the rest of
his body wherever visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair
in hue and toughness similar to the mountain gorse (_Ulex Europeus_).
The widewinged nostrils, from which bristles of the same tawny hue
projected, were of such capaciousness that within their cavernous
obscurity the fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. The eyes in
which a tear and a smile strove ever for the mastery were of the
dimensions of a goodsized cauliflower. A powerful current of warm
breath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his
mouth while in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations
of his formidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the
summit of the lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to
vibrate and tremble.

He wore a long unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching to
the knees in a loose kilt and this was bound about his middle by a
girdle of plaited straw and rushes. Beneath this he wore trews of
deerskin, roughly stitched with gut. His nether extremities were
encased in high Balbriggan buskins dyed in lichen purple, the feet
being shod with brogues of salted cowhide laced with the windpipe of
the same beast. From his girdle hung a row of seastones which jangled
at every movement of his portentous frame and on these were graven with
rude yet striking art the tribal images of many Irish heroes and
heroines of antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles, Niall of nine
hostages, Brian of Kincora, the ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh, Shane
O’Neill, Father John Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield, Red Hugh
O’Donnell, Red Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan O’Growney, Michael
Dwyer, Francy Higgins, Henry Joy M’Cracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley,
Thomas Conneff, Peg Woffington, the Village Blacksmith, Captain
Moonlight, Captain Boycott, Dante Alighieri, Christopher Columbus, S.
Fursa, S. Brendan, Marshal MacMahon, Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe Tone,
the Mother of the Maccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose of
Castile, the Man for Galway, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte
Carlo, The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who Didn’t, Benjamin Franklin,
Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish,
Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell,
Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the
Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian
Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan
and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the Bold
Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen
Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben
Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss
Croker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva,
The Lily of Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky
Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa, Don
Philip O’Sullivan Beare. A couched spear of acuminated granite rested
by him while at his feet reposed a savage animal of the canine tribe
whose stertorous gasps announced that he was sunk in uneasy slumber, a
supposition confirmed by hoarse growls and spasmodic movements which
his master repressed from time to time by tranquilising blows of a
mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of paleolithic stone.

So anyhow Terry brought the three pints Joe was standing and begob the
sight nearly left my eyes when I saw him land out a quid. O, as true as
I’m telling you. A goodlooking sovereign.

—And there’s more where that came from, says he.

—Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? says I.

—Sweat of my brow, says Joe. ’Twas the prudent member gave me the
wheeze.

—I saw him before I met you, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and
Greek street with his cod’s eye counting up all the guts of the fish.

Who comes through Michan’s land, bedight in sable armour? O’Bloom, the
son of Rory: it is he. Impervious to fear is Rory’s son: he of the
prudent soul.

—For the old woman of Prince’s street, says the citizen, the subsidised
organ. The pledgebound party on the floor of the house. And look at
this blasted rag, says he. Look at this, says he. _The Irish
Independent,_ if you please, founded by Parnell to be the workingman’s
friend. Listen to the births and deaths in the _Irish all for Ireland
Independent,_ and I’ll thank you and the marriages.

And he starts reading them out:

—Gordon, Barnfield crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne’s
on Sea: the wife of William T Redmayne of a son. How’s that, eh? Wright
and Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and the
late George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham road, Stockwell, Playwood and
Ridsdale at Saint Jude’s, Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest,
dean of Worcester. Eh? Deaths. Bristow, at Whitehall lane, London:
Carr, Stoke Newington, of gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at the
Moat house, Chepstow...

—I know that fellow, says Joe, from bitter experience.

—Cockburn. Dimsey, wife of David Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller,
Tottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning street,
Liverpool, Isabella Helen. How’s that for a national press, eh, my
brown son! How’s that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber?

—Ah, well, says Joe, handing round the boose. Thanks be to God they had
the start of us. Drink that, citizen.

—I will, says he, honourable person.

—Health, Joe, says I. And all down the form.

Ah! Ow! Don’t be talking! I was blue mouldy for the want of that pint.
Declare to God I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a click.

And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came
swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, a comely youth and behind him
there passed an elder of noble gait and countenance, bearing the sacred
scrolls of law and with him his lady wife a dame of peerless lineage,
fairest of her race.

Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door and hid behind Barney’s
snug, squeezed up with the laughing. And who was sitting up there in
the corner that I hadn’t seen snoring drunk blind to the world only Bob
Doran. I didn’t know what was up and Alf kept making signs out of the
door. And begob what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breen
in his bathslippers with two bloody big books tucked under his oxter
and the wife hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman, trotting
like a poodle. I thought Alf would split.

—Look at him, says he. Breen. He’s traipsing all round Dublin with a
postcard someone sent him with U. p: up on it to take a li...

And he doubled up.

—Take a what? says I.

—Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds.

—O hell! says I.

The bloody mongrel began to growl that’d put the fear of God in you
seeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs.

_—Bi i dho husht,_ says he.

—Who? says Joe.

—Breen, says Alf. He was in John Henry Menton’s and then he went round
to Collis and Ward’s and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round
to the subsheriff’s for a lark. O God, I’ve a pain laughing. U. p: up.
The long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now the bloody
old lunatic is gone round to Green street to look for a G man.

—When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.

—Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan?

—Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a
pony. That bloody old fool! Ten thousand pounds. You should have seen
long John’s eye. U. p ....

And he started laughing.

—Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that Bergan?

—Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.

Terence O’Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup full
of the foamy ebon ale which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh and
Bungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning as the sons of
deathless Leda. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and
mass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour
juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day
from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat.

Then did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the manner born,
that nectarous beverage and you offered the crystal cup to him that
thirsted, the soul of chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals.

But he, the young chief of the O’Bergan’s, could ill brook to be
outdone in generous deeds but gave therefor with gracious gesture a
testoon of costliest bronze. Thereon embossed in excellent smithwork
was seen the image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house of
Brunswick, Victoria her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of
God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the
British dominions beyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress
of India, even she, who bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the
wellbeloved, for they knew and loved her from the rising of the sun to
the going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.

—What’s that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, prowling up and
down outside?

—What’s that? says Joe.

—Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about hanging,
I’ll show you something you never saw. Hangmen’s letters. Look at here.

So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his
pocket.

—Are you codding? says I.

—Honest injun, says Alf. Read them.

So Joe took up the letters.

—Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran.

So I saw there was going to be a bit of a dust. Bob’s a queer chap when
the porter’s up in him so says I just to make talk:

—How’s Willy Murray those times, Alf?

—I don’t know, says Alf. I saw him just now in Capel street with Paddy
Dignam. Only I was running after that...

—You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?

—With Dignam, says Alf.

—Is it Paddy? says Joe.

—Yes, says Alf. Why?

—Don’t you know he’s dead? says Joe.

—Paddy Dignam dead! says Alf.

—Ay, says Joe.

—Sure I’m after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, as plain as
a pikestaff.

—Who’s dead? says Bob Doran.

—You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm.

—What? says Alf. Good Christ, only five... What?... And Willy Murray
with him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim’s... What? Dignam
dead?

—What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who’s talking about...?

—Dead! says Alf. He’s no more dead than you are.

—Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this morning
anyhow.

—Paddy? says Alf.

—Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him.

—Good Christ! says Alf.

Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted.

In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when prayer by
tantras had been directed to the proper quarter a faint but increasing
luminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, the apparition of
the etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to the discharge
of jivic rays from the crown of the head and face. Communication was
effected through the pituitary body and also by means of the
orangefiery and scarlet rays emanating from the sacral region and solar
plexus. Questioned by his earthname as to his whereabouts in the
heavenworld he stated that he was now on the path of prālāyā 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 tālāfānā, ālāvātār, hātākāldā, wātāklāsāt 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 Māyā to acknowledge the true
path for it was reported in devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were
out for mischief on the eastern angle where the ram has power. It was
then queried whether there were any special desires on the part of the
defunct and the reply was: _We greet you, friends of earth, who are
still in the body. Mind C. K. doesn’t pile it on._ It was ascertained
that the reference was to Mr Cornelius Kelleher, manager of Messrs H.
J. O’Neill’s popular funeral establishment, a personal friend of the
defunct, who had been responsible for the carrying out of the interment
arrangements. Before departing he requested that it should be told to
his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking for
was at present under the commode in the return room and that the pair
should be sent to Cullen’s to be soled only as the heels were still
good. He stated that this had greatly perturbed his peace of mind in
the other region and earnestly requested that his desire should be made
known.

Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was
intimated that this had given satisfaction.

He is gone from mortal haunts: O’Dignam, sun of our morning. Fleet was
his foot on the bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow. Wail, Banba, with
your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.

—There he is again, says the citizen, staring out.

—Who? says I.

—Bloom, says he. He’s on point duty up and down there for the last ten
minutes.

And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.

Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was.

—Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him.

And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowest
blackguard in Dublin when he’s under the influence:

—Who said Christ is good?

—I beg your parsnips, says Alf.

—Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy
Dignam?

—Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He’s over all his troubles.

But Bob Doran shouts out of him.

—He’s a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.

Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they didn’t
want that kind of talk in a respectable licensed premises. And Bob
Doran starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you’re there.

—The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character.

The tear is bloody near your eye. Talking through his bloody hat.
Fitter for him go home to the little sleepwalking bitch he married,
Mooney, the bumbailiff’s daughter, mother kept a kip in Hardwicke
street, that used to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons told
me that was stopping there at two in the morning without a stitch on
her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.

—The noblest, the truest, says he. And he’s gone, poor little Willy,
poor little Paddy Dignam.

And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that
beam of heaven.

Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round
the door.

—Come in, come on, he won’t eat you, says the citizen.

So Bloom slopes in with his cod’s eye on the dog and he asks Terry was
Martin Cunningham there.

—O, Christ M’Keown, says Joe, reading one of the letters. Listen to
this, will you?

And he starts reading out one.

_7 Hunter Street,
Liverpool._


_To the High Sheriff of Dublin,
            Dublin._


_Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the abovementioned painful
case i hanged Joe Gann in Bootle jail on the 12 of Febuary 1900 and i
hanged..._

—Show us, Joe, says I.

—_... private Arthur Chace for fowl murder of Jessie Tilsit in
Pentonville prison and i was assistant when..._

—Jesus, says I.

—_... Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith..._

The citizen made a grab at the letter.

—Hold hard, says Joe, _i have a special nack of putting the noose once
in he can’t get out hoping to be favoured i remain, honoured sir, my
terms is five ginnees._

_H. Rumbold,
            Master Barber._


—And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen.

—And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe. Here, says he, take them
to hell out of my sight, Alf. Hello, Bloom, says he, what will you
have?

So they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn’t and
he couldn’t and excuse him no offence and all to that and then he said
well he’d just take a cigar. Gob, he’s a prudent member and no mistake.

—Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe.

And Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a mourning card with
a black border round it.

—They’re all barbers, says he, from the black country that would hang
their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses.

And he was telling us there’s two fellows waiting below to pull his
heels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and then they
chop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob a skull.

In the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Their
deadly coil they grasp: yea, and therein they lead to Erebus whatsoever
wight hath done a deed of blood for I will on nowise suffer it even so
saith the Lord.

So they started talking about capital punishment and of course Bloom
comes out with the why and the wherefore and all the codology of the
business and the old dog smelling him all the time I’m told those
jewies does have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for dogs about
I don’t know what all deterrent effect and so forth and so on.

—There’s one thing it hasn’t a deterrent effect on, says Alf.

—What’s that? says Joe.

—The poor bugger’s tool that’s being hanged, says Alf.

—That so? says Joe.

—God’s truth, says Alf. I heard that from the head warder that was in
Kilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, the invincible. He told me when
they cut him down after the drop it was standing up in their faces like
a poker.

—Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe, as someone said.

—That can be explained by science, says Bloom. It’s only a natural
phenomenon, don’t you see, because on account of the...

And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science
and this phenomenon and the other phenomenon.

The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered
medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the
cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would,
according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be
calculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent
ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus,
thereby causing the elastic pores of the _corpora cavernosa_ to rapidly
dilate in such a way as to instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood
to that part of the human anatomy known as the penis or male organ
resulting in the phenomenon which has been denominated by the faculty a
morbid upwards and outwards philoprogenitive erection _in articulo
mortis per diminutionem capitis._

So of course the citizen was only waiting for the wink of the word and
he starts gassing out of him about the invincibles and the old guard
and the men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joe
with him about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transported
for the cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this,
that and the other. Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a
new dog so he ought. Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and sneezing all
round the place and scratching his scabs. And round he goes to Bob
Doran that was standing Alf a half one sucking up for what he could
get. So of course Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool with him:

—Give us the paw! Give the paw, doggy! Good old doggy! Give the paw
here! Give us the paw!

Arrah, bloody end to the paw he’d paw and Alf trying to keep him from
tumbling off the bloody stool atop of the bloody old dog and he talking
all kinds of drivel about training by kindness and thoroughbred dog and
intelligent dog: give you the bloody pip. Then he starts scraping a few
bits of old biscuit out of the bottom of a Jacobs’ tin he told Terry to
bring. Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging
out of him a yard long for more. Near ate the tin and all, hungry
bloody mongrel.

And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, the
brothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmet
and die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara Curran and
she’s far from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his knockmedown
cigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon! The fat heap he
married is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley.
Time they were stopping up in the _City Arms_ pisser Burke told me
there was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and
Bloom trying to get the soft side of her doing the mollycoddle playing
bézique to come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating
meat of a Friday because the old one was always thumping her craw and
taking the lout out for a walk. And one time he led him the rounds of
Dublin and, by the holy farmer, he never cried crack till he brought
him home as drunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him
the evils of alcohol and by herrings, if the three women didn’t near
roast him, it’s a queer story, the old one, Bloom’s wife and Mrs O’Dowd
that kept the hotel. Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking them
off chewing the fat. And Bloom with his _but don’t you see?_ and _but
on the other hand_. And sure, more be token, the lout I’m told was in
Power’s after, the blender’s, round in Cope street going home footless
in a cab five times in the week after drinking his way through all the
samples in the bloody establishment. Phenomenon!

—The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and
glaring at Bloom.

—Ay, ay, says Joe.

—You don’t grasp my point, says Bloom. What I mean is...

—_Sinn Fein!_ says the citizen. _Sinn Fein amhain!_ The friends we love
are by our side and the foes we hate before us.

The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries far
and near the funereal deathbell tolled unceasingly while all around the
gloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred muffled drums
punctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance. The deafening
claps of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up the
ghastly scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent its
supernatural pomp to the already gruesome spectacle. A torrential rain
poured down from the floodgates of the angry heavens upon the bared
heads of the assembled multitude which numbered at the lowest
computation five hundred thousand persons. A posse of Dublin
Metropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person
maintained order in the vast throng for whom the York street brass and
reed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering on
their blackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from
the cradle by Speranza’s plaintive muse. Special quick excursion trains
and upholstered charabancs had been provided for the comfort of our
country cousins of whom there were large contingents. Considerable
amusement was caused by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and
M-ll-g-n who sang _The Night before Larry was stretched_ in their usual
mirth-provoking fashion. Our two inimitable drolls did a roaring trade
with their broadsheets among lovers of the comedy element and nobody
who has a corner in his heart for real Irish fun without vulgarity will
grudge them their hardearned pennies. The children of the Male and
Female Foundling Hospital who thronged the windows overlooking the
scene were delighted with this unexpected addition to the day’s
entertainment and a word of praise is due to the Little Sisters of the
Poor for their excellent idea of affording the poor fatherless and
motherless children a genuinely instructive treat. The viceregal
houseparty which included many wellknown ladies was chaperoned by Their
Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the grandstand while
the picturesque foreign delegation known as the Friends of the Emerald
Isle was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite. The delegation,
present in full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone
(the semiparalysed _doyen_ of the party who had to be assisted to his
seat by the aid of a powerful steam crane), Monsieur Pierrepaul
Petitépatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire Pokethankertscheff, the
Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha
Virága Kisászony Putrápesthi, Hiram Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos
Karamelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh Rahat Lokum Effendi, Señor Hidalgo
Caballero Don Pecadillo y Palabras y Paternoster de la Malora de la
Malaria, Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung Chang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen,
Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr
Kratchinabritchisitch, Borus Hupinkoff, Herr Hurhausdirektorpresident
Hans Chuechli-Steuerli,
Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocentge
neralhistoryspecialprofessordoctor 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. Hard by the block
stood the grim figure of the executioner, his visage being concealed in
a tengallon pot with two circular perforated apertures through which
his eyes glowered furiously. As he awaited the fatal signal he tested
the edge of his horrible weapon by honing it upon his brawny forearm or
decapitated in rapid succession a flock of sheep which had been
provided by the admirers of his fell but necessary office. On a
handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the quartering
knife, the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances (specially
supplied by the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round and
Sons, Sheffield), a terra cotta saucepan for the reception of the
duodenum, colon, blind intestine and appendix etc when successfully
extracted and two commodious milkjugs destined to receive the most
precious blood of the most precious victim. The housesteward of the
amalgamated cats’ and dogs’ home was in attendance to convey these
vessels when replenished to that beneficent institution. Quite an
excellent repast consisting of rashers and eggs, fried steak and
onions, done to a nicety, delicious hot breakfast rolls and
invigorating tea had been considerately provided by the authorities for
the consumption of the central figure of the tragedy who was in capital
spirits when prepared for death and evinced the keenest interest in the
proceedings from beginning to end but he, with an abnegation rare in
these our times, rose nobly to the occasion and expressed the dying
wish (immediately acceded to) that the meal should be divided in
aliquot parts among the members of the sick and indigent roomkeepers’
association as a token of his regard and esteem. The _nec_ and _non
plus ultra_ of emotion were reached when the blushing bride elect burst
her way through the serried ranks of the bystanders and flung herself
upon the muscular bosom of him who was about to be launched into
eternity for her sake. The hero folded her willowy form in a loving
embrace murmuring fondly _Sheila, my own_. Encouraged by this use of
her christian name she kissed passionately all the various suitable
areas of his person which the decencies of prison garb permitted her
ardour to reach. She swore to him as they mingled the salt streams of
their tears that she would ever cherish his memory, that she would
never forget her hero boy who went to his death with a song on his lips
as if he were but going to a hurling match in Clonturk park. She
brought back to his recollection the happy days of blissful childhood
together on the banks of Anna Liffey when they had indulged in the
innocent pastimes of the young and, oblivious of the dreadful present,
they both laughed heartily, all the spectators, including the venerable
pastor, joining in the general merriment. That monster audience simply
rocked with delight. But anon they were overcome with grief and clasped
their hands for the last time. A fresh torrent of tears burst from
their lachrymal ducts and the vast concourse of people, touched to the
inmost core, broke into heartrending sobs, not the least affected being
the aged prebendary himself. Big strong men, officers of the peace and
genial giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use of
their handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was not a dry eye
in that record assemblage. A most romantic incident occurred when a
handsome young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair
sex, stepped forward and, presenting his visiting card, bankbook and
genealogical tree, solicited the hand of the hapless young lady,
requesting her to name the day, and was accepted on the spot. Every
lady in the audience was presented with a tasteful souvenir of the
occasion in the shape of a skull and crossbones brooch, a timely and
generous act which evoked a fresh outburst of emotion: and when the
gallant young Oxonian (the bearer, by the way, of one of the most
timehonoured names in Albion’s history) placed on the finger of his
blushing _fiancée_ an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in
the form of a fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds. Nay,
even the stern provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell
ffrenchmullan Tomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who had
blown a considerable number of sepoys from the cannonmouth without
flinching, could not now restrain his natural emotion. With his mailed
gauntlet he brushed away a furtive tear and was overheard, by those
privileged burghers who happened to be in his immediate _entourage,_ to
murmur to himself in a faltering undertone:

—God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Blimey it
makes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it does, when I sees her cause
I thinks of my old mashtub what’s waiting for me down Limehouse way.

So then the citizen begins talking about the Irish language and the
corporation meeting and all to that and the shoneens that can’t speak
their own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone for a
quid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that he
cadged off of Joe and talking about the Gaelic league and the
antitreating league and drink, the curse of Ireland. Antitreating is
about the size of it. Gob, he’d let you pour all manner of drink down
his throat till the Lord would call him before you’d ever see the froth
of his pint. And one night I went in with a fellow into one of their
musical evenings, song and dance about she could get up on a truss of
hay she could my Maureen Lay and there was a fellow with a Ballyhooly
blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him in Irish and a lot of colleen
bawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals and
oranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, flahoolagh
entertainment, don’t be talking. Ireland sober is Ireland free. And
then an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougers
shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one or two
sky pilots having an eye around that there was no goings on with the
females, hitting below the belt.

So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the tin was empty
starts mousing around by Joe and me. I’d train him by kindness, so I
would, if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now and again
where it wouldn’t blind him.

—Afraid he’ll bite you? says the citizen, jeering.

—No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lamppost.

So he calls the old dog over.

—What’s on you, Garry? says he.

Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in Irish and the
old towser growling, letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera.
Such growling you never heard as they let off between them. Someone
that has nothing better to do ought to write a letter _pro bono
publico_ to the papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like of
that. Growling and grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth
is in it and the hydrophobia dropping out of his jaws.

All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among the
lower animals (and their name is legion) should make a point of not
missing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the
famous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the _sobriquet_
of Garryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of friends
and acquaintances Owen Garry. The exhibition, which is the result of
years of training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary
system, comprises, among other achievements, the recitation of verse.
Our greatest living phonetic expert (wild horses shall not drag it from
us!) has left no stone unturned in his efforts to delucidate and
compare the verse recited and has found it bears a _striking_
resemblance (the italics are ours) to the ranns of ancient Celtic
bards. We are not speaking so much of those delightful lovesongs with
which the writer who conceals his identity under the graceful pseudonym
of the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the bookloving world but
rather (as a contributor D. O. C. points out in an interesting
communication published by an evening contemporary) of the harsher and
more personal note which is found in the satirical effusions of the
famous Raftery and of Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a more
modern lyrist at present very much in the public eye. We subjoin a
specimen which has been rendered into English by an eminent scholar
whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose though we
believe that our readers will find the topical allusion rather more
than an indication. The metrical system of the canine original, which
recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of the Welsh
englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers will
agree that the spirit has been well caught. Perhaps it should be added
that the effect is greatly increased if Owen’s verse be spoken somewhat
slowly and indistinctly in a tone suggestive of suppressed rancour.

     The curse of my curses
     Seven days every day
     And seven dry Thursdays
     On you, Barney Kiernan,
     Has no sup of water
     To cool my courage,
     And my guts red roaring
     After Lowry’s lights.

So he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could
hear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have
another.

—I will, says he, _a chara_, to show there’s no ill feeling.

Gob, he’s not as green as he’s cabbagelooking. Arsing around from one
pub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap’s dog
and getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. Entertainment for
man and beast. And says Joe:

—Could you make a hole in another pint?

—Could a swim duck? says I.

—Same again, Terry, says Joe. Are you sure you won’t have anything in
the way of liquid refreshment? says he.

—Thank you, no, says Bloom. As a matter of fact I just wanted to meet
Martin Cunningham, don’t you see, about this insurance of poor
Dignam’s. Martin asked me to go to the house. You see, he, Dignam, I
mean, didn’t serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the
time and nominally under the act the mortgagee can’t recover on the
policy.

—Holy Wars, says Joe, laughing, that’s a good one if old Shylock is
landed. So the wife comes out top dog, what?

—Well, that’s a point, says Bloom, for the wife’s admirers.

—Whose admirers? says Joe.

—The wife’s advisers, I mean, says Bloom.

Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act
like the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench and for the benefit
of the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand that
Dignam owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widow
contested the mortgagee’s right till he near had the head of me addled
with his mortgagor under the act. He was bloody safe he wasn’t run in
himself under the act that time as a rogue and vagabond only he had a
friend in court. Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royal
Hungarian privileged lottery. True as you’re there. O, commend me to an
israelite! Royal and privileged Hungarian robbery.

So Bob Doran comes lurching around asking Bloom to tell Mrs Dignam he
was sorry for her trouble and he was very sorry about the funeral and
to tell her that he said and everyone who knew him said that there was
never a truer, a finer than poor little Willy that’s dead to tell her.
Choking with bloody foolery. And shaking Bloom’s hand doing the tragic
to tell her that. Shake hands, brother. You’re a rogue and I’m another.

—Let me, said he, so far presume upon our acquaintance which, however
slight it may appear if judged by the standard of mere time, is
founded, as I hope and believe, on a sentiment of mutual esteem as to
request of you this favour. But, should I have overstepped the limits
of reserve let the sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for my
boldness.

—No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to the full the motives which
actuate your conduct and I shall discharge the office you entrust to me
consoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one of sorrow,
this proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the bitterness
of the cup.

—Then suffer me to take your hand, said he. The goodness of your heart,
I feel sure, will dictate to you better than my inadequate words the
expressions which are most suitable to convey an emotion whose
poignancy, were I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me even of
speech.

And off with him and out trying to walk straight. Boosed at five
o’clock. Night he was near being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the
bobby, 14A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street after
closing time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard,
drinking porter out of teacups. And calling himself a Frenchy for the
shawls, Joseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, and he
serving mass in Adam and Eve’s when he was young with his eyes shut,
who wrote the new testament, and the old testament, and hugging and
smugging. And the two shawls killed with the laughing, picking his
pockets, the bloody fool and he spilling the porter all over the bed
and the two shawls screeching laughing at one another. _How is your
testament? Have you got an old testament?_ Only Paddy was passing
there, I tell you what. Then see him of a Sunday with his little
concubine of a wife, and she wagging her tail up the aisle of the
chapel with her patent boots on her, no less, and her violets, nice as
pie, doing the little lady. Jack Mooney’s sister. And the old
prostitute of a mother procuring rooms to street couples. Gob, Jack
made him toe the line. Told him if he didn’t patch up the pot, Jesus,
he’d kick the shite out of him.

So Terry brought the three pints.

—Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen.

—_Slan leat_, says he.

—Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen.

Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already. Want a small
fortune to keep him in drinks.

—Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? says Joe.

—Friend of yours, says Alf.

—Nannan? says Joe. The mimber?

—I won’t mention any names, says Alf.

—I thought so, says Joe. I saw him up at that meeting now with William
Field, M. P., the cattle traders.

—Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of
all countries and the idol of his own.

So Joe starts telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease and
the cattle traders and taking action in the matter and the citizen
sending them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out with his
sheepdip for the scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves and the
guaranteed remedy for timber tongue. Because he was up one time in a
knacker’s yard. Walking about with his book and pencil here’s my head
and my heels are coming till Joe Cuffe gave him the order of the boot
for giving lip to a grazier. Mister Knowall. Teach your grandmother how
to milk ducks. Pisser Burke was telling me in the hotel the wife used
to be in rivers of tears some times with Mrs O’Dowd crying her eyes out
with her eight inches of fat all over her. Couldn’t loosen her farting
strings but old cod’s eye was waltzing around her showing her how to do
it. What’s your programme today? Ay. Humane methods. Because the poor
animals suffer and experts say and the best known remedy that doesn’t
cause pain to the animal and on the sore spot administer gently. Gob,
he’d have a soft hand under a hen.

Ga Ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Black Liz is our hen. She lays eggs for
us. When she lays her egg she is so glad. Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Then
comes good uncle Leo. He puts his hand under black Liz and takes her
fresh egg. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook.

—Anyhow, says Joe, Field and Nannetti are going over tonight to London
to ask about it on the floor of the house of commons.

—Are you sure, says Bloom, the councillor is going? I wanted to see
him, as it happens.

—Well, he’s going off by the mailboat, says Joe, tonight.

—That’s too bad, says Bloom. I wanted particularly. Perhaps only Mr
Field is going. I couldn’t phone. No. You’re sure?

—Nannan’s going too, says Joe. The league told him to ask a question
tomorrow about the commissioner of police forbidding Irish games in the
park. What do you think of that, citizen? _The Sluagh na h-Eireann_.

Mr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat.): Arising out of the question of my
honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right
honourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that
these animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is
forthcoming as to their pathological condition?

Mr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.): Honourable members are already in
possession of the evidence produced before a committee of the whole
house. I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. The answer to the
honourable member’s question is in the affirmative.

Mr Orelli O’Reilly (Montenotte. Nat.): Have similar orders been issued
for the slaughter of human animals who dare to play Irish games in the
Phoenix park?

Mr Allfours: The answer is in the negative.

Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourable gentleman’s famous
Mitchelstown telegram inspired the policy of gentlemen on the Treasury
bench? (O! O!)

Mr Allfours: I must have notice of that question.

Mr Staylewit (Buncombe. Ind.): Don’t hesitate to shoot.

(Ironical opposition cheers.)

The speaker: Order! Order!

(The house rises. Cheers.)

—There’s the man, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival. There
he is sitting there. The man that got away James Stephens. The champion
of all Ireland at putting the sixteen pound shot. What was your best
throw, citizen?

—_Na bacleis_, says the citizen, letting on to be modest. There was a
time I was as good as the next fellow anyhow.

—Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You were and a bloody sight better.

—Is that really a fact? says Alf.

—Yes, says Bloom. That’s well known. Did you not know that?

So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of
lawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone and racy of the soil
and building up a nation once again and all to that. And of course
Bloom had to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower’s heart
violent exercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up a
straw from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: _Look at, Bloom.
Do you see that straw? That’s a straw_. Declare to my aunt he’d talk
about it for an hour so he would and talk steady.

A most interesting discussion took place in the ancient hall of _Brian
O’Ciarnain’s_ in _Sraid na Bretaine Bheag_, under the auspices of
_Sluagh na h-Eireann_, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports and the
importance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and
ancient Rome and ancient Ireland, for the development of the race. The
venerable president of the noble order was in the chair and the
attendance was of large dimensions. After an instructive discourse by
the chairman, a magnificent oration eloquently and forcibly expressed,
a most interesting and instructive discussion of the usual high
standard of excellence ensued as to the desirability of the
revivability of the ancient games and sports of our ancient Panceltic
forefathers. The wellknown and highly respected worker in the cause of
our old tongue, Mr Joseph M’Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for
the resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practised
morning and evening by Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the best
traditions of manly strength and prowess handed down to us from ancient
ages. L. Bloom, who met with a mixed reception of applause and hisses,
having espoused the negative the vocalist chairman brought the
discussion to a close, in response to repeated requests and hearty
plaudits from all parts of a bumper house, by a remarkably noteworthy
rendering of the immortal Thomas Osborne Davis’ evergreen verses
(happily too familiar to need recalling here) _A nation once again_ in
the execution of which the veteran patriot champion may be said without
fear of contradiction to have fairly excelled himself. The Irish
Caruso-Garibaldi was in superlative form and his stentorian notes were
heard to the greatest advantage in the timehonoured anthem sung as only
our citizen can sing it. His superb highclass vocalism, which by its
superquality greatly enhanced his already international reputation, was
vociferously applauded by the large audience among which were to be
noticed many prominent members of the clergy as well as representatives
of the press and the bar and the other learned professions. The
proceedings then terminated.

Amongst the clergy present were the very rev. William Delany, S. J., L.
L. D.; the rt rev. Gerald Molloy, D. D.; the rev. P. J. Kavanagh, C. S.
Sp.; the rev. T. Waters, C. C.; the rev. John M. Ivers, P. P.; the rev.
P. J. Cleary, O. S. F.; the rev. L. J. Hickey, O. P.; the very rev. Fr.
Nicholas, O. S. F. C.; the very rev. B. Gorman, O. D. C.; the rev. T.
Maher, S. J.; the very rev. James Murphy, S. J.; the rev. John Lavery,
V. F.; the very rev. William Doherty, D. D.; the rev. Peter Fagan, O.
M.; the rev. T. Brangan, O. S. A.; the rev. J. Flavin, C. C.; the rev.
M. A. Hackett, C. C.; the rev. W. Hurley, C. C.; the rt rev. Mgr
M’Manus, V. G.; the rev. B. R. Slattery, O. M. I.; the very rev. M. D.
Scally, P. P.; the rev. F. T. Purcell, O. P.; the very rev. Timothy
canon Gorman, P. P.; the rev. J. Flanagan, C. C. The laity included P.
Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc.

—Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, were you at that
Keogh-Bennett match?

—No, says Joe.

—I heard So and So made a cool hundred quid over it, says Alf.

—Who? Blazes? says Joe.

And says Bloom:

—What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training
the eye.

—Ay, Blazes, says Alf. He let out that Myler was on the beer to run up
the odds and he swatting all the time.

—We know him, says the citizen. The traitor’s son. We know what put
English gold in his pocket.

—True for you, says Joe.

And Bloom cuts in again about lawn tennis and the circulation of the
blood, asking Alf:

—Now, don’t you think, Bergan?

—Myler dusted the floor with him, says Alf. Heenan and Sayers was only
a bloody fool to it. Handed him the father and mother of a beating. See
the little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellow swiping. God,
he gave him one last puck in the wind, Queensberry rules and all, made
him puke what he never ate.

It was a historic and a hefty battle when Myler and Percy were
scheduled to don the gloves for the purse of fifty sovereigns.
Handicapped as he was by lack of poundage, Dublin’s pet lamb made up
for it by superlative skill in ringcraft. The final bout of fireworks
was a gruelling for both champions. The welterweight sergeantmajor had
tapped some lively claret in the previous mixup during which Keogh had
been receivergeneral of rights and lefts, the artilleryman putting in
some neat work on the pet’s nose, and Myler came on looking groggy. The
soldier got to business, leading off with a powerful left jab to which
the Irish gladiator retaliated by shooting out a stiff one flush to the
point of Bennett’s jaw. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him
with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one. The men came to
handigrips. Myler quickly became busy and got his man under, the bout
ending with the bulkier man on the ropes, Myler punishing him. The
Englishman, whose right eye was nearly closed, took his corner where he
was liberally drenched with water and when the bell went came on gamey
and brimful of pluck, confident of knocking out the fistic Eblanite in
jigtime. It was a fight to a finish and the best man for it. The two
fought like tigers and excitement ran fever high. The referee twice
cautioned Pucking Percy for holding but the pet was tricky and his
footwork a treat to watch. After a brisk exchange of courtesies during
which a smart upper cut of the military man brought blood freely from
his opponent’s mouth the lamb suddenly waded in all over his man and
landed a terrific left to Battling Bennett’s stomach, flooring him
flat. It was a knockout clean and clever. Amid tense expectation the
Portobello bruiser was being counted out when Bennett’s second Ole
Pfotts Wettstein threw in the towel and the Santry boy was declared
victor to the frenzied cheers of the public who broke through the
ringropes and fairly mobbed him with delight.

—He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. I hear he’s
running a concert tour now up in the north.

—He is, says Joe. Isn’t he?

—Who? says Bloom. Ah, yes. That’s quite true. Yes, a kind of summer
tour, you see. Just a holiday.

—Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn’t she? says Joe.

—My wife? says Bloom. She’s singing, yes. I think it will be a success
too. He’s an excellent man to organise. Excellent.

Hoho begob says I to myself says I. That explains the milk in the
cocoanut and absence of hair on the animal’s chest. Blazes doing the
tootle on the flute. Concert tour. Dirty Dan the dodger’s son off
Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government to
fight the Boers. Old Whatwhat. I called about the poor and water rate,
Mr Boylan. You what? The water rate, Mr Boylan. You whatwhat? That’s
the bucko that’ll organise her, take my tip. ’Twixt me and you
Caddareesh.

Pride of Calpe’s rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy. There
grew she to peerless beauty where loquat and almond scent the air. The
gardens of Alameda knew her step: the garths of olives knew and bowed.
The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms.

And lo, there entered one of the clan of the O’Molloy’s, a comely hero
of white face yet withal somewhat ruddy, his majesty’s counsel learned
in the law, and with him the prince and heir of the noble line of
Lambert.

—Hello, Ned.

—Hello, Alf.

—Hello, Jack.

—Hello, Joe.

—God save you, says the citizen.

—Save you kindly, says J. J. What’ll it be, Ned?

—Half one, says Ned.

So J. J. ordered the drinks.

—Were you round at the court? says Joe.

—Yes, says J. J. He’ll square that, Ned, says he.

—Hope so, says Ned.

Now what were those two at? J. J. getting him off the grand jury list
and the other give him a leg over the stile. With his name in Stubbs’s.
Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in their
eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee
orders. Pawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis street where
no-one would know him in the private office when I was there with
Pisser releasing his boots out of the pop. What’s your name, sir?
Dunne, says he. Ay, and done says I. Gob, he’ll come home by weeping
cross one of those days, I’m thinking.

—Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? says Alf. U. p: up.

—Yes, says J. J. Looking for a private detective.

—Ay, says Ned. And he wanted right go wrong to address the court only
Corny Kelleher got round him telling him to get the handwriting
examined first.

—Ten thousand pounds, says Alf, laughing. God, I’d give anything to
hear him before a judge and jury.

—Was it you did it, Alf? says Joe. The truth, the whole truth and
nothing but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson.

—Me? says Alf. Don’t cast your nasturtiums on my character.

—Whatever statement you make, says Joe, will be taken down in evidence
against you.

—Of course an action would lie, says J. J. It implies that he is not
_compos mentis_. U. p: up.

_—Compos_ your eye! says Alf, laughing. Do you know that he’s balmy?
Look at his head. Do you know that some mornings he has to get his hat
on with a shoehorn.

—Yes, says J. J., but the truth of a libel is no defence to an
indictment for publishing it in the eyes of the law.

—Ha ha, Alf, says Joe.

—Still, says Bloom, on account of the poor woman, I mean his wife.

—Pity about her, says the citizen. Or any other woman marries a half
and half.

—How half and half? says Bloom. Do you mean he...

—Half and half I mean, says the citizen. A fellow that’s neither fish
nor flesh.

—Nor good red herring, says Joe.

—That what’s I mean, says the citizen. A pishogue, if you know what
that is.

Begob I saw there was trouble coming. And Bloom explaining he meant on
account of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the old
stuttering fool. Cruelty to animals so it is to let that bloody
povertystricken Breen out on grass with his beard out tripping him,
bringing down the rain. And she with her nose cockahoop after she
married him because a cousin of his old fellow’s was pewopener to the
pope. Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney’s
moustaches, the signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papal
Zouave to the Holy Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street.
And who was he, tell us? A nobody, two pair back and passages, at seven
shillings a week, and he covered with all kinds of breastplates bidding
defiance to the world.

—And moreover, says J. J., a postcard is publication. It was held to be
sufficient evidence of malice in the testcase Sadgrove v. Hole. In my
opinion an action might lie.

Six and eightpence, please. Who wants your opinion? Let us drink our
pints in peace. Gob, we won’t be let even do that much itself.

—Well, good health, Jack, says Ned.

—Good health, Ned, says J. J.

—-There he is again, says Joe.

—Where? says Alf.

And begob there he was passing the door with his books under his oxter
and the wife beside him and Corny Kelleher with his wall eye looking in
as they went past, talking to him like a father, trying to sell him a
secondhand coffin.

—How did that Canada swindle case go off? says Joe.

—Remanded, says J. J.

One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of James
Wought alias Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the papers
saying he’d give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. What? Do you see
any green in the white of my eye? Course it was a bloody barney. What?
Swindled them all, skivvies and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, and
his own kidney too. J. J. was telling us there was an ancient Hebrew
Zaretsky or something weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on him,
swearing by the holy Moses he was stuck for two quid.

—Who tried the case? says Joe.

—Recorder, says Ned.

—Poor old sir Frederick, says Alf, you can cod him up to the two eyes.

—Heart as big as a lion, says Ned. Tell him a tale of woe about arrears
of rent and a sick wife and a squad of kids and, faith, he’ll dissolve
in tears on the bench.

—Ay, says Alf. Reuben J was bloody lucky he didn’t clap him in the dock
the other day for suing poor little Gumley that’s minding stones, for
the corporation there near Butt bridge.

And he starts taking off the old recorder letting on to cry:

—A most scandalous thing! This poor hardworking man! How many children?
Ten, did you say?

—Yes, your worship. And my wife has the typhoid.

—And the wife with typhoid fever! Scandalous! Leave the court
immediately, sir. No, sir, I’ll make no order for payment. How dare
you, sir, come up before me and ask me to make an order! A poor
hardworking industrious man! I dismiss the case.

And whereas on the sixteenth day of the month of the oxeyed goddess and
in the third week after the feastday of the Holy and Undivided Trinity,
the daughter of the skies, the virgin moon being then in her first
quarter, it came to pass that those learned judges repaired them to the
halls of law. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gave
his rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury in the
probate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the first
chargeant upon the property in the matter of the will propounded and
final testamentary disposition _in re_ the real and personal estate of
the late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased, versus
Livingstone, an infant, of unsound mind, and another. And to the solemn
court of Green street there came sir Frederick the Falconer. And he sat
him there about the hour of five o’clock to administer the law of the
brehons at the commission for all that and those parts to be holden in
and for the county of the city of Dublin. And there sat with him the
high sinhedrim of the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of
the tribe of Patrick and of the tribe of Hugh and of the tribe of Owen
and of the tribe of Conn and of the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe of
Fergus and of the tribe of Finn and of the tribe of Dermot and of the
tribe of Cormac and of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of Caolte
and of the tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good men and
true. And he conjured them by Him who died on rood that they should
well and truly try and true deliverance make in the issue joined
between their sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at the bar and
true verdict give according to the evidence so help them God and kiss
the book. And they rose in their seats, those twelve of Iar, and they
swore by the name of Him Who is from everlasting that they would do His
rightwiseness. And straightway the minions of the law led forth from
their donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehended
in consequence of information received. And they shackled him hand and
foot and would take of him ne bail ne mainprise but preferred a charge
against him for he was a malefactor.

—Those are nice things, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland
filling the country with bugs.

So Bloom lets on he heard nothing and he starts talking with Joe,
telling him he needn’t trouble about that little matter till the first
but if he would just say a word to Mr Crawford. And so Joe swore high
and holy by this and by that he’d do the devil and all.

—Because, you see, says Bloom, for an advertisement you must have
repetition. That’s the whole secret.

—Rely on me, says Joe.

—Swindling the peasants, says the citizen, and the poor of Ireland. We
want no more strangers in our house.

—O, I’m sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom. It’s just that
Keyes, you see.

—Consider that done, says Joe.

—Very kind of you, says Bloom.

—The strangers, says the citizen. Our own fault. We let them come in.
We brought them in. The adulteress and her paramour brought the Saxon
robbers here.

—Decree _nisi,_ says J. J.

And Bloom letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, a
spider’s web in the corner behind the barrel, and the citizen scowling
after him and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to bite
and when.

—A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, that’s what’s the cause of all
our misfortunes.

—And here she is, says Alf, that was giggling over the _Police Gazette_
with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint.

—Give us a squint at her, says I.

And what was it only one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry borrows
off of Corny Kelleher. Secrets for enlarging your private parts.
Misconduct of society belle. Norman W. Tupper, wealthy Chicago
contractor, finds pretty but faithless wife in lap of officer Taylor.
Belle in her bloomers misconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling
for her tickles and Norman W. Tupper bouncing in with his peashooter
just in time to be late after she doing the trick of the loop with
officer Taylor.

—O jakers, Jenny, says Joe, how short your shirt is!

—There’s hair, Joe, says I. Get a queer old tailend of corned beef off
of that one, what?

So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a face on
him as long as a late breakfast.

—Well, says the citizen, what’s the latest from the scene of action?
What did those tinkers in the city hall at their caucus meeting decide
about the Irish language?

O’Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the
puissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit of
that which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most obedient
city, second of the realm, had met them in the tholsel, and there,
after due prayers to the gods who dwell in ether supernal, had taken
solemn counsel whereby they might, if so be it might be, bring once
more into honour among mortal men the winged speech of the seadivided
Gael.

—It’s on the march, says the citizen. To hell with the bloody brutal
Sassenachs and their _patois._

So J. J. puts in a word, doing the toff about one story was good till
you heard another and blinking facts and the Nelson policy, putting
your blind eye to the telescope and drawing up a bill of attainder to
impeach a nation, and Bloom trying to back him up moderation and
botheration and their colonies and their civilisation.

—Their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen. To hell with them!
The curse of a goodfornothing God light sideways on the bloody
thicklugged sons of whores’ gets! No music and no art and no literature
worthy of the name. Any civilisation they have they stole from us.
Tonguetied sons of bastards’ ghosts.

—The European family, says J. J....

—They’re not European, says the citizen. I was in Europe with Kevin
Egan of Paris. You wouldn’t see a trace of them or their language
anywhere in Europe except in a _cabinet d’aisance._

And says John Wyse:

—Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo:

—_Conspuez les Anglais! Perfide Albion!_

He said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands the
medher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering his tribal slogan _Lamh
Dearg Abu_, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of mighty
valorous heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster
silent as the deathless gods.

—What’s up with you, says I to Lenehan. You look like a fellow that had
lost a bob and found a tanner.

—Gold cup, says he.

—Who won, Mr Lenehan? says Terry.

_—Throwaway,_ says he, at twenty to one. A rank outsider. And the rest
nowhere.

—And Bass’s mare? says Terry.

—Still running, says he. We’re all in a cart. Boylan plunged two quid
on my tip _Sceptre_ for himself and a lady friend.

—I had half a crown myself, says Terry, on _Zinfandel_ that Mr Flynn
gave me. Lord Howard de Walden’s.

—Twenty to one, says Lenehan. Such is life in an outhouse. _Throwaway,_
says he. Takes the biscuit, and talking about bunions. Frailty, thy
name is _Sceptre._

So he went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if there was
anything he could lift on the nod, the old cur after him backing his
luck with his mangy snout up. Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard.

—Not there, my child, says he.

—Keep your pecker up, says Joe. She’d have won the money only for the
other dog.

And J. J. and the citizen arguing about law and history with Bloom
sticking in an odd word.

—Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in others’ eyes but they
can’t see the beam in their own.

—_Raimeis_, says the citizen. There’s no-one as blind as the fellow
that won’t see, if you know what that means. Where are our missing
twenty millions of Irish should be here today instead of four, our lost
tribes? And our potteries and textiles, the finest in the whole world!
And our wool that was sold in Rome in the time of Juvenal and our flax
and our damask from the looms of Antrim and our Limerick lace, our
tanneries and our white flint glass down there by Ballybough and our
Huguenot poplin that we have since Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk
and our Foxford tweeds and ivory raised point from the Carmelite
convent in New Ross, nothing like it in the whole wide world. Where are
the Greek merchants that came through the pillars of Hercules, the
Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and Tyrian
purple to sell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen? Read Tacitus and
Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis. Wine, peltries, Connemara marble,
silver from Tipperary, second to none, our farfamed horses even today,
the Irish hobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering to pay customs
duties for the right to fish in our waters. What do the yellowjohns of
Anglia owe us for our ruined trade and our ruined hearths? And the beds
of the Barrow and Shannon they won’t deepen with millions of acres of
marsh and bog to make us all die of consumption?

—As treeless as Portugal we’ll be soon, says John Wyse, or Heligoland
with its one tree if something is not done to reafforest the land.
Larches, firs, all the trees of the conifer family are going fast. I
was reading a report of lord Castletown’s...

—Save them, says the citizen, the giant ash of Galway and the chieftain
elm of Kildare with a fortyfoot bole and an acre of foliage. Save the
trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of
Eire, O.

—Europe has its eyes on you, says Lenehan.

The fashionable international world attended _en masse_ this afternoon
at the wedding of the chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chief
ranger of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Conifer of Pine
Valley. Lady Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash,
Mrs Holly Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, Mrs
Clyde Twelvetrees, Mrs Rowan Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, Miss
Virginia Creeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss Olive Garth, Miss Blanche
Maple, Mrs Maud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss Priscilla Elderflower,
Miss Bee Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa San, Miss Rachel
Cedarfrond, the Misses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss Timidity Aspenall,
Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs Gloriana Palme, Mrs
Liana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake of
Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their presence. The bride who was
given away by her father, the M’Conifer of the Glands, looked
exquisitely charming in a creation carried out in green mercerised
silk, moulded on an underslip of gloaming grey, sashed with a yoke of
broad emerald and finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued fringe,
the scheme being relieved by bretelles and hip insertions of acorn
bronze. The maids of honour, Miss Larch Conifer and Miss Spruce
Conifer, sisters of the bride, wore very becoming costumes in the same
tone, a dainty _motif_ of plume rose being worked into the pleats in a
pinstripe and repeated capriciously in the jadegreen toques in the form
of heron feathers of paletinted coral. Senhor Enrique Flor presided at
the organ with his wellknown ability and, in addition to the prescribed
numbers of the nuptial mass, played a new and striking arrangement of
_Woodman, spare that tree_ at the conclusion of the service. On leaving
the church of Saint Fiacre _in Horto_ after the papal blessing the
happy pair were subjected to a playful crossfire of hazelnuts,
beechmast, bayleaves, catkins of willow, ivytod, hollyberries,
mistletoe sprigs and quicken shoots. Mr and Mrs Wyse Conifer Neaulan
will spend a quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest.

—And our eyes are on Europe, says the citizen. We had our trade with
Spain and the French and with the Flemings before those mongrels were
pupped, Spanish ale in Galway, the winebark on the winedark waterway.

—And will again, says Joe.

—And with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says the
citizen, clapping his thigh. Our harbours that are empty will be full
again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdom
of Kerry, Killybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world with a
fleet of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O’Reillys and the
O’Kennedys of Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty with
the emperor Charles the Fifth himself. And will again, says he, when
the first Irish battleship is seen breasting the waves with our own
flag to the fore, none of your Henry Tudor’s harps, no, the oldest flag
afloat, the flag of the province of Desmond and Thomond, three crowns
on a blue field, the three sons of Milesius.

And he took the last swig out of the pint. Moya. All wind and piss like
a tanyard cat. Cows in Connacht have long horns. As much as his bloody
life is worth to go down and address his tall talk to the assembled
multitude in Shanagolden where he daren’t show his nose with the Molly
Maguires looking for him to let daylight through him for grabbing the
holding of an evicted tenant.

—Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. What will you have?

—An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.

—Half one, Terry, says John Wyse, and a hands up. Terry! Are you
asleep?

—Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Right, sir.

Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead
of attending to the general public. Picture of a butting match, trying
to crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other with his
head down like a bull at a gate. And another one: _Black Beast Burned
in Omaha, Ga_. A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing
at a Sambo strung up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire under
him. Gob, they ought to drown him in the sea after and electrocute and
crucify him to make sure of their job.

—But what about the fighting navy, says Ned, that keeps our foes at
bay?

—I’ll tell you what about it, says the citizen. Hell upon earth it is.
Read the revelations that’s going on in the papers about flogging on
the training ships at Portsmouth. A fellow writes that calls himself
_Disgusted One_.

So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew of
tars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up in cocked hats and the
parson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young lad
brought out, howling for his ma, and they tie him down on the buttend
of a gun.

—A rump and dozen, says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir John
Beresford called it but the modern God’s Englishman calls it caning on
the breech.

And says John Wyse:

—’Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance.

Then he was telling us the master at arms comes along with a long cane
and he draws out and he flogs the bloody backside off of the poor lad
till he yells meila murder.

—That’s your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that bosses the
earth. The fellows that never will be slaves, with the only hereditary
chamber on the face of God’s earth and their land in the hands of a
dozen gamehogs and cottonball barons. That’s the great empire they
boast about of drudges and whipped serfs.

—On which the sun never rises, says Joe.

—And the tragedy of it is, says the citizen, they believe it. The
unfortunate yahoos believe it.

They believe in rod, the scourger almighty, creator of hell upon earth,
and in Jacky Tar, the son of a gun, who was conceived of unholy boast,
born of the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, was
scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third day
he arose again from the bed, steered into haven, sitteth on his beamend
till further orders whence he shall come to drudge for a living and be
paid.

—But, says Bloom, isn’t discipline the same everywhere. I mean wouldn’t
it be the same here if you put force against force?

Didn’t I tell you? As true as I’m drinking this porter if he was at his
last gasp he’d try to downface you that dying was living.

—We’ll put force against force, says the citizen. We have our greater
Ireland beyond the sea. They were driven out of house and home in the
black 47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were laid
low by the batteringram and the _Times_ rubbed its hands and told the
whitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as
redskins in America. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. But the
Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full of
crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay,
they drove out the peasants in hordes. Twenty thousand of them died in
the coffinships. But those that came to the land of the free remember
the land of bondage. And they will come again and with a vengeance, no
cravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan.

—Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was...

—We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned. Since the
poor old woman told us that the French were on the sea and landed at
Killala.

—Ay, says John Wyse. We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us
against the Williamites and they betrayed us. Remember Limerick and the
broken treatystone. We gave our best blood to France and Spain, the
wild geese. Fontenoy, eh? And Sarsfield and O’Donnell, duke of Tetuan
in Spain, and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria
Teresa. But what did we ever get for it?

—The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Do you know what
it is? They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Aren’t they
trying to make an _Entente cordiale_ now at Tay Pay’s dinnerparty with
perfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were.

—_Conspuez les Français_, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.

—And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven’t we
had enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from George
the elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that’s
dead?

Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the old
one with the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royal palace every
night of God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman
carting her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by
the whiskers and singing him old bits of songs about _Ehren on the
Rhine_ and come where the boose is cheaper.

—Well, says J. J. We have Edward the peacemaker now.

—Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. There’s a bloody sight more pox
than pax about that boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin!

—And what do you think, says Joe, of the holy boys, the priests and
bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in His Satanic
Majesty’s racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses his
jockeys rode. The earl of Dublin, no less.

—They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says little
Alf.

And says J. J.:

—Considerations of space influenced their lordships’ decision.

—Will you try another, citizen? says Joe.

—Yes, sir, says he. I will.

—You? says Joe.

—Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May your shadow never grow less.

—Repeat that dose, says Joe.

Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with
his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling
about.

—Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it.
Perpetuating national hatred among nations.

—But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse.

—Yes, says Bloom.

—What is it? says John Wyse.

—A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same
place.

—By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for I’m
living in the same place for the past five years.

So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to
muck out of it:

—Or also living in different places.

—That covers my case, says Joe.

—What is your nation if I may ask? says the citizen.

—Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland.

The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and,
gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.

—After you with the push, Joe, says he, taking out his handkerchief to
swab himself dry.

—Here you are, citizen, says Joe. Take that in your right hand and
repeat after me the following words.

The muchtreasured and intricately embroidered ancient Irish facecloth
attributed to Solomon of Droma and Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh,
authors of the Book of Ballymote, was then carefully produced and
called forth prolonged admiration. No need to dwell on the legendary
beauty of the cornerpieces, the acme of art, wherein one can distinctly
discern each of the four evangelists in turn presenting to each of the
four masters his evangelical symbol, a bogoak sceptre, a North American
puma (a far nobler king of beasts than the British article, be it said
in passing), a Kerry calf and a golden eagle from Carrantuohill. The
scenes depicted on the emunctory field, showing our ancient duns and
raths and cromlechs and grianauns and seats of learning and maledictive
stones, are as wonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate as
when the Sligo illuminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasy
long long ago in the time of the Barmecides. Glendalough, the lovely
lakes of Killarney, the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh
and the Twelve Pins, Ireland’s Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, Croagh
Patrick, the brewery of Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company
(Limited), Lough Neagh’s banks, the vale of Ovoca, Isolde’s tower, the
Mapas obelisk, Sir Patrick Dun’s hospital, Cape Clear, the glen of
Aherlow, Lynch’s castle, the Scotch house, Rathdown Union Workhouse at
Loughlinstown, Tullamore jail, Castleconnel rapids,
Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice, Jury’s Hotel, S.
Patrick’s Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth college refectory,
Curley’s hole, the three birthplaces of the first duke of Wellington,
the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse,
Fingal’s Cave—all these moving scenes are still there for us today
rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passed
over them and by the rich incrustations of time.

—Show us over the drink, says I. Which is which?

—That’s mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman.

—And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.
Also now. This very moment. This very instant.

Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.

—Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs
to us by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold
by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle.

—Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.

—I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.

—Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.

That’s an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old
lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he’d adorn a
sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse’s apron on him. And
then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as
limp as a wet rag.

—But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s not
life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that
it’s the very opposite of that that is really life.

—What? says Alf.

—Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, says
he to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin is
there. If he comes just say I’ll be back in a second. Just a moment.

Who’s hindering you? And off he pops like greased lightning.

—A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love.

—Well, says John Wyse. Isn’t that what we’re told. Love your neighbour.

—That chap? says the citizen. Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love,
moya! He’s a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.

Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A
loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle.
M. B. loves a fair gentleman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow.
Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle with
the ear trumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man
in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King
loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor.
You love a certain person. And this person loves that other person
because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.

—Well, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. More power,
citizen.

—Hurrah, there, says Joe.

—The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen.

And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle.

—We know those canters, says he, preaching and picking your pocket.
What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women
and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text _God is love_
pasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible! Did you read that skit
in the _United Irishman_ today about that Zulu chief that’s visiting
England?

—What’s that? says Joe.

So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts
reading out:

—A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented
yesterday to His Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta by Gold Stick in
Waiting, Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender to His Majesty the
heartfelt thanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them in
his dominions. The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of
which the dusky potentate, in the course of a happy speech, freely
translated by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod
Barebones, tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised the
cordial relations existing between Abeakuta and the British empire,
stating that he treasured as one of his dearest possessions an
illuminated bible, the volume of the word of God and the secret of
England’s greatness, graciously presented to him by the white chief
woman, the great squaw Victoria, with a personal dedication from the
august hand of the Royal Donor. The Alaki then drank a lovingcup of
firstshot usquebaugh to the toast _Black and White_ from the skull of
his immediate predecessor in the dynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed Forty
Warts, after which he visited the chief factory of Cottonopolis and
signed his mark in the visitors’ book, subsequently executing a
charming old Abeakutic wardance, in the course of which he swallowed
several knives and forks, amid hilarious applause from the girl hands.

—Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldn’t doubt her. Wonder did he put that
bible to the same use as I would.

—Same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in that fruitful land
the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.

—Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse.

—No, says the citizen. It’s not signed Shanganagh. It’s only
initialled: P.

—And a very good initial too, says Joe.

—That’s how it’s worked, says the citizen. Trade follows the flag.

—Well, says J. J., if they’re any worse than those Belgians in the
Congo Free State they must be bad. Did you read that report by a man
what’s this his name is?

—Casement, says the citizen. He’s an Irishman.

—Yes, that’s the man, says J. J. Raping the women and girls and
flogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the red rubber they
can out of them.

—I know where he’s gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers.

—Who? says I.

—Bloom, says he. The courthouse is a blind. He had a few bob on
_Throwaway_ and he’s gone to gather in the shekels.

—Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed a
horse in anger in his life?

—That’s where he’s gone, says Lenehan. I met Bantam Lyons going to back
that horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the tip.
Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. He’s the
only man in Dublin has it. A dark horse.

—He’s a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe.

—Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entrance out.

—There you are, says Terry.

Goodbye Ireland I’m going to Gort. So I just went round the back of the
yard to pumpship and begob (hundred shillings to five) while I was
letting off my _(Throwaway_ twenty to) letting off my load gob says I
to myself I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints off of Joe and one in
Slattery’s off) in his mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillings
is five quid) and when they were in the (dark horse) pisser Burke was
telling me card party and letting on the child was sick (gob, must have
done about a gallon) flabbyarse of a wife speaking down the tube _she’s
better_ or _she’s_ (ow!) all a plan so he could vamoose with the pool
if he won or (Jesus, full up I was) trading without a licence (ow!)
Ireland my nation says he (hoik! phthook!) never be up to those bloody
(there’s the last of it) Jerusalem (ah!) cuckoos.

So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it
was Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper
all kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling the taxes off
of the government and appointing consuls all over the world to walk
about selling Irish industries. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Gob, that
puts the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show.
Give us a bloody chance. God save Ireland from the likes of that bloody
mouseabout. Mr Bloom with his argol bargol. And his old fellow before
him perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem Bloom, the robbing bagman, that
poisoned himself with the prussic acid after he swamping the country
with his baubles and his penny diamonds. Loans by post on easy terms.
Any amount of money advanced on note of hand. Distance no object. No
security. Gob, he’s like Lanty MacHale’s goat that’d go a piece of the
road with every one.

—Well, it’s a fact, says John Wyse. And there’s the man now that’ll
tell you all about it, Martin Cunningham.

Sure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power
with him and a fellow named Crofter or Crofton, pensioner out of the
collector general’s, an orangeman Blackburn does have on the
registration and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting around the
country at the king’s expense.

Our travellers reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from their
palfreys.

—Ho, varlet! cried he, who by his mien seemed the leader of the party.
Saucy knave! To us!

So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice.

Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard.

—Give you good den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow.

—Bestir thyself, sirrah! cried he who had knocked. Look to our steeds.
And for ourselves give us of your best for ifaith we need it.

—Lackaday, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare
larder. I know not what to offer your lordships.

—How now, fellow? cried the second of the party, a man of pleasant
countenance, So servest thou the king’s messengers, master Taptun?

An instantaneous change overspread the landlord’s visage.

—Cry you mercy, gentlemen, he said humbly. An you be the king’s
messengers (God shield His Majesty!) you shall not want for aught. The
king’s friends (God bless His Majesty!) shall not go afasting in my
house I warrant me.

—Then about! cried the traveller who had not spoken, a lusty
trencherman by his aspect. Hast aught to give us?

Mine host bowed again as he made answer:

—What say you, good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of
venison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog’s bacon, a boar’s
head with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and a
flagon of old Rhenish?

—Gadzooks! cried the last speaker. That likes me well. Pistachios!

—Aha! cried he of the pleasant countenance. A poor house and a bare
larder, quotha! ’Tis a merry rogue.

So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom.

—Where is he? says Lenehan. Defrauding widows and orphans.

—Isn’t that a fact, says John Wyse, what I was telling the citizen
about Bloom and the Sinn Fein?

—That’s so, says Martin. Or so they allege.

—Who made those allegations? says Alf.

—I, says Joe. I’m the alligator.

—And after all, says John Wyse, why can’t a jew love his country like
the next fellow?

—Why not? says J. J., when he’s quite sure which country it is.

—Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the
hell is he? says Ned. Or who is he? No offence, Crofton.

—Who is Junius? says J. J.

—We don’t want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.

—He’s a perverted jew, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was
he drew up all the plans according to the Hungarian system. We know
that in the castle.

—Isn’t he a cousin of Bloom the dentist? says Jack Power.

—Not at all, says Martin. Only namesakes. His name was Virag, the
father’s name that poisoned himself. He changed it by deedpoll, the
father did.

—That’s the new Messiah for Ireland! says the citizen. Island of saints
and sages!

—Well, they’re still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin. For that
matter so are we.

—Yes, says J. J., and every male that’s born they think it may be their
Messiah. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I believe,
till he knows if he’s a father or a mother.

—Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan.

—O, by God, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of his
that died was born. I met him one day in the south city markets buying
a tin of Neave’s food six weeks before the wife was delivered.

—_En ventre sa mère_, says J. J.

—Do you call that a man? says the citizen.

—I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe.

—Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power.

—And who does he suspect? says the citizen.

Gob, there’s many a true word spoken in jest. One of those mixed
middlings he is. Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me once a
month with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know what I’m
telling you? It’d be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the like
of that and throw him in the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide, so it
would. Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of
stuff like a man. Give us your blessing. Not as much as would blind
your eye.

—Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. But where is he? We can’t wait.

—A wolf in sheep’s clothing, says the citizen. That’s what he is. Virag
from Hungary! Ahasuerus I call him. Cursed by God.

—Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? says Ned.

—Only one, says Martin. We must be quick. J. J. and S.

—You, Jack? Crofton? Three half ones, Terry.

—Saint Patrick would want to land again at Ballykinlar and convert us,
says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our
shores.

—Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass. God bless all here is my
prayer.

—Amen, says the citizen.

—And I’m sure He will, says Joe.

And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with
acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and
subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors
and guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto,
Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and
Vallombrosans, and the friars of Augustine, Brigittines,
Premonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians, and the children of Peter
Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Elijah prophet
led by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced and other: and
friars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers,
minimes and observants and the daughters of Clara: and the sons of
Dominic, the friars preachers, and the sons of Vincent: and the monks
of S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the confraternity of the
christian brothers led by the reverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice.
And after came all saints and martyrs, virgins and confessors: S. Cyr
and S. Isidore Arator and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and
S. Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites
and S. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S.
Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent
de Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and
S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard
and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and
S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous
and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O’Toole and S. James of Dingle and
Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S.
Colman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S.
Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and
S. Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of
Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of
holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John
Berchmans and the saints Gervasius, Servasius and Bonifacius and S.
Bride and S. Kieran and S. Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath of Tuam
and S. Finbarr and S. Pappin of Ballymun and Brother Aloysius Pacificus
and Brother Louis Bellicosus and the saints Rose of Lima and of Viterbo
and S. Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigid
and S. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis and
the Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S.
Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. And all came
with nimbi and aureoles and gloriae, bearing palms and harps and swords
and olive crowns, in robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols of
their efficacies, inkhorns, arrows, loaves, cruses, fetters, axes,
trees, bridges, babes in a bathtub, shells, wallets, shears, keys,
dragons, lilies, buckshot, beards, hogs, lamps, bellows, beehives,
soupladles, stars, snakes, anvils, boxes of vaseline, bells, crutches,
forceps, stags’ horns, watertight boots, hawks, millstones, eyes on a
dish, wax candles, aspergills, unicorns. And as they wended their way
by Nelson’s Pillar, Henry street, Mary street, Capel street, Little
Britain street chanting the introit in _Epiphania Domini_ which
beginneth _Surge, illuminare_ and thereafter most sweetly the gradual
_Omnes_ which saith _de Saba venient_ they did divers wonders such as
casting out devils, raising the dead to life, multiplying fishes,
healing the halt and the blind, discovering various articles which had
been mislaid, interpreting and fulfilling the scriptures, blessing and
prophesying. And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came the
reverend Father O’Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. And when the
good fathers had reached the appointed place, the house of Bernard
Kiernan and Co, limited, 8, 9 and 10 little Britain street, wholesale
grocers, wine and brandy shippers, licensed for the sale of beer, wine
and spirits for consumption on the premises, the celebrant blessed the
house and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults
and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and
the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the
lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless that
house as he had blessed the house of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and
make the angels of His light to inhabit therein. And entering he
blessed the viands and the beverages and the company of all the blessed
answered his prayers.

—_Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini._

—_Qui fecit cœlum 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 animæ tutelam Te auctore
percipiat per Christum Dominum nostrum._

—And so say all of us, says Jack.

—Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton or Crawford.

—Right, says Ned, taking up his John Jameson. And butter for fish.

I was just looking around to see who the happy thought would strike
when be damned but in he comes again letting on to be in a hell of a
hurry.

—I was just round at the courthouse, says he, looking for you. I hope
I’m not...

—No, says Martin, we’re ready.

Courthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down with gold and silver.
Mean bloody scut. Stand us a drink itself. Devil a sweet fear! There’s
a jew for you! All for number one. Cute as a shithouse rat. Hundred to
five.

—Don’t tell anyone, says the citizen.

—Beg your pardon, says he.

—Come on boys, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. Come along now.

—Don’t tell anyone, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him. It’s a
secret.

And the bloody dog woke up and let a growl.

—Bye bye all, says Martin.

And he got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or
whatever you call him and him in the middle of them letting on to be
all at sea and up with them on the bloody jaunting car.

—Off with you, says Martin to the jarvey.

The milkwhite dolphin tossed his mane and, rising in the golden poop
the helmsman spread the bellying sail upon the wind and stood off
forward with all sail set, the spinnaker to larboard. A many comely
nymphs drew nigh to starboard and to larboard and, clinging to the
sides of the noble bark, they linked their shining forms as doth the
cunning wheelwright when he fashions about the heart of his wheel the
equidistant rays whereof each one is sister to another and he binds
them all with an outer ring and giveth speed to the feet of men whenas
they ride to a hosting or contend for the smile of ladies fair. Even so
did they come and set them, those willing nymphs, the undying sisters.
And they laughed, sporting in a circle of their foam: and the bark
clave the waves.

But begob I was just lowering the heel of the pint when I saw the
citizen getting up to waddle to the door, puffing and blowing with the
dropsy, and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, book and
candle in Irish, spitting and spatting out of him and Joe and little
Alf round him like a leprechaun trying to peacify him.

—Let me alone, says he.

And begob he got as far as the door and they holding him and he bawls
out of him:

—Three cheers for Israel!

Arrah, sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for Christ’ sake
and don’t be making a public exhibition of yourself. Jesus, there’s
always some bloody clown or other kicking up a bloody murder about
bloody nothing. Gob, it’d turn the porter sour in your guts, so it
would.

And all the ragamuffins and sluts of the nation round the door and
Martin telling the jarvey to drive ahead and the citizen bawling and
Alf and Joe at him to whisht and he on his high horse about the jews
and the loafers calling for a speech and Jack Power trying to get him
to sit down on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with a
patch over his eye starts singing _If the man in the moon was a jew,
jew, jew_ and a slut shouts out of her:

—Eh, mister! Your fly is open, mister!

And says he:

—Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. And
the Saviour was a jew and his father was a jew. Your God.

—He had no father, says Martin. That’ll do now. Drive ahead.

—Whose God? says the citizen.

—Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your God was a jew. Christ was a
jew like me.

Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.

—By Jesus, says he, I’ll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy
name. By Jesus, I’ll crucify him so I will. Give us that biscuitbox here.

—Stop! Stop! says Joe.

A large and appreciative gathering of friends and acquaintances from
the metropolis and greater Dublin assembled in their thousands to bid
farewell to Nagyaságos uram Lipóti Virag, late of Messrs Alexander
Thom’s, printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure for
the distant clime of Százharminczbrojúgulyás-Dugulás (Meadow of
Murmuring Waters). The ceremony which went off with great _éclat_ 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 _Rakóczsy’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.
_Visszontlátásra, kedvés barátom! Visszontlátásra!_ Gone but not
forgotten.

Gob, the devil wouldn’t stop him till he got hold of the bloody tin
anyhow and out with him and little Alf hanging on to his elbow and he
shouting like a stuck pig, as good as any bloody play in the Queen’s
royal theatre:

—Where is he till I murder him?

And Ned and J. J. paralysed with the laughing.

—Bloody wars, says I, I’ll be in for the last gospel.

But as luck would have it the jarvey got the nag’s head round the other
way and off with him.

—Hold on, citizen, says Joe. Stop!

Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fly. Mercy of God the
sun was in his eyes or he’d have left him for dead. Gob, he near sent
it into the county Longford. The bloody nag took fright and the old
mongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the populace shouting
and laughing and the old tinbox clattering along the street.

The catastrophe was terrific and instantaneous in its effect. The
observatory of Dunsink registered in all eleven shocks, all of the
fifth grade of Mercalli’s scale, and there is no record extant of a
similar seismic disturbance in our island since the earthquake of 1534,
the year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas. The epicentre appears to
have been that part of the metropolis which constitutes the Inn’s Quay
ward and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres,
two roods and one square pole or perch. All the lordly residences in
the vicinity of the palace of justice were demolished and that noble
edifice itself, in which at the time of the catastrophe important legal
debates were in progress, is literally a mass of ruins beneath which it
is to be feared all the occupants have been buried alive. From the
reports of eyewitnesses it transpires that the seismic waves were
accompanied by a violent atmospheric perturbation of cyclonic
character. An article of headgear since ascertained to belong to the
much respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a
silk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coat
of arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman of
quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, have been
discovered by search parties in remote parts of the island
respectively, the former on the third basaltic ridge of the giant’s
causeway, the latter embedded to the extent of one foot three inches in
the sandy beach of Holeopen bay near the old head of Kinsale. Other
eyewitnesses depose that they observed an incandescent object of
enormous proportions hurtling through the atmosphere at a terrifying
velocity in a trajectory directed southwest by west. Messages of
condolence and sympathy are being hourly received from all parts of the
different continents and the sovereign pontiff has been graciously
pleased to decree that a special _missa pro defunctis_ shall be
celebrated simultaneously by the ordinaries of each and every cathedral
church of all the episcopal dioceses subject to the spiritual authority
of the Holy See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful departed who
have been so unexpectedly called away from our midst. The work of
salvage, removal of _débris,_ 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, Mary, star of the sea.

The three girl friends were seated on the rocks, enjoying the evening
scene and the air which was fresh but not too chilly. Many a time and
oft were they wont to come there to that favourite nook to have a cosy
chat beside the sparkling waves and discuss matters feminine, Cissy
Caffrey and Edy Boardman with the baby in the pushcar and Tommy and
Jacky Caffrey, two little curlyheaded boys, dressed in sailor suits
with caps to match and the name _H. M. S. Belleisle_ printed on both.
For Tommy and Jacky Caffrey were twins, scarce four years old and very
noisy and spoiled twins sometimes but for all that darling little
fellows with bright merry faces and endearing ways about them. They
were dabbling in the sand with their spades and buckets, building
castles as children do, or playing with their big coloured ball, happy
as the day was long. And Edy Boardman was rocking the chubby baby to
and fro in the pushcar while that young gentleman fairly chuckled with
delight. He was but eleven months and nine days old and, though still a
tiny toddler, was just beginning to lisp his first babyish words. Cissy
Caffrey bent over to him to tease his fat little plucks and the dainty
dimple in his chin.

—Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey said. Say out big, big. I want a drink of
water.

And baby prattled after her:

—A jink a jink a jawbo.

Cissy Caffrey cuddled the wee chap for she was awfully fond of
children, so patient with little sufferers and Tommy Caffrey could
never be got to take his castor oil unless it was Cissy Caffrey that
held his nose and promised him the scatty heel of the loaf or brown
bread with golden syrup on. What a persuasive power that girl had! But
to be sure baby Boardman was as good as gold, a perfect little dote in
his new fancy bib. None of your spoilt beauties, Flora MacFlimsy sort,
was Cissy Caffrey. A truerhearted lass never drew the breath of life,
always with a laugh in her gipsylike eyes and a frolicsome word on her
cherryripe red lips, a girl lovable in the extreme. And Edy Boardman
laughed too at the quaint language of little brother.

But just then there was a slight altercation between Master Tommy and
Master Jacky. Boys will be boys and our two twins were no exception to
this golden rule. The apple of discord was a certain castle of sand
which Master Jacky had built and Master Tommy would have it right go
wrong that it was to be architecturally improved by a frontdoor like
the Martello tower had. But if Master Tommy was headstrong Master Jacky
was selfwilled too and, true to the maxim that every little Irishman’s
house is his castle, he fell upon his hated rival and to such purpose
that the wouldbe assailant came to grief and (alas to relate!) the
coveted castle too. Needless to say the cries of discomfited Master
Tommy drew the attention of the girl friends.

—Come here, Tommy, his sister called imperatively. At once! And you,
Jacky, for shame to throw poor Tommy in the dirty sand. Wait till I
catch you for that.

His eyes misty with unshed tears Master Tommy came at her call for
their big sister’s word was law with the twins. And in a sad plight he
was too after his misadventure. His little man-o’-war top and
unmentionables were full of sand but Cissy was a past mistress in the
art of smoothing over life’s tiny troubles and very quickly not one
speck of sand was to be seen on his smart little suit. Still the blue
eyes were glistening with hot tears that would well up so she kissed
away the hurtness and shook her hand at Master Jacky the culprit and
said if she was near him she wouldn’t be far from him, her eyes dancing
in admonition.

—Nasty bold Jacky! she cried.

She put an arm round the little mariner and coaxed winningly:

—What’s your name? Butter and cream?

—Tell us who is your sweetheart, spoke Edy Boardman. Is Cissy your
sweetheart?

—Nao, tearful Tommy said.

—Is Edy Boardman your sweetheart? Cissy queried.

—Nao, Tommy said.

—I know, Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an arch glance from
her shortsighted eyes. I know who is Tommy’s sweetheart. Gerty is
Tommy’s sweetheart.

—Nao, Tommy said on the verge of tears.

Cissy’s quick motherwit guessed what was amiss and she whispered to Edy
Boardman to take him there behind the pushcar where the gentleman
couldn’t see and to mind he didn’t wet his new tan shoes.

But who was Gerty?

Gerty MacDowell who was seated near her companions, lost in thought,
gazing far away into the distance was, in very truth, as fair a
specimen of winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see. She was
pronounced beautiful by all who knew her though, as folks often said,
she was more a Giltrap than a MacDowell. Her figure was slight and
graceful, inclining even to fragility but those iron jelloids she had
been taking of late had done her a world of good much better than the
Widow Welch’s female pills and she was much better of those discharges
she used to get and that tired feeling. The waxen pallor of her face
was almost spiritual in its ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth
was a genuine Cupid’s bow, Greekly perfect. Her hands were of finely
veined alabaster with tapering fingers and as white as lemonjuice and
queen of ointments could make them though it was not true that she used
to wear kid gloves in bed or take a milk footbath either. Bertha Supple
told that once to Edy Boardman, a deliberate lie, when she was black
out at daggers drawn with Gerty (the girl chums had of course their
little tiffs from time to time like the rest of mortals) and she told
her not to let on whatever she did that it was her that told her or
she’d never speak to her again. No. Honour where honour is due. There
was an innate refinement, a languid queenly _hauteur_ about Gerty which
was unmistakably evidenced in her delicate hands and higharched instep.
Had kind fate but willed her to be born a gentlewoman of high degree in
her own right and had she only received the benefit of a good education
Gerty MacDowell might easily have held her own beside any lady in the
land and have seen herself exquisitely gowned with jewels on her brow
and patrician suitors at her feet vying with one another to pay their
devoirs to her. Mayhap it was this, the love that might have been, that
lent to her softlyfeatured face at whiles a look, tense with suppressed
meaning, that imparted a strange yearning tendency to the beautiful
eyes, a charm few could resist. Why have women such eyes of witchery?
Gerty’s were of the bluest Irish blue, set off by lustrous lashes and
dark expressive brows. Time was when those brows were not so silkily
seductive. It was Madame Vera Verity, directress of the Woman Beautiful
page of the Princess Novelette, who had first advised her to try
eyebrowleine which gave that haunting expression to the eyes, so
becoming in leaders of fashion, and she had never regretted it. Then
there was blushing scientifically cured and how to be tall increase
your height and you have a beautiful face but your nose? That would
suit Mrs Dignam because she had a button one. But Gerty’s crowning
glory was her wealth of wonderful hair. It was dark brown with a
natural wave in it. She had cut it that very morning on account of the
new moon and it nestled about her pretty head in a profusion of
luxuriant clusters and pared her nails too, Thursday for wealth. And
just now at Edy’s words as a telltale flush, delicate as the faintest
rosebloom, crept into her cheeks she looked so lovely in her sweet
girlish shyness that of a surety God’s fair land of Ireland did not
hold her equal.

For an instant she was silent with rather sad downcast eyes. She was
about to retort but something checked the words on her tongue.
Inclination prompted her to speak out: dignity told her to be silent.
The pretty lips pouted awhile but then she glanced up and broke out
into a joyous little laugh which had in it all the freshness of a young
May morning. She knew right well, no-one better, what made squinty Edy
say that because of him cooling in his attentions when it was simply a
lovers’ quarrel. As per usual somebody’s nose was out of joint about
the boy that had the bicycle off the London bridge road always riding
up and down in front of her window. Only now his father kept him in in
the evenings studying hard to get an exhibition in the intermediate
that was on and he was going to go to Trinity college to study for a
doctor when he left the high school like his brother W. E. Wylie who
was racing in the bicycle races in Trinity college university. Little
recked he perhaps for what she felt, that dull aching void in her heart
sometimes, piercing to the core. Yet he was young and perchance he
might learn to love her in time. They were protestants in his family
and of course Gerty knew Who came first and after Him the Blessed
Virgin and then Saint Joseph. But he was undeniably handsome with an
exquisite nose and he was what he looked, every inch a gentleman, the
shape of his head too at the back without his cap on that she would
know anywhere something off the common and the way he turned the
bicycle at the lamp with his hands off the bars and also the nice
perfume of those good cigarettes and besides they were both of a size
too he and she and that was why Edy Boardman thought she was so
frightfully clever because he didn’t go and ride up and down in front
of her bit of a garden.

Gerty was dressed simply but with the instinctive taste of a votary of
Dame Fashion for she felt that there was just a might that he might be
out. A neat blouse of electric blue selftinted by dolly dyes (because
it was expected in the _Lady’s Pictorial_ that electric blue would be
worn) with a smart vee opening down to the division and kerchief pocket
(in which she always kept a piece of cottonwool scented with her
favourite perfume because the handkerchief spoiled the sit) and a navy
threequarter skirt cut to the stride showed off her slim graceful
figure to perfection. She wore a coquettish little love of a hat of
wideleaved nigger straw contrast trimmed with an underbrim of eggblue
chenille and at the side a butterfly bow of silk to tone. All Tuesday
week afternoon she was hunting to match that chenille but at last she
found what she wanted at Clery’s summer sales, the very it, slightly
shopsoiled but you would never notice, seven fingers two and a penny.
She did it up all by herself and what joy was hers when she tried it on
then, smiling at the lovely reflection which the mirror gave back to
her! And when she put it on the waterjug to keep the shape she knew
that that would take the shine out of some people she knew. Her shoes
were the newest thing in footwear (Edy Boardman prided herself that she
was very _petite_ but she never had a foot like Gerty MacDowell, a
five, and never would ash, oak or elm) with patent toecaps and just one
smart buckle over her higharched instep. Her wellturned ankle displayed
its perfect proportions beneath her skirt and just the proper amount
and no more of her shapely limbs encased in finespun hose with
highspliced heels and wide garter tops. As for undies they were Gerty’s
chief care and who that knows the fluttering hopes and fears of sweet
seventeen (though Gerty would never see seventeen again) can find it in
his heart to blame her? She had four dinky sets with awfully pretty
stitchery, three garments and nighties extra, and each set slotted with
different coloured ribbons, rosepink, pale blue, mauve and peagreen,
and she aired them herself and blued them when they came home from the
wash and ironed them and she had a brickbat to keep the iron on because
she wouldn’t trust those washerwomen as far as she’d see them scorching
the things. She was wearing the blue for luck, hoping against hope, her
own colour and lucky too for a bride to have a bit of blue somewhere on
her because the green she wore that day week brought grief because his
father brought him in to study for the intermediate exhibition and
because she thought perhaps he might be out because when she was
dressing that morning she nearly slipped up the old pair on her inside
out and that was for luck and lovers’ meeting if you put those things
on inside out or if they got untied that he was thinking about you so
long as it wasn’t of a Friday.

And yet and yet! That strained look on her face! A gnawing sorrow is
there all the time. Her very soul is in her eyes and she would give
worlds to be in the privacy of her own familiar chamber where, giving
way to tears, she could have a good cry and relieve her pentup 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 daydream of a marriage
has been arranged and the weddingbells ringing for Mrs Reggy Wylie T.
C. D. (because the one who married the elder brother would be Mrs
Wylie) and in the fashionable intelligence Mrs Gertrude Wylie was
wearing a sumptuous confection of grey trimmed with expensive blue fox
was not to be. He was too young to understand. He would not believe in
love, a woman’s birthright. The night of the party long ago in Stoer’s
(he was still in short trousers) when they were alone and he stole an
arm round her waist she went white to the very lips. He called her
little one in a strangely husky voice and snatched a half kiss (the
first!) but it was only the end of her nose and then he hastened from
the room with a remark about refreshments. Impetuous fellow! Strength
of character had never been Reggy Wylie’s strong point and he who would
woo and win Gerty MacDowell must be a man among men. But waiting,
always waiting to be asked and it was leap year too and would soon be
over. No prince charming is her beau ideal to lay a rare and wondrous
love at her feet but rather a manly man with a strong quiet face who
had not found his ideal, perhaps his hair slightly flecked with grey,
and who would understand, take her in his sheltering arms, strain her
to him in all the strength of his deep passionate nature and comfort
her with a long long kiss. It would be like heaven. For such a one she
yearns this balmy summer eve. With all the heart of her she longs to be
his only, his affianced bride for riches for poor, in sickness in
health, till death us two part, from this to this day forward.

And while Edy Boardman was with little Tommy behind the pushcar she was
just thinking would the day ever come when she could call herself his
little wife to be. Then they could talk about her till they went blue
in the face, Bertha Supple too, and Edy, little spitfire, because she
would be twentytwo in November. She would care for him with creature
comforts too for Gerty was womanly wise and knew that a mere man liked
that feeling of hominess. Her griddlecakes done to a goldenbrown hue
and queen Ann’s pudding of delightful creaminess had won golden
opinions from all because she had a lucky hand also for lighting a
fire, dredge in the fine selfraising flour and always stir in the same
direction, then cream the milk and sugar and whisk well the white of
eggs though she didn’t like the eating part when there were any people
that made her shy and often she wondered why you couldn’t eat something
poetical like violets or roses and they would have a beautifully
appointed drawingroom with pictures and engravings and the photograph
of grandpapa Giltrap’s lovely dog Garryowen that almost talked it was
so human and chintz covers for the chairs and that silver toastrack in
Clery’s summer jumble sales like they have in rich houses. He would be
tall with broad shoulders (she had always admired tall men for a
husband) with glistening white teeth under his carefully trimmed
sweeping moustache and they would go on the continent for their
honeymoon (three wonderful weeks!) and then, when they settled down in
a nice snug and cosy little homely house, every morning they would both
have brekky, simple but perfectly served, for their own two selves and
before he went out to business he would give his dear little wifey a
good hearty hug and gaze for a moment deep down into her eyes.

Edy Boardman asked Tommy Caffrey was he done and he said yes so then
she buttoned up his little knickerbockers for him and told him to run
off and play with Jacky and to be good now and not to fight. But Tommy
said he wanted the ball and Edy told him no that baby was playing with
the ball and if he took it there’d be wigs on the green but Tommy said
it was his ball and he wanted his ball and he pranced on the ground, if
you please. The temper of him! O, he was a man already was little Tommy
Caffrey since he was out of pinnies. Edy told him no, no and to be off
now with him and she told Cissy Caffrey not to give in to him.

—You’re not my sister, naughty Tommy said. It’s my ball.

But Cissy Caffrey told baby Boardman to look up, look up high at her
finger and she snatched the ball quickly and threw it along the sand
and Tommy after it in full career, having won the day.

—Anything for a quiet life, laughed Ciss.

And she tickled tiny tot’s two cheeks to make him forget and played
here’s the lord mayor, here’s his two horses, here’s his gingerbread
carriage and here he walks in, chinchopper, chinchopper, chinchopper
chin. But Edy got as cross as two sticks about him getting his own way
like that from everyone always petting him.

—I’d like to give him something, she said, so I would, where I won’t
say.

—On the beeoteetom, laughed Cissy merrily.

Gerty MacDowell bent down her head and crimsoned at the idea of Cissy
saying an unladylike thing like that out loud she’d be ashamed of her
life to say, flushing a deep rosy red, and Edy Boardman said she was
sure the gentleman opposite heard what she said. But not a pin cared
Ciss.

—Let him! she said with a pert toss of her head and a piquant tilt of
her nose. Give it to him too on the same place as quick as I’d look at
him.

Madcap Ciss with her golliwog curls. You had to laugh at her sometimes.
For instance when she asked you would you have some more Chinese tea
and jaspberry ram and when she drew the jugs too and the men’s faces on
her nails with red ink make you split your sides or when she wanted to
go where you know she said she wanted to run and pay a visit to the
Miss White. That was just like Cissycums. O, and will you ever forget
her the evening she dressed up in her father’s suit and hat and the
burned cork moustache and walked down Tritonville road, smoking a
cigarette. There was none to come up to her for fun. But she was
sincerity itself, one of the bravest and truest hearts heaven ever
made, not one of your twofaced things, too sweet to be wholesome.

And then there came out upon the air the sound of voices and the
pealing anthem of the organ. It was the men’s temperance retreat
conducted by the missioner, the reverend John Hughes S. J., rosary,
sermon and benediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament. They were there
gathered together without distinction of social class (and a most
edifying spectacle it was to see) in that simple fane beside the waves,
after the storms of this weary world, kneeling before the feet of the
immaculate, reciting the litany of Our Lady of Loreto, beseeching her
to intercede for them, the old familiar words, holy Mary, holy virgin
of virgins. How sad to poor Gerty’s ears! Had her father only avoided
the clutches of the demon drink, by taking the pledge or those powders
the drink habit cured in Pearson’s Weekly, she might now be rolling in
her carriage, second to none. Over and over had she told herself that
as she mused by the dying embers in a brown study without the lamp
because she hated two lights or oftentimes gazing out of the window
dreamily by the hour at the rain falling on the rusty bucket, thinking.
But that vile decoction which has ruined so many hearths and homes had
cast its shadow over her childhood days. Nay, she had even witnessed in
the home circle deeds of violence caused by intemperance and had seen
her own father, a prey to the fumes of intoxication, forget himself
completely for if there was one thing of all things that Gerty knew it
was that the man who lifts his hand to a woman save in the way of
kindness, deserves to be branded as the lowest of the low.

And still the voices sang in supplication to the Virgin most powerful,
Virgin most merciful. And Gerty, rapt in thought, scarce saw or heard
her companions or the twins at their boyish gambols or the gentleman
off Sandymount green that Cissy Caffrey called the man that was so like
himself passing along the strand taking a short walk. You never saw him
any way screwed but still and for all that she would not like him for a
father because he was too old or something or on account of his face
(it was a palpable case of Doctor Fell) or his carbuncly nose with the
pimples on it and his sandy moustache a bit white under his nose. Poor
father! With all his faults she loved him still when he sang _Tell me,
Mary, how to woo thee_ or _My love and cottage near Rochelle_ and they
had stewed cockles and lettuce with Lazenby’s salad dressing for supper
and when he sang _The moon hath raised_ with Mr Dignam that died
suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him, from a stroke. Her
mother’s birthday that was and Charley was home on his holidays and Tom
and Mr Dignam and Mrs and Patsy and Freddy Dignam and they were to have
had a group taken. No-one would have thought the end was so near. Now
he was laid to rest. And her mother said to him to let that be a
warning to him for the rest of his days and he couldn’t even go to the
funeral on account of the gout and she had to go into town to bring him
the letters and samples from his office about Catesby’s cork lino,
artistic, standard designs, fit for a palace, gives tiptop wear and
always bright and cheery in the home.

A sterling good daughter was Gerty just like a second mother in the
house, a ministering angel too with a little heart worth its weight in
gold. And when her mother had those raging splitting headaches who was
it rubbed the menthol cone on her forehead but Gerty though she didn’t
like her mother’s taking pinches of snuff and that was the only single
thing they ever had words about, taking snuff. Everyone thought the
world of her for her gentle ways. It was Gerty who turned off the gas
at the main every night and it was Gerty who tacked up on the wall of
that place where she never forgot every fortnight the chlorate of lime
Mr Tunney the grocer’s christmas almanac, the picture of halcyon days
where a young gentleman in the costume they used to wear then with a
threecornered hat was offering a bunch of flowers to his ladylove with
oldtime chivalry through her lattice window. You could see there was a
story behind it. The colours were done something lovely. She was in a
soft clinging white in a studied attitude and the gentleman was in
chocolate and he looked a thorough aristocrat. She often looked at them
dreamily when she went there for a certain purpose and felt her own
arms that were white and soft just like hers with the sleeves back and
thought about those times because she had found out in Walker’s
pronouncing dictionary that belonged to grandpapa Giltrap about the
halcyon days what they meant.

The twins were now playing in the most approved brotherly fashion till
at last Master Jacky who was really as bold as brass there was no
getting behind that deliberately kicked the ball as hard as ever he
could down towards the seaweedy rocks. Needless to say poor Tommy was
not slow to voice his dismay but luckily the gentleman in black who was
sitting there by himself came gallantly to the rescue and intercepted
the ball. Our two champions claimed their plaything with lusty cries
and to avoid trouble Cissy Caffrey called to the gentleman to throw it
to her please. The gentleman aimed the ball once or twice and then
threw it up the strand towards Cissy Caffrey but it rolled down the
slope and stopped right under Gerty’s skirt near the little pool by the
rock. The twins clamoured again for it and Cissy told her to kick it
away and let them fight for it so Gerty drew back her foot but she
wished their stupid ball hadn’t come rolling down to her and she gave a
kick but she missed and Edy and Cissy laughed.

—If you fail try again, Edy Boardman said.

Gerty smiled assent and bit her lip. A delicate pink crept into her
pretty cheek but she was determined to let them see so she just lifted
her skirt a little but just enough and took good aim and gave the ball
a jolly good kick and it went ever so far and the two twins after it
down towards the shingle. Pure jealousy of course it was nothing else
to draw attention on account of the gentleman opposite looking. She
felt the warm flush, a danger signal always with Gerty MacDowell,
surging and flaming into her cheeks. Till then they had only exchanged
glances of the most casual but now under the brim of her new hat she
ventured a look at him and the face that met her gaze there in the
twilight, wan and strangely drawn, seemed to her the saddest she had
ever seen.

Through the open window of the church the fragrant incense was wafted
and with it the fragrant names of her who was conceived without stain
of original sin, spiritual vessel, pray for us, honourable vessel, pray
for us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us, mystical rose. And
careworn hearts were there and toilers for their daily bread and many
who had erred and wandered, their eyes wet with contrition but for all
that bright with hope for the reverend father Father Hughes had told
them what the great saint Bernard said in his famous prayer of Mary,
the most pious Virgin’s intercessory power that it was not recorded in
any age that those who implored her powerful protection were ever
abandoned by her.

The twins were now playing again right merrily for the troubles of
childhood are but as fleeting summer showers. Cissy Caffrey played with
baby Boardman till he crowed with glee, clapping baby hands in air.
Peep she cried behind the hood of the pushcar and Edy asked where was
Cissy gone and then Cissy popped up her head and cried ah! and, my
word, didn’t the little chap enjoy that! And then she told him to say
papa.

—Say papa, baby. Say pa pa pa pa pa pa pa.

And baby did his level best to say it for he was very intelligent for
eleven months everyone said and big for his age and the picture of
health, a perfect little bunch of love, and he would certainly turn out
to be something great, they said.

—Haja ja ja haja.

Cissy wiped his little mouth with the dribbling bib and wanted him to
sit up properly and say pa pa pa but when she undid the strap she cried
out, holy saint Denis, that he was possing wet and to double the half
blanket the other way under him. Of course his infant majesty was most
obstreperous at such toilet formalities and he let everyone know it:

—Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa.

And two great big lovely big tears coursing down his cheeks. It was all
no use soothering him with no, nono, baby, no and telling him about the
geegee and where was the puffpuff but Ciss, always readywitted, gave
him in his mouth the teat of the suckingbottle and the young heathen
was quickly appeased.

Gerty wished to goodness they would take their squalling baby home out
of that and not get on her nerves, no hour to be out, and the little
brats of twins. She gazed out towards the distant sea. It was like the
paintings that man used to do on the pavement with all the coloured
chalks and such a pity too leaving them there to be all blotted out,
the evening and the clouds coming out and the Bailey light on Howth and
to hear the music like that and the perfume of those incense they
burned in the church like a kind of waft. And while she gazed her heart
went pitapat. Yes, it was her he was looking at, and there was meaning
in his look. His eyes burned into her as though they would search her
through and through, read her very soul. Wonderful eyes they were,
superbly expressive, but could you trust them? People were so queer.
She could see at once by his dark eyes and his pale intellectual face
that he was a foreigner, the image of the photo she had of Martin
Harvey, the matinee idol, only for the moustache which she preferred
because she wasn’t stagestruck like Winny Rippingham that wanted they
two to always dress the same on account of a play but she could not see
whether he had an aquiline nose or a slightly _retroussé_ from where he
was sitting. He was in deep mourning, she could see that, and the story
of a haunting sorrow was written on his face. She would have given
worlds to know what it was. He was looking up so intently, so still,
and he saw her kick the ball and perhaps he could see the bright steel
buckles of her shoes if she swung them like that thoughtfully with the
toes down. She was glad that something told her to put on the
transparent stockings thinking Reggy Wylie might be out but that was
far away. Here was that of which she had so often dreamed. It was he
who mattered and there was joy on her face because she wanted him
because she felt instinctively that he was like no-one else. The very
heart of the girlwoman went out to him, her dreamhusband, because she
knew on the instant it was him. If he had suffered, more sinned against
than sinning, or even, even, if he had been himself a sinner, a wicked
man, she cared not. Even if he was a protestant or methodist she could
convert him easily if he truly loved her. There were wounds that wanted
healing with heartbalm. She was a womanly woman not like other flighty
girls unfeminine he had known, those cyclists showing off what they
hadn’t got and she just yearned to know all, to forgive all if she
could make him fall in love with her, make him forget the memory of the
past. Then mayhap he would embrace her gently, like a real man,
crushing her soft body to him, and love her, his ownest girlie, for
herself alone.

Refuge of sinners. Comfortress of the afflicted. _Ora pro nobis_. Well
has it been said that whosoever prays to her with faith and constancy
can never be lost or cast away: and fitly is she too a haven of refuge
for the afflicted because of the seven dolours which transpierced her
own heart. Gerty could picture the whole scene in the church, the
stained glass windows lighted up, the candles, the flowers and the blue
banners of the blessed Virgin’s sodality and Father Conroy was helping
Canon O’Hanlon at the altar, carrying things in and out with his eyes
cast down. He looked almost a saint and his confessionbox was so quiet
and clean and dark and his hands were just like white wax and if ever
she became a Dominican nun in their white habit perhaps he might come
to the convent for the novena of Saint Dominic. He told her that time
when she told him about that in confession, crimsoning up to the roots
of her hair for fear he could see, not to be troubled because that was
only the voice of nature and we were all subject to nature’s laws, he
said, in this life and that that was no sin because that came from the
nature of woman instituted by God, he said, and that Our Blessed Lady
herself said to the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me according to
Thy Word. He was so kind and holy and often and often she thought and
thought could she work a ruched teacosy with embroidered floral design
for him as a present or a clock but they had a clock she noticed on the
mantelpiece white and gold with a canarybird that came out of a little
house to tell the time the day she went there about the flowers for the
forty hours’ adoration because it was hard to know what sort of a
present to give or perhaps an album of illuminated views of Dublin or
some place.

The exasperating little brats of twins began to quarrel again and Jacky
threw the ball out towards the sea and they both ran after it. Little
monkeys common as ditchwater. Someone ought to take them and give them
a good hiding for themselves to keep them in their places, the both of
them. And Cissy and Edy shouted after them to come back because they
were afraid the tide might come in on them and be drowned.

—Jacky! Tommy!

Not they! What a great notion they had! So Cissy said it was the very
last time she’d ever bring them out. She jumped up and called them and
she ran down the slope past him, tossing her hair behind her which had
a good enough colour if there had been more of it but with all the
thingamerry she was always rubbing into it she couldn’t get it to grow
long because it wasn’t natural so she could just go and throw her hat
at it. She ran with long gandery strides it was a wonder she didn’t rip
up her skirt at the side that was too tight on her because there was a
lot of the tomboy about Cissy Caffrey and she was a forward piece
whenever she thought she had a good opportunity to show off 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 exposé for a gentleman like that
to witness.

Queen of angels, queen of patriarchs, queen of prophets, of all saints,
they prayed, queen of the most holy rosary and then Father Conroy
handed the thurible to Canon O’Hanlon and he put in the incense and
censed the Blessed Sacrament and Cissy Caffrey caught the two twins and
she was itching to give them a ringing good clip on the ear but she
didn’t because she thought he might be watching but she never made a
bigger mistake in all her life because Gerty could see without looking
that he never took his eyes off of her and then Canon O’Hanlon handed
the thurible back to Father Conroy and knelt down looking up at the
Blessed Sacrament and the choir began to sing the _Tantum ergo_ and she
just swung her foot in and out in time as the music rose and fell to
the _Tantumer gosa cramen tum_. Three and eleven she paid for those
stockings in Sparrow’s of George’s street on the Tuesday, no the Monday
before Easter and there wasn’t a brack on them and that was what he was
looking at, transparent, and not at her insignificant ones that had
neither shape nor form (the cheek of her!) because he had eyes in his
head to see the difference for himself.

Cissy came up along the strand with the two twins and their ball with
her hat anyhow on her to one side after her run and she did look a
streel tugging the two kids along with the flimsy blouse she bought
only a fortnight before like a rag on her back and a bit of her
petticoat hanging like a caricature. Gerty just took off her hat for a
moment to settle her hair and a prettier, a daintier head of nutbrown
tresses was never seen on a girl’s shoulders—a radiant little vision,
in sooth, almost maddening in its sweetness. You would have to travel
many a long mile before you found a head of hair the like of that. She
could almost see the swift answering flash of admiration in his eyes
that set her tingling in every nerve. She put on her hat so that she
could see from underneath the brim and swung her buckled shoe faster
for her breath caught as she caught the expression in his eyes. He was
eying her as a snake eyes its prey. Her woman’s instinct told her that
she had raised the devil in him and at the thought a burning scarlet
swept from throat to brow till the lovely colour of her face became a
glorious rose.

Edy Boardman was noticing it too because she was squinting at Gerty,
half smiling, with her specs like an old maid, pretending to nurse the
baby. Irritable little gnat she was and always would be and that was
why no-one could get on with her poking her nose into what was no
concern of hers. And she said to Gerty:

—A penny for your thoughts.

—What? replied Gerty with a smile reinforced by the whitest of teeth. I
was only wondering was it late.

Because she wished to goodness they’d take the snottynosed twins and
their babby home to the mischief out of that so that was why she just
gave a gentle hint about its being late. And when Cissy came up Edy
asked her the time and Miss Cissy, as glib as you like, said it was
half past kissing time, time to kiss again. But Edy wanted to know
because they were told to be in early.

—Wait, said Cissy, I’ll run ask my uncle Peter over there what’s the
time by his conundrum.

So over she went and when he saw her coming she could see him take his
hand out of his pocket, getting nervous, and beginning to play with his
watchchain, looking up at the church. Passionate nature though he was
Gerty could see that he had enormous control over himself. One moment
he had been there, fascinated by a loveliness that made him gaze, and
the next moment it was the quiet gravefaced gentleman, selfcontrol
expressed in every line of his distinguishedlooking figure.

Cissy said to excuse her would he mind please telling her what was the
right time and Gerty could see him taking out his watch, listening to
it and looking up and clearing his throat and he said he was very sorry
his watch was stopped but he thought it must be after eight because the
sun was set. His voice had a cultured ring in it and though he spoke in
measured accents there was a suspicion of a quiver in the mellow tones.
Cissy said thanks and came back with her tongue out and said uncle said
his waterworks were out of order.

Then they sang the second verse of the _Tantum ergo_ and Canon O’Hanlon
got up again and censed the Blessed Sacrament and knelt down and he
told Father Conroy that one of the candles was just going to set fire
to the flowers and Father Conroy got up and settled it all right and
she could see the gentleman winding his watch and listening to the
works and she swung her leg more in and out in time. It was getting
darker but he could see and he was looking all the time that he was
winding the watch or whatever he was doing to it and then he put it
back and put his hands back into his pockets. She felt a kind of a
sensation rushing all over her and she knew by the feel of her scalp
and that irritation against her stays that that thing must be coming on
because the last time too was when she clipped her hair on account of
the moon. His dark eyes fixed themselves on her again drinking in her
every contour, literally worshipping at her shrine. If ever there was
undisguised admiration in a man’s passionate gaze it was there plain to
be seen on that man’s face. It is for you, Gertrude MacDowell, and you
know it.

Edy began to get ready to go and it was high time for her and Gerty
noticed that that little hint she gave had had the desired effect
because it was a long way along the strand to where there was the place
to push up the pushcar and Cissy took off the twins’ caps and tidied
their hair to make herself attractive of course and Canon O’Hanlon
stood up with his cope poking up at his neck and Father Conroy handed
him the card to read off and he read out _Panem de coelo praestitisti
eis_ and Edy and Cissy were talking about the time all the time and
asking her but Gerty could pay them back in their own coin and she just
answered with scathing politeness when Edy asked her was she
heartbroken about her best boy throwing her over. Gerty winced sharply.
A brief cold blaze shone from her eyes that spoke volumes of scorn
immeasurable. It hurt—O yes, it cut deep because Edy had her own quiet
way of saying things like that she knew would wound like the confounded
little cat she was. Gerty’s lips parted swiftly to frame the word but
she fought back the sob that rose to her throat, so slim, so flawless,
so beautifully moulded it seemed one an artist might have dreamed of.
She had loved him better than he knew. Lighthearted deceiver and fickle
like all his sex he would never understand what he had meant to her and
for an instant there was in the blue eyes a quick stinging of tears.
Their eyes were probing her mercilessly but with a brave effort she
sparkled back in sympathy as she glanced at her new conquest for them
to see.

—O, responded Gerty, quick as lightning, laughing, and the proud head
flashed up. I can throw my cap at who I like because it’s leap year.

Her words rang out crystalclear, more musical than the cooing of the
ringdove, but they cut the silence icily. There was that in her young
voice that told that she was not a one to be lightly trifled with. As
for Mr Reggy with his swank and his bit of money she could just chuck
him aside as if he was so much filth and never again would she cast as
much as a second thought on him and tear his silly postcard into a
dozen pieces. And if ever after he dared to presume she could give him
one look of measured scorn that would make him shrivel up on the spot.
Miss puny little Edy’s countenance fell to no slight extent and Gerty
could see by her looking as black as thunder that she was simply in a
towering rage though she hid it, the little kinnatt, because that shaft
had struck home for her petty jealousy and they both knew that she was
something aloof, apart, in another sphere, that she was not of them and
never would be and there was somebody else too that knew it and saw it
so they could put that in their pipe and smoke it.

Edy straightened up baby Boardman to get ready to go and Cissy tucked
in the ball and the spades and buckets and it was high time too because
the sandman was on his way for Master Boardman junior. And Cissy told
him too that billy winks was coming and that baby was to go deedaw and
baby looked just too ducky, laughing up out of his gleeful eyes, and
Cissy poked him like that out of fun in his wee fat tummy and baby,
without as much as by your leave, sent up his compliments to all and
sundry on to his brandnew dribbling bib.

—O my! Puddeny pie! protested Ciss. He has his bib destroyed.

The slight _contretemps_ claimed her attention but in two twos she set
that little matter to rights.

Gerty stifled a smothered exclamation and gave a nervous cough and Edy
asked what and she was just going to tell her to catch it while it was
flying but she was ever ladylike in her deportment so she simply passed
it off with consummate tact by saying that that was the benediction
because just then the bell rang out from the steeple over the quiet
seashore because Canon O’Hanlon was up on the altar with the veil that
Father Conroy put round his shoulders giving the benediction with the
Blessed Sacrament in his hands.

How moving the scene there in the gathering twilight, the last glimpse
of Erin, the touching chime of those evening bells and at the same time
a bat flew forth from the ivied belfry through the dusk, hither,
thither, with a tiny lost cry. And she could see far away the lights of
the lighthouses so picturesque she would have loved to do with a box of
paints because it was easier than to make a man and soon the
lamplighter would be going his rounds past the presbyterian church
grounds and along by shady Tritonville avenue where the couples walked
and lighting the lamp near her window where Reggy Wylie used to turn
his freewheel like she read in that book _The Lamplighter_ by Miss
Cummins, author of _Mabel Vaughan_ and other tales. For Gerty had her
dreams that no-one knew of. She loved to read poetry and when she got a
keepsake from Bertha Supple of that lovely confession album with the
coralpink cover to write her thoughts in she laid it in the drawer of
her toilettable which, though it did not err on the side of luxury, was
scrupulously neat and clean. It was there she kept her girlish treasure
trove, the tortoiseshell combs, her child of Mary badge, the whiterose
scent, the eyebrowleine, her alabaster pouncetbox and the ribbons to
change when her things came home from the wash and there were some
beautiful thoughts written in it in violet ink that she bought in
Hely’s of Dame Street for she felt that she too could write poetry if
she could only express herself like that poem that appealed to her so
deeply that she had copied out of the newspaper she found one evening
round the potherbs. _Art thou real, my ideal?_ it was called by Louis J
Walsh, Magherafelt, and after there was something about _twilight, wilt
thou ever?_ and ofttimes the beauty of poetry, so sad in its transient
loveliness, had misted her eyes with silent tears for she felt that the
years were slipping by for her, one by one, and but for that one
shortcoming she knew she need fear no competition and that was an
accident coming down Dalkey hill and she always tried to conceal it.
But it must end, she felt. If she saw that magic lure in his eyes there
would be no holding back for her. Love laughs at locksmiths. She would
make the great sacrifice. Her every effort would be to share his
thoughts. Dearer than the whole world would she be to him and gild his
days with happiness. There was the allimportant question and she was
dying to know was he a married man or a widower who had lost his wife
or some tragedy like the nobleman with the foreign name from the land
of song had to have her put into a madhouse, cruel only to be kind. But
even if—what then? Would it make a very great difference? From
everything in the least indelicate her finebred nature instinctively
recoiled. She loathed that sort of person, the fallen women off the
accommodation walk beside the Dodder that went with the soldiers and
coarse men with no respect for a girl’s honour, degrading the sex and
being taken up to the police station. No, no: not that. They would be
just good friends like a big brother and sister without all that other
in spite of the conventions of Society with a big ess. Perhaps it was
an old flame he was in mourning for from the days beyond recall. She
thought she understood. She would try to understand him because men
were so different. The old love was waiting, waiting with little white
hands stretched out, with blue appealing eyes. Heart of mine! She would
follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he
was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was
the master guide. Nothing else mattered. Come what might she would be
wild, untrammelled, free.

Canon O’Hanlon put the Blessed Sacrament back into the tabernacle and
genuflected and the choir sang _Laudate Dominum omnes gentes_ and then
he locked the tabernacle door because the benediction was over and
Father Conroy handed him his hat to put on and crosscat Edy asked
wasn’t she coming but Jacky Caffrey called out:

—O, look, Cissy!

And they all looked was it sheet lightning but Tommy saw it too over
the trees beside the church, blue and then green and purple.

—It’s fireworks, Cissy Caffrey said.

And they all ran down the strand to see over the houses and the church,
helterskelter, Edy with the pushcar with baby Boardman in it and Cissy
holding Tommy and Jacky by the hand so they wouldn’t fall running.

—Come on, Gerty, Cissy called. It’s the bazaar fireworks.

But Gerty was adamant. She had no intention of being at their beck and
call. If they could run like rossies she could sit so she said she
could see from where she was. The eyes that were fastened upon her set
her pulses tingling. She looked at him a moment, meeting his glance,
and a light broke in upon her. Whitehot passion was in that face,
passion silent as the grave, and it had made her his. At last they were
left alone without the others to pry and pass remarks and she knew he
could be trusted to the death, steadfast, a sterling man, a man of
inflexible honour to his fingertips. His hands and face were working
and a tremour went over her. She leaned back far to look up where the
fireworks were and she caught her knee in her hands so as not to fall
back looking up and there was no-one to see only him and her when she
revealed all her graceful beautifully shaped legs like that, supply
soft and delicately rounded, and she seemed to hear the panting of his
heart, his hoarse breathing, because she knew too about the passion of
men like that, hotblooded, because Bertha Supple told her once in dead
secret and made her swear she’d never about the gentleman lodger that
was staying with them out of the Congested Districts Board that had
pictures cut out of papers of those skirtdancers and highkickers and
she said he used to do something not very nice that you could imagine
sometimes in the bed. But this was altogether different from a thing
like that because there was all the difference because she could almost
feel him draw her face to his and the first quick hot touch of his
handsome lips. Besides there was absolution so long as you didn’t do
the other thing before being married and there ought to be women
priests that would understand without your telling out and Cissy
Caffrey too sometimes had that dreamy kind of dreamy look in her eyes
so that she too, my dear, and Winny Rippingham so mad about actors’
photographs and besides it was on account of that other thing coming on
the way it did.

And Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there was another and she leaned
back and the garters were blue to match on account of the transparent
and they all saw it and they all shouted to look, look, there it was
and she leaned back ever so far to see the fireworks and something
queer was flying through the air, a soft thing, to and fro, dark. And
she saw a long Roman candle going up over the trees, up, up, and, in
the tense hush, they were all breathless with excitement as it went
higher and higher and she had to lean back more and more to look up
after it, high, high, almost out of sight, and her face was suffused
with a divine, an entrancing blush from straining back and he could see
her other things too, nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses the
skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven,
on account of being white and she let him and she saw that he saw and
then it went so high it went out of sight a moment and she was
trembling in every limb from being bent so far back that he had a full
view high up above her knee where no-one ever not even on the swing or
wading and she wasn’t ashamed and he wasn’t either to look in that
immodest way like that because he couldn’t resist the sight of the
wondrous revealment half offered like those skirtdancers behaving so
immodest before gentlemen looking and he kept on looking, looking. She
would fain have cried to him chokingly, held out her snowy slender arms
to him to come, to feel his lips laid on her white brow, the cry of a
young girl’s love, a little strangled cry, wrung from her, that cry
that has rung through the ages. And then a rocket sprang and bang shot
blind blank and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh
of O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a
stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all
greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lovely, O, soft, sweet,
soft!

Then all melted away dewily in the grey air: all was silent. Ah! She
glanced at him as she bent forward quickly, a pathetic little glance of
piteous protest, of shy reproach under which he coloured like a girl.
He was leaning back against the rock behind. Leopold Bloom (for it is
he) stands silent, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes.
What a brute he had been! At it again? A fair unsullied soul had called
to him and, wretch that he was, how had he answered? An utter cad he
had been! He of all men! But there was an infinite store of mercy in
those eyes, for him too a word of pardon even though he had erred and
sinned and wandered. Should a girl tell? No, a thousand times no. That
was their secret, only theirs, alone in the hiding twilight and there
was none to know or tell save the little bat that flew so softly
through the evening to and fro and little bats don’t tell.

Cissy Caffrey whistled, imitating the boys in the football field to
show what a great person she was: and then she cried:

—Gerty! Gerty! We’re going. Come on. We can see from farther up.

Gerty had an idea, one of love’s little ruses. She slipped a hand into
her kerchief pocket and took out the wadding and waved in reply of
course without letting him and then slipped it back. Wonder if he’s too
far to. She rose. Was it goodbye? No. She had to go but they would meet
again, there, and she would dream of that till then, tomorrow, of her
dream of yester eve. She drew herself up to her full height. Their
souls met in a last lingering glance and the eyes that reached her
heart, full of a strange shining, hung enraptured on her sweet
flowerlike face. She half smiled at him wanly, a sweet forgiving smile,
a smile that verged on tears, and then they parted.

Slowly, without looking back she went down the uneven strand to Cissy,
to Edy to Jacky and Tommy Caffrey, to little baby Boardman. It was
darker now and there were stones and bits of wood on the strand and
slippy seaweed. She walked with a certain quiet dignity characteristic
of her but with care and very slowly because—because Gerty MacDowell
was...

Tight boots? No. She’s lame! O!

Mr Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poor girl! That’s why she’s
left on the shelf and the others did a sprint. Thought something was
wrong by the cut of her jib. Jilted beauty. A defect is ten times worse
in a woman. But makes them polite. Glad I didn’t know it when she was
on show. Hot little devil all the same. I wouldn’t mind. Curiosity like
a nun or a negress or a girl with glasses. That squinty one is
delicate. Near her monthlies, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. I
have such a bad headache today. Where did I put the letter? Yes, all
right. All kinds of crazy longings. Licking pennies. Girl in Tranquilla
convent that nun told me liked to smell rock oil. Virgins go mad in the
end I suppose. Sister? How many women in Dublin have it today? Martha,
she. Something in the air. That’s the moon. But then why don’t all
women menstruate at the same time with the same moon, I mean? Depends
on the time they were born I suppose. Or all start scratch then get out
of step. Sometimes Molly and Milly together. Anyhow I got the best of
that. Damned glad I didn’t do it in the bath this morning over her
silly I will punish you letter. Made up for that tramdriver this
morning. That gouger M’Coy stopping me to say nothing. And his wife
engagement in the country valise, voice like a pickaxe. Thankful for
small mercies. Cheap too. Yours for the asking. Because they want it
themselves. Their natural craving. Shoals of them every evening poured
out of offices. Reserve better. Don’t want it they throw it at you.
Catch em alive, O. Pity they can’t see themselves. A dream of
wellfilled hose. Where was that? Ah, yes. Mutoscope pictures in Capel
street: for men only. Peeping Tom. Willy’s hat and what the girls did
with it. Do they snapshot those girls or is it all a fake? _Lingerie_
does it. Felt for the curves inside her _déshabillé._ Excites them also
when they’re. I’m all clean come and dirty me. And they like dressing
one another for the sacrifice. Milly delighted with Molly’s new blouse.
At first. Put them all on to take them all off. Molly. Why I bought her
the violet garters. Us too: the tie he wore, his lovely socks and
turnedup trousers. He wore a pair of gaiters the night that first we
met. His lovely shirt was shining beneath his what? of jet. Say a woman
loses a charm with every pin she takes out. Pinned together. O, Mairy
lost the pin of her. Dressed up to the nines for somebody. Fashion part
of their charm. Just changes when you’re on the track of the secret.
Except the east: Mary, Martha: now as then. No reasonable offer
refused. She wasn’t in a hurry either. Always off to a fellow when they
are. They never forget an appointment. Out on spec probably. They
believe in chance because like themselves. And the others inclined to
give her an odd dig. Girl friends at school, arms round each other’s
necks or with ten fingers locked, kissing and whispering secrets about
nothing in the convent garden. Nuns with whitewashed faces, cool coifs
and their rosaries going up and down, vindictive too for what they
can’t get. Barbed wire. Be sure now and write to me. And I’ll write to
you. Now won’t you? Molly and Josie Powell. Till Mr Right comes along,
then meet once in a blue moon. _Tableau!_ O, look who it is for the
love of God! How are you at all? What have you been doing with
yourself? Kiss and delighted to, kiss, to see you. Picking holes in
each other’s appearance. You’re looking splendid. Sister souls. Showing
their teeth at one another. How many have you left? Wouldn’t lend each
other a pinch of salt.

Ah!

Devils they are when that’s coming on them. Dark devilish appearance.
Molly often told me feel things a ton weight. Scratch the sole of my
foot. O that way! O, that’s exquisite! Feel it myself too. Good to rest
once in a way. Wonder if it’s bad to go with them then. Safe in one
way. Turns milk, makes fiddlestrings snap. Something about withering
plants I read in a garden. Besides they say if the flower withers she
wears she’s a flirt. All are. Daresay she felt I. When you feel like
that you often meet what you feel. Liked me or what? Dress they look
at. Always know a fellow courting: collars and cuffs. Well cocks and
lions do the same and stags. Same time might prefer a tie undone or
something. Trousers? Suppose I when I was? No. Gently does it. Dislike
rough and tumble. Kiss in the dark and never tell. Saw something in me.
Wonder what. Sooner have me as I am than some poet chap with
bearsgrease plastery hair, lovelock over his dexter optic. To aid
gentleman in literary. Ought to attend to my appearance my age. Didn’t
let her see me in profile. Still, you never know. Pretty girls and ugly
men marrying. Beauty and the beast. Besides I can’t be so if Molly.
Took off her hat to show her hair. Wide brim. Bought to hide her face,
meeting someone might know her, bend down or carry a bunch of flowers
to smell. Hair strong in rut. Ten bob I got for Molly’s combings when
we were on the rocks in Holles street. Why not? Suppose he gave her
money. Why not? All a prejudice. She’s worth ten, fifteen, more, a
pound. What? I think so. All that for nothing. Bold hand: Mrs Marion.
Did I forget to write address on that letter like the postcard I sent
to Flynn? And the day I went to Drimmie’s without a necktie. Wrangle
with Molly it was put me off. No, I remember. Richie Goulding: he’s
another. Weighs on his mind. Funny my watch stopped at half past four.
Dust. Shark liver oil they use to clean. Could do it myself. Save. Was
that just when he, she?

O, he did. Into her. She did. Done.

Ah!

Mr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wet shirt. O Lord, that
little limping devil. Begins to feel cold and clammy. Aftereffect not
pleasant. Still you have to get rid of it someway. They don’t care.
Complimented perhaps. Go home to nicey bread and milky and say night
prayers with the kiddies. Well, aren’t they? See her as she is spoil
all. Must have the stage setting, the rouge, costume, position, music.
The name too. _Amours_ of actresses. Nell Gwynn, Mrs Bracegirdle, Maud
Branscombe. Curtain up. Moonlight silver effulgence. Maiden discovered
with pensive bosom. Little sweetheart come and kiss me. Still, I feel.
The strength it gives a man. That’s the secret of it. Good job I let
off there behind the wall coming out of Dignam’s. Cider that was.
Otherwise I couldn’t have. Makes you want to sing after. _Lacaus esant
taratara_. Suppose I spoke to her. What about? Bad plan however if you
don’t know how to end the conversation. Ask them a question they ask
you another. Good idea if you’re stuck. Gain time. But then you’re in a
cart. Wonderful of course if you say: good evening, and you see she’s
on for it: good evening. O but the dark evening in the Appian way I
nearly spoke to Mrs Clinch O thinking she was. Whew! Girl in Meath
street that night. All the dirty things I made her say. All wrong of
course. My arks she called it. It’s so hard to find one who. Aho! If
you don’t answer when they solicit must be horrible for them till they
harden. And kissed my hand when I gave her the extra two shillings.
Parrots. Press the button and the bird will squeak. Wish she hadn’t
called me sir. O, her mouth in the dark! And you a married man with a
single girl! That’s what they enjoy. Taking a man from another woman.
Or even hear of it. Different with me. Glad to get away from other
chap’s wife. Eating off his cold plate. Chap in the Burton today
spitting back gumchewed gristle. French letter still in my pocketbook.
Cause of half the trouble. But might happen sometime, I don’t think.
Come in, all is prepared. I dreamt. What? Worst is beginning. How they
change the venue when it’s not what they like. Ask you do you like
mushrooms because she once knew a gentleman who. Or ask you what
someone was going to say when he changed his mind and stopped. Yet if I
went the whole hog, say: I want to, something like that. Because I did.
She too. Offend her. Then make it up. Pretend to want something
awfully, then cry off for her sake. Flatters them. She must have been
thinking of someone else all the time. What harm? Must since she came
to the use of reason, he, he and he. First kiss does the trick. The
propitious moment. Something inside them goes pop. Mushy like, tell by
their eye, on the sly. First thoughts are best. Remember that till
their dying day. Molly, lieutenant Mulvey that kissed her under the
Moorish wall beside the gardens. Fifteen she told me. But her breasts
were developed. Fell asleep then. After Glencree dinner that was when
we drove home. Featherbed mountain. Gnashing her teeth in sleep. Lord
mayor had his eye on her too. Val Dillon. Apoplectic.

There she is with them down there for the fireworks. My fireworks. Up
like a rocket, down like a stick. And the children, twins they must be,
waiting for something to happen. Want to be grownups. Dressing in
mother’s clothes. Time enough, understand all the ways of the world.
And the dark one with the mop head and the nigger mouth. I knew she
could whistle. Mouth made for that. Like Molly. Why that highclass
whore in Jammet’s wore her veil only to her nose. Would you mind,
please, telling me the right time? I’ll tell you the right time up a
dark lane. Say prunes and prisms forty times every morning, cure for
fat lips. Caressing the little boy too. Onlookers see most of the game.
Of course they understand birds, animals, babies. In their line.

Didn’t look back when she was going down the strand. Wouldn’t give that
satisfaction. Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls.
Fine eyes she had, clear. It’s the white of the eye brings that out not
so much the pupil. Did she know what I? Course. Like a cat sitting
beyond a dog’s jump. Women never meet one like that Wilkins in the high
school drawing a picture of Venus with all his belongings on show. Call
that innocence? Poor idiot! His wife has her work cut out for her.
Never see them sit on a bench marked _Wet Paint_. Eyes all over them.
Look under the bed for what’s not there. Longing to get the fright of
their lives. Sharp as needles they are. When I said to Molly the man at
the corner of Cuffe street was goodlooking, thought she might like,
twigged at once he had a false arm. Had, too. Where do they get that?
Typist going up Roger Greene’s stairs two at a time to show her
understandings. Handed down from father to, mother to daughter, I mean.
Bred in the bone. Milly for example drying her handkerchief on the
mirror to save the ironing. Best place for an ad to catch a woman’s eye
on a mirror. And when I sent her for Molly’s Paisley shawl to
Prescott’s by the way that ad I must, carrying home the change in her
stocking! Clever little minx. I never told her. Neat way she carries
parcels too. Attract men, small thing like that. Holding up her hand,
shaking it, to let the blood flow back when it was red. Who did you
learn that from? Nobody. Something the nurse taught me. O, don’t they
know! Three years old she was in front of Molly’s dressingtable, just
before we left Lombard street west. Me have a nice pace. Mullingar. Who
knows? Ways of the world. Young student. Straight on her pins anyway
not like the other. Still she was game. Lord, I am wet. Devil you are.
Swell of her calf. Transparent stockings, stretched to breaking point.
Not like that frump today. A. E. Rumpled stockings. Or the one in
Grafton street. White. Wow! Beef to the heel.

A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. Zrads
and zrads, zrads, zrads. And Cissy and Tommy and Jacky ran out to see
and Edy after with the pushcar and then Gerty beyond the curve of the
rocks. Will she? Watch! Watch! See! Looked round. She smelt an onion.
Darling, I saw, your. I saw all.

Lord!

Did me good all the same. Off colour after Kiernan’s, Dignam’s. For
this relief much thanks. In _Hamlet,_ that is. Lord! It was all things
combined. Excitement. When she leaned back, felt an ache at the butt of
my tongue. Your head it simply swirls. He’s right. Might have made a
worse fool of myself however. Instead of talking about nothing. Then I
will tell you all. Still it was a kind of language between us. It
couldn’t be? No, Gerty they called her. Might be false name however
like my name and the address Dolphin’s barn a blind.

     Her maiden name was Jemina Brown
     And she lived with her mother in Irishtown.

Place made me think of that I suppose. All tarred with the same brush.
Wiping pens in their stockings. But the ball rolled down to her as if
it understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I never could throw
anything straight at school. Crooked as a ram’s horn. Sad however
because it lasts only a few years till they settle down to potwalloping
and papa’s pants will soon fit Willy and fuller’s earth for the baby
when they hold him out to do ah ah. No soft job. Saves them. Keeps them
out of harm’s way. Nature. Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam.
Children’s hands always round them. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not even
closed at first, sour milk in their swaddles and tainted curds.
Oughtn’t to have given that child an empty teat to suck. Fill it up
with wind. Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must call to the hospital. Wonder is
nurse Callan there still. She used to look over some nights when Molly
was in the Coffee Palace. That young doctor O’Hare I noticed her
brushing his coat. And Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once like that too,
marriageable. Worst of all at night Mrs Duggan told me in the City
Arms. Husband rolling in drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat.
Have that in your nose in the dark, whiff of stale boose. Then ask in
the morning: was I drunk last night? Bad policy however to fault the
husband. Chickens come home to roost. They stick by one another like
glue. Maybe the women’s fault also. That’s where Molly can knock spots
off them. It’s the blood of the south. Moorish. Also the form, the
figure. Hands felt for the opulent. Just compare for instance those
others. Wife locked up at home, skeleton in the cupboard. Allow me to
introduce my. Then they trot you out some kind of a nondescript,
wouldn’t know what to call her. Always see a fellow’s weak point in his
wife. Still there’s destiny in it, falling in love. Have their own
secrets between them. Chaps that would go to the dogs if some woman
didn’t take them in hand. Then little chits of girls, height of a
shilling in coppers, with little hubbies. As God made them he matched
them. Sometimes children turn out well enough. Twice nought makes one.
Or old rich chap of seventy and blushing bride. Marry in May and repent
in December. This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the foreskin is
not back. Better detach.

Ow!

Other hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long and the
short of it. Big he and little she. Very strange about my watch.
Wristwatches are always going wrong. Wonder is there any magnetic
influence between the person because that was about the time he. Yes, I
suppose, at once. Cat’s away, the mice will play. I remember looking in
Pill lane. Also that now is magnetism. Back of everything magnetism.
Earth for instance pulling this and being pulled. That causes movement.
And time, well that’s the time the movement takes. Then if one thing
stopped the whole ghesabo would stop bit by bit. Because it’s all
arranged. Magnetic needle tells you what’s going on in the sun, the
stars. Little piece of steel iron. When you hold out the fork. Come.
Come. Tip. Woman and man that is. Fork and steel. Molly, he. Dress up
and look and suggest and let you see and see more and defy you if
you’re a man to see that and, like a sneeze coming, legs, look, look
and if you have any guts in you. Tip. Have to let fly.

Wonder how is she feeling in that region. Shame all put on before third
person. More put out about a hole in her stocking. Molly, her underjaw
stuck out, head back, about the farmer in the ridingboots and spurs at
the horse show. And when the painters were in Lombard street west. Fine
voice that fellow had. How Giuglini began. Smell that I did. Like
flowers. It was too. Violets. Came from the turpentine probably in the
paint. Make their own use of everything. Same time doing it scraped her
slipper on the floor so they wouldn’t hear. But lots of them can’t kick
the beam, I think. Keep that thing up for hours. Kind of a general all
round over me and half down my back.

Wait. Hm. Hm. Yes. That’s her perfume. Why she waved her hand. I leave
you this to think of me when I’m far away on the pillow. What is it?
Heliotrope? No. Hyacinth? Hm. Roses, I think. She’d like scent of that
kind. Sweet and cheap: soon sour. Why Molly likes opoponax. Suits her,
with a little jessamine mixed. Her high notes and her low notes. At the
dance night she met him, dance of the hours. Heat brought it out. She
was wearing her black and it had the perfume of the time before. Good
conductor, is it? Or bad? Light too. Suppose there’s some connection.
For instance if you go into a cellar where it’s dark. Mysterious thing
too. Why did I smell it only now? Took its time in coming like herself,
slow but sure. Suppose it’s ever so many millions of tiny grains blown
across. Yes, it is. Because those spice islands, Cinghalese this
morning, smell them leagues off. Tell you what it is. It’s like a fine
fine veil or web they have all over the skin, fine like what do you
call it gossamer, and they’re always spinning it out of them, fine as
anything, like rainbow colours without knowing it. Clings to everything
she takes off. Vamp of her stockings. Warm shoe. Stays. Drawers: little
kick, taking them off. Byby till next time. Also the cat likes to sniff
in her shift on the bed. Know her smell in a thousand. Bathwater too.
Reminds me of strawberries and cream. Wonder where it is really. There
or the armpits or under the neck. Because you get it out of all holes
and corners. Hyacinth perfume made of oil of ether or something.
Muskrat. Bag under their tails. One grain pour off odour for years.
Dogs at each other behind. Good evening. Evening. How do you sniff? Hm.
Hm. Very well, thank you. Animals go by that. Yes now, look at it that
way. We’re the same. Some women, instance, warn you off when they have
their period. Come near. Then get a hogo you could hang your hat on.
Like what? Potted herrings gone stale or. Boof! Please keep off the
grass.

Perhaps they get a man smell off us. What though? Cigary gloves long
John had on his desk the other day. Breath? What you eat and drink
gives that. No. Mansmell, I mean. Must be connected with that because
priests that are supposed to be are different. Women buzz round it like
flies round treacle. Railed off the altar get on to it at any cost. The
tree of forbidden priest. O, father, will you? Let me be the first to.
That diffuses itself all through the body, permeates. Source of life.
And it’s extremely curious the smell. Celery sauce. Let me.

Mr Bloom inserted his nose. Hm. Into the. Hm. Opening of his waistcoat.
Almonds or. No. Lemons it is. Ah no, that’s the soap.

O by the by that lotion. I knew there was something on my mind. Never
went back and the soap not paid. Dislike carrying bottles like that hag
this morning. Hynes might have paid me that three shillings. I could
mention Meagher’s just to remind him. Still if he works that paragraph.
Two and nine. Bad opinion of me he’ll have. Call tomorrow. How much do
I owe you? Three and nine? Two and nine, sir. Ah. Might stop him giving
credit another time. Lose your customers that way. Pubs do. Fellows run
up a bill on the slate and then slinking around the back streets into
somewhere else.

Here’s this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the bay. Just went as
far as turn back. Always at home at dinnertime. Looks mangled out: had
a good tuck in. Enjoying nature now. Grace after meals. After supper
walk a mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government
sit. Walk after him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today.
Still you learn something. See ourselves as others see us. So long as
women don’t mock what matter? That’s the way to find out. Ask yourself
who is he now. _The Mystery Man on the Beach_, prize titbit story by Mr
Leopold Bloom. Payment at the rate of one guinea per column. And that
fellow today at the graveside in the brown macintosh. Corns on his
kismet however. Healthy perhaps absorb all the. Whistle brings rain
they say. Must be some somewhere. Salt in the Ormond damp. The body
feels the atmosphere. Old Betty’s joints are on the rack. Mother
Shipton’s prophecy that is about ships around they fly in the
twinkling. No. Signs of rain it is. The royal reader. And distant hills
seem coming nigh.

Howth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to change or
they might think it a house. Wreckers. Grace Darling. People afraid of
the dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time. Jewels diamonds
flash better. Women. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt
you. Better now of course than long ago. Country roads. Run you through
the small guts for nothing. Still two types there are you bob against.
Scowl or smile. Pardon! Not at all. Best time to spray plants too in
the shade after the sun. Some light still. Red rays are longest.
Roygbiv Vance taught us: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo,
violet. A star I see. Venus? Can’t tell yet. Two. When three it’s
night. Were those nightclouds there all the time? Looks like a phantom
ship. No. Wait. Trees are they? An optical illusion. Mirage. Land of
the setting sun this. Homerule sun setting in the southeast. My native
land, goodnight.

Dew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit on that stone. Brings on white
fluxions. Never have little baby then less he was big strong fight his
way up through. Might get piles myself. Sticks too like a summer cold,
sore on the mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction of the
position. Like to be that rock she sat on. O sweet little, you don’t
know how nice you looked. I begin to like them at that age. Green
apples. Grab at all that offer. Suppose it’s the only time we cross
legs, seated. Also the library today: those girl graduates. Happy
chairs under them. But it’s the evening influence. They feel all that.
Open like flowers, know their hours, sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes,
in ballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under the lamps. Nightstock in Mat
Dillon’s garden where I kissed her shoulder. Wish I had a full length
oilpainting of her then. June that was too I wooed. The year returns.
History repeats itself. Ye crags and peaks I’m with you once again.
Life, love, voyage round your own little world. And now? Sad about her
lame of course but must be on your guard not to feel too much pity.
They take advantage.

All quiet on Howth now. The distant hills seem. Where we. The
rhododendrons. I am a fool perhaps. He gets the plums, and I the
plumstones. Where I come in. All that old hill has seen. Names change:
that’s all. Lovers: yum yum.

Tired I feel now. Will I get up? O wait. Drained all the manhood out of
me, little wretch. She kissed me. Never again. My youth. Only once it
comes. Or hers. Take the train there tomorrow. No. Returning not the
same. Like kids your second visit to a house. The new I want. Nothing
new under the sun. Care of P. O. Dolphin’s Barn. Are you not happy in
your? Naughty darling. At Dolphin’s barn charades in Luke Doyle’s
house. Mat Dillon and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy,
Louy, Hetty. Molly too. Eightyseven that was. Year before we. And the
old major, partial to his drop of spirits. Curious she an only child, I
an only child. So it returns. Think you’re escaping and run into
yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home. And just when he
and she. Circus horse walking in a ring. Rip van Winkle we played. Rip:
tear in Henny Doyle’s overcoat. Van: breadvan delivering. Winkle:
cockles and periwinkles. Then I did Rip van Winkle coming back. She
leaned on the sideboard watching. Moorish eyes. Twenty years asleep in
Sleepy Hollow. All changed. Forgotten. The young are old. His gun rusty
from the dew.

Ba. What is that flying about? Swallow? Bat probably. Thinks I’m a
tree, so blind. Have birds no smell? Metempsychosis. They believed you
could be changed into a tree from grief. Weeping willow. Ba. There he
goes. Funny little beggar. Wonder where he lives. Belfry up there. Very
likely. Hanging by his heels in the odour of sanctity. Bell scared him
out, I suppose. Mass seems to be over. Could hear them all at it. Pray
for us. And pray for us. And pray for us. Good idea the repetition.
Same thing with ads. Buy from us. And buy from us. Yes, there’s the
light in the priest’s house. Their frugal meal. Remember about the
mistake in the valuation when I was in Thom’s. Twentyeight it is. Two
houses they have. Gabriel Conroy’s brother is curate. Ba. Again. Wonder
why they come out at night like mice. They’re a mixed breed. Birds are
like hopping mice. What frightens them, light or noise? Better sit
still. All instinct like the bird in drouth got water out of the end of
a jar by throwing in pebbles. Like a little man in a cloak he is with
tiny hands. Weeny bones. Almost see them shimmering, kind of a bluey
white. Colours depend on the light you see. Stare the sun for example
like the eagle then look at a shoe see a blotch blob yellowish. Wants
to stamp his trademark on everything. Instance, that cat this morning
on the staircase. Colour of brown turf. Say you never see them with
three colours. Not true. That half tabbywhite tortoiseshell in the
_City Arms_ with the letter em on her forehead. Body fifty different
colours. Howth a while ago amethyst. Glass flashing. That’s how that
wise man what’s his name with the burning glass. Then the heather goes
on fire. It can’t be tourists’ matches. What? Perhaps the sticks dry
rub together in the wind and light. Or broken bottles in the furze act
as a burning glass in the sun. Archimedes. I have it! My memory’s not
so bad.

Ba. Who knows what they’re always flying for. Insects? That bee last
week got into the room playing with his shadow on the ceiling. Might be
the one bit me, come back to see. Birds too. Never find out. Or what
they say. Like our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve they
have to fly over the ocean and back. Lots must be killed in storms,
telegraph wires. Dreadful life sailors have too. Big brutes of
oceangoing steamers floundering along in the dark, lowing out like
seacows. _Faugh a ballagh!_ Out of that, bloody curse to you! Others in
vessels, bit of a handkerchief sail, pitched about like snuff at a wake
when the stormy winds do blow. Married too. Sometimes away for years at
the ends of the earth somewhere. No ends really because it’s round.
Wife in every port they say. She has a good job if she minds it till
Johnny comes marching home again. If ever he does. Smelling the tail
end of ports. How can they like the sea? Yet they do. The anchor’s
weighed. Off he sails with a scapular or a medal on him for luck. Well.
And the tephilim no what’s this they call it poor papa’s father had on
his door to touch. That brought us out of the land of Egypt and into
the house of bondage. Something in all those superstitions because when
you go out never know what dangers. Hanging on to a plank or astride of
a beam for grim life, lifebelt round him, gulping salt water, and
that’s the last of his nibs till the sharks catch hold of him. Do fish
ever get seasick?

Then you have a beautiful calm without a cloud, smooth sea, placid,
crew and cargo in smithereens, Davy Jones’ locker, moon looking down so
peaceful. Not my fault, old cockalorum.

A last lonely candle wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search of
funds for Mercer’s hospital and broke, drooping, and shed a cluster of
violet but one white stars. They floated, fell: they faded. The
shepherd’s hour: the hour of folding: hour of tryst. From house to
house, giving his everwelcome double knock, went the nine o’clock
postman, the glowworm’s lamp at his belt gleaming here and there
through the laurel hedges. And among the five young trees a hoisted
lintstock lit the lamp at Leahy’s terrace. By screens of lighted
windows, by equal gardens a shrill voice went crying, wailing: _Evening
Telegraph, stop press edition! Result of the Gold Cup 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, señorita. El
hombre ama la muchacha hermosa_. Why me? Because you were so foreign
from the others.

Better not stick here all night like a limpet. This weather makes you
dull. Must be getting on for nine by the light. Go home. Too late for
_Leah, Lily of Killarney._ No. Might be still up. Call to the hospital
to see. Hope she’s over. Long day I’ve had. Martha, the bath, funeral,
house of Keyes, museum with those goddesses, Dedalus’ song. Then that
bawler in Barney Kiernan’s. Got my own back there. Drunken ranters what
I said about his God made him wince. Mistake to hit back. Or? No. Ought
to go home and laugh at themselves. Always want to be swilling in
company. Afraid to be alone like a child of two. Suppose he hit me.
Look at it other way round. Not so bad then. Perhaps not to hurt he
meant. Three cheers for Israel. Three cheers for the sister-in-law he
hawked about, three fangs in her mouth. Same style of beauty.
Particularly nice old party for a cup of tea. The sister of the wife of
the wild man of Borneo has just come to town. Imagine that in the early
morning at close range. Everyone to his taste as Morris said when he
kissed the cow. But Dignam’s put the boots on it. Houses of mourning so
depressing because you never know. Anyhow she wants the money. Must
call to those Scottish Widows as I promised. Strange name. Takes it for
granted we’re going to pop off first. That widow on Monday was it
outside Cramer’s that looked at me. Buried the poor husband but
progressing favourably on the premium. Her widow’s mite. Well? What do
you expect her to do? Must wheedle her way along. Widower I hate to
see. Looks so forlorn. Poor man O’Connor wife and five children
poisoned by mussels here. The sewage. Hopeless. Some good matronly
woman in a porkpie hat to mother him. Take him in tow, platter face and
a large apron. Ladies’ grey flannelette bloomers, three shillings a
pair, astonishing bargain. Plain and loved, loved for ever, they say.
Ugly: no woman thinks she is. Love, lie and be handsome for tomorrow we
die. See him sometimes walking about trying to find out who played the
trick. U. p: up. Fate that is. He, not me. Also a shop often noticed.
Curse seems to dog it. Dreamt last night? Wait. Something confused. She
had red slippers on. Turkish. Wore the breeches. Suppose she does?
Would I like her in pyjamas? Damned hard to answer. Nannetti’s gone.
Mailboat. Near Holyhead by now. Must nail that ad of Keyes’s. Work
Hynes and Crawford. Petticoats for Molly. She has something to put in
them. What’s that? Might be money.

Mr Bloom stooped and turned over a piece of paper on the strand. He
brought it near his eyes and peered. Letter? No. Can’t read. Better go.
Better. I’m tired to move. Page of an old copybook. All those holes and
pebbles. Who could count them? Never know what you find. Bottle with
story of a treasure in it, thrown from a wreck. Parcels post. Children
always want to throw things in the sea. Trust? Bread cast on the
waters. What’s this? Bit of stick.

O! Exhausted that female has me. Not so young now. Will she come here
tomorrow? Wait for her somewhere for ever. Must come back. Murderers
do. Will I?

Mr Bloom with his stick gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write
a message for her. Might remain. What?

I.

Some flatfoot tramp on it in the morning. Useless. Washed away. Tide
comes here. Saw a pool near her foot. Bend, see my face there, dark
mirror, breathe on it, stirs. All these rocks with lines and scars and
letters. O, those transparent! Besides they don’t know. What is the
meaning of that other world. I called you naughty boy because I do not
like.

AM. A.

No room. Let it go.

Mr Bloom effaced the letters with his slow boot. Hopeless thing sand.
Nothing grows in it. All fades. No fear of big vessels coming up here.
Except Guinness’s barges. Round the Kish in eighty days. Done half by
design.

He flung his wooden pen away. The stick fell in silted sand, stuck. Now
if you were trying to do that for a week on end you couldn’t. Chance.
We’ll never meet again. But it was lovely. Goodbye, dear. Thanks. Made
me feel so young.

Short snooze now if I had. Must be near nine. Liverpool boat long gone.
Not even the smoke. And she can do the other. Did too. And Belfast. I
won’t go. Race there, race back to Ennis. Let him. Just close my eyes a
moment. Won’t sleep, though. Half dream. It never comes the same. Bat
again. No harm in him. Just a few.

O sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw dirty bracegirdle made me
do love sticky we two naughty Grace darling she him half past the bed
met him pike hoses frillies for Raoul de perfume your wife black hair
heave under embon _señorita_ 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 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 meeting he to her bow had not doffed. Her to forgive now he
craved with good ground of her allowed that that of him swiftseen face,
hers, so young then had looked. Light swift her eyes kindled, bloom of
blushes his word winning.

As her eyes then ongot his weeds swart therefor sorrow she feared. Glad
after she was that ere adread was. Her he asked if O’Hare Doctor
tidings sent from far coast and she with grameful sigh him answered
that O’Hare Doctor in heaven was. Sad was the man that word to hear
that him so heavied in bowels ruthful. All she there told him, ruing
death for friend so young, algate sore unwilling God’s rightwiseness to
withsay. She said that he had a fair sweet death through God His
goodness with masspriest to be shriven, holy housel and sick men’s oil
to his limbs. The man then right earnest asked the nun of which death
the dead man was died and the nun answered him and said that he was
died in Mona Island through bellycrab three year agone come Childermas
and she prayed to God the Allruthful to have his dear soul in his
undeathliness. He heard her sad words, in held hat sad staring. So
stood they there both awhile in wanhope sorrowing one with other.

Therefore, everyman, look to that last end that is thy death and the
dust that gripeth on every man that is born of woman for as he came
naked forth from his mother’s womb so naked shall he wend him at the
last for to go as he came.

The man that was come in to the house then spoke to the nursingwoman
and he asked her how it fared with the woman that lay there in
childbed. The nursingwoman answered him and said that that woman was in
throes now full three days and that it would be a hard birth unneth to
bear but that now in a little it would be. She said thereto that she
had seen many births of women but never was none so hard as was that
woman’s birth. Then she set it all forth to him for because she knew
the man that time was had lived nigh that house. The man hearkened to
her words for he felt with wonder women’s woe in the travail that they
have of motherhood and he wondered to look on her face that was a fair
face for any man to see but yet was she left after long years a
handmaid. Nine twelve bloodflows chiding her childless.

And whiles they spake the door of the castle was opened and there
nighed them a mickle noise as of many that sat there at meat. And there
came against the place as they stood a young learningknight yclept
Dixon. And the traveller Leopold was couth to him sithen it had happed
that they had had ado each with other in the house of misericord where
this learningknight lay by cause the traveller Leopold came there to be
healed for he was sore wounded in his breast by a spear wherewith a
horrible and dreadful dragon was smitten him for which he did do make a
salve of volatile salt and chrism as much as he might suffice. And he
said now that he should go in to that castle for to make merry with
them that were there. And the traveller Leopold said that he should go
otherwhither for he was a man of cautels and a subtile. Also the lady
was of his avis and repreved the learningknight though she trowed well
that the traveller had said thing that was false for his subtility. But
the learningknight would not hear say nay nor do her mandement ne have
him in aught contrarious to his list and he said how it was a
marvellous castle. And the traveller Leopold went into the castle for
to rest him for a space being sore of limb after many marches
environing in divers lands and sometime venery.

And in the castle was set a board that was of the birchwood of Finlandy
and it was upheld by four dwarfmen of that country but they durst not
move more for enchantment. And on this board were frightful swords and
knives that are made in a great cavern by swinking demons out of white
flames that they fix then in the horns of buffalos and stags that there
abound marvellously. And there were vessels that are wrought by magic
of Mahound out of seasand and the air by a warlock with his breath that
he blases in to them like to bubbles. And full fair cheer and rich was
on the board that no wight could devise a fuller ne richer. And there
was a vat of silver that was moved by craft to open in the which lay
strange fishes withouten heads though misbelieving men nie that this be
possible thing without they see it natheless they are so. And these
fishes lie in an oily water brought there from Portugal land because of
the fatness that therein is like to the juices of the olivepress. And
also it was a marvel to see in that castle how by magic they make a
compost out of fecund wheatkidneys out of Chaldee that by aid of
certain angry spirits that they do in to it swells up wondrously like
to a vast mountain. And they teach the serpents there to entwine
themselves up on long sticks out of the ground and of the scales of
these serpents they brew out a brewage like to mead.

And the learning knight let pour for childe Leopold a draught and halp
thereto the while all they that were there drank every each. And childe
Leopold did up his beaver for to pleasure him and took apertly somewhat
in amity for he never drank no manner of mead which he then put by and
anon full privily he voided the more part in his neighbour glass and
his neighbour nist not of this wile. And he sat down in that castle
with them for to rest him there awhile. Thanked be Almighty God.

This meanwhile this good sister stood by the door and begged them at
the reverence of Jesu our alther liege Lord to leave their wassailing
for there was above one quick with child, a gentle dame, whose time
hied fast. Sir Leopold heard on the upfloor cry on high and he wondered
what cry that it was whether of child or woman and I marvel, said he,
that it be not come or now. Meseems it dureth overlong. And he was ware
and saw a franklin that hight Lenehan on that side the table that was
older than any of the tother and for that they both were knights
virtuous in the one emprise and eke by cause that he was elder he spoke
to him full gently. But, said he, or it be long too she will bring
forth by God His bounty and have joy of her childing for she hath
waited marvellous long. And the franklin that had drunken said,
Expecting each moment to be her next. Also he took the cup that stood
tofore him for him needed never none asking nor desiring of him to
drink and, Now drink, said he, fully delectably, and he quaffed as far
as he might to their both’s health for he was a passing good man of his
lustiness. And sir Leopold that was the goodliest guest that ever sat
in scholars’ hall and that was the meekest man and the kindest that
ever laid husbandly hand under hen and that was the very truest knight
of the world one that ever did minion service to lady gentle pledged
him courtly in the cup. Woman’s woe with wonder pondering.

Now let us speak of that fellowship that was there to the intent to be
drunken an they might. There was a sort of scholars along either side
the board, that is to wit, Dixon yclept junior of saint Mary
Merciable’s with other his fellows Lynch and Madden, scholars of
medicine, and the franklin that hight Lenehan and one from Alba Longa,
one Crotthers, and young Stephen that had mien of a frere that was at
head of the board and Costello that men clepen Punch Costello all long
of a mastery of him erewhile gested (and of all them, reserved young
Stephen, he was the most drunken that demanded still of more mead) and
beside the meek sir Leopold. But on young Malachi they waited for that
he promised to have come and such as intended to no goodness said how
he had broke his avow. And sir Leopold sat with them for he bore fast
friendship to sir Simon and to this his son young Stephen and for that
his languor becalmed him there after longest wanderings insomuch as
they feasted him for that time in the honourablest manner. Ruth red
him, love led on with will to wander, loth to leave.

For they were right witty scholars. And he heard their aresouns each
gen other as touching birth and righteousness, young Madden maintaining
that put such case it were hard the wife to die (for so it had fallen
out a matter of some year agone with a woman of Eblana in Horne’s house
that now was trespassed out of this world and the self night next
before her death all leeches and pothecaries had taken counsel of her
case). And they said farther she should live because in the beginning,
they said, the woman should bring forth in pain and wherefore they that
were of this imagination affirmed how young Madden had said truth for
he had conscience to let her die. And not few and of these was young
Lynch were in doubt that the world was now right evil governed as it
was never other howbeit the mean people believed it otherwise but the
law nor his judges did provide no remedy. A redress God grant. This was
scant said but all cried with one acclaim nay, by our Virgin Mother,
the wife should live and the babe to die. In colour whereof they waxed
hot upon that head what with argument and what for their drinking but
the franklin Lenehan was prompt each when to pour them ale so that at
the least way mirth might not lack. Then young Madden showed all the
whole affair and said how that she was dead and how for holy religion
sake by rede of palmer and bedesman and for a vow he had made to Saint
Ultan of Arbraccan her goodman husband would not let her death whereby
they were all wondrous grieved. To whom young Stephen had these words
following: Murmur, sirs, is eke oft among lay folk. Both babe and
parent now glorify their Maker, the one in limbo gloom, the other in
purgefire. But, gramercy, what of those Godpossibled souls that we
nightly impossibilise, which is the sin against the Holy Ghost, Very
God, Lord and Giver of Life? For, sirs, he said, our lust is brief. We
are means to those small creatures within us and nature has other ends
than we. Then said Dixon junior to Punch Costello wist he what ends.
But he had overmuch drunken and the best word he could have of him was
that he would ever dishonest a woman whoso she were or wife or maid or
leman if it so fortuned him to be delivered of his spleen of lustihead.
Whereat Crotthers of Alba Longa sang young Malachi’s praise of that
beast the unicorn how once in the millennium he cometh by his horn, the
other all this while, pricked forward with their jibes wherewith they
did malice him, witnessing all and several by saint Foutinus his
engines that he was able to do any manner of thing that lay in man to
do. Thereat laughed they all right jocundly only young Stephen and sir
Leopold which never durst laugh too open by reason of a strange humour
which he would not bewray and also for that he rued for her that bare
whoso she might be or wheresoever. Then spake young Stephen orgulous of
mother Church that would cast him out of her bosom, of law of canons,
of Lilith, patron of abortions, of bigness wrought by wind of seeds of
brightness or by potency of vampires mouth to mouth or, as Virgilius
saith, by the influence of the occident or by the reek of moonflower or
an she lie with a woman which her man has but lain with, _effectu
secuto_, or peradventure in her bath according to the opinions of
Averroes and Moses Maimonides. He said also how at the end of the
second month a human soul was infused and how in all our holy mother
foldeth ever souls for God’s greater glory whereas that earthly mother
which was but a dam to bear beastly should die by canon for so saith he
that holdeth the fisherman’s seal, even that blessed Peter on which
rock was holy church for all ages founded. All they bachelors then
asked of sir Leopold would he in like case so jeopard her person as
risk life to save life. A wariness of mind he would answer as fitted
all and, laying hand to jaw, he said dissembling, as his wont was, that
as it was informed him, who had ever loved the art of physic as might a
layman, and agreeing also with his experience of so seldomseen an
accident it was good for that mother Church belike at one blow had
birth and death pence and in such sort deliverly he scaped their
questions. That is truth, pardy, said Dixon, and, or I err, a pregnant
word. Which hearing young Stephen was a marvellous glad man and he
averred that he who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord for he
was of a wild manner when he was drunken and that he was now in that
taking it appeared eftsoons.

But sir Leopold was passing grave maugre his word by cause he still had
pity of the terrorcausing shrieking of shrill women in their labour and
as he was minded of his good lady Marion that had borne him an only
manchild which on his eleventh day on live had died and no man of art
could save so dark is destiny. And she was wondrous stricken of heart
for that evil hap and for his burial did him on a fair corselet of
lamb’s wool, the flower of the flock, lest he might perish utterly and
lie akeled (for it was then about the midst of the winter) and now sir
Leopold that had of his body no manchild for an heir looked upon him
his friend’s son and was shut up in sorrow for his forepassed happiness
and as sad as he was that him failed a son of such gentle courage (for
all accounted him of real parts) so grieved he also in no less measure
for young Stephen for that he lived riotously with those wastrels and
murdered his goods with whores.

About that present time young Stephen filled all cups that stood empty
so as there remained but little mo if the prudenter had not shadowed
their approach from him that still plied it very busily who, praying
for the intentions of the sovereign pontiff, he gave them for a pledge
the vicar of Christ which also as he said is vicar of Bray. Now drink
we, quod he, of this mazer and quaff ye this mead which is not indeed
parcel of my body but my soul’s bodiment. Leave ye fraction of bread to
them that live by bread alone. Be not afeard neither for any want for
this will comfort more than the other will dismay. See ye here. And he
showed them glistering coins of the tribute and goldsmith notes the
worth of two pound nineteen shilling that he had, he said, for a song
which he writ. They all admired to see the foresaid riches in such
dearth of money as was herebefore. His words were then these as
followeth: Know all men, he said, time’s ruins build eternity’s
mansions. What means this? Desire’s wind blasts the thorntree but after
it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time. Mark
me now. In woman’s womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the
maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away.
This is the postcreation. _Omnis caro ad te veniet_. No question but
her name is puissant who aventried the dear corse of our Agenbuyer,
Healer and Herd, our mighty mother and mother most venerable and
Bernardus saith aptly that She hath an _omnipotentiam deiparae
supplicem_, that is to wit, an almightiness of petition because she is
the second Eve and she won us, saith Augustine too, whereas that other,
our grandam, which we are linked up with by successive anastomosis of
navelcords sold us all, seed, breed and generation, for a penny pippin.
But here is the matter now. Or she knew him, that second I say, and was
but creature of her creature, _vergine madre, figlia di tuo figlio_, or
she knew him not and then stands she in the one denial or ignorancy
with Peter Piscator who lives in the house that Jack built and with
Joseph the joiner patron of the happy demise of all unhappy marriages,
_parceque M. Léo Taxil nous a dit que qui l’avait mise dans cette
fichue position c’était le sacré pigeon, ventre de Dieu! Entweder_
transubstantiality _oder_ consubstantiality but in no case
subsubstantiality. And all cried out upon it for a very scurvy word. A
pregnancy without joy, he said, a birth without pangs, a body without
blemish, a belly without bigness. Let the lewd with faith and fervour
worship. With will will we withstand, withsay.

Hereupon Punch Costello dinged with his fist upon the board and would
sing a bawdy catch _Staboo Stabella_ about a wench that was put in pod
of a jolly swashbuckler in Almany which he did straightways now attack:
_The first three months she was not well, Staboo,_ when here nurse
Quigley from the door angerly bid them hist ye should shame you nor was
it not meet as she remembered them being her mind was to have all
orderly against lord Andrew came for because she was jealous that no
gasteful turmoil might shorten the honour of her guard. It was an
ancient and a sad matron of a sedate look and christian walking, in
habit dun beseeming her megrims and wrinkled visage, nor did her
hortative want of it effect for incontinently Punch Costello was of
them all embraided and they reclaimed the churl with civil rudeness
some and shaked him with menace of blandishments others whiles they all
chode with him, a murrain seize the dolt, what a devil he would be at,
thou chuff, thou puny, thou got in peasestraw, thou losel, thou
chitterling, thou spawn of a rebel, thou dykedropt, thou abortion thou,
to shut up his drunken drool out of that like a curse of God ape, the
good sir Leopold that had for his cognisance the flower of quiet,
margerain gentle, advising also the time’s occasion as most sacred and
most worthy to be most sacred. In Horne’s house rest should reign.

To be short this passage was scarce by when Master Dixon of Mary in
Eccles, goodly grinning, asked young Stephen what was the reason why he
had not cided to take friar’s vows and he answered him obedience in the
womb, chastity in the tomb but involuntary poverty all his days. Master
Lenehan at this made return that he had heard of those nefarious deeds
and how, as he heard hereof counted, he had besmirched the lily virtue
of a confiding female which was corruption of minors and they all
intershowed it too, waxing merry and toasting to his fathership. But he
said very entirely it was clean contrary to their suppose for he was
the eternal son and ever virgin. Thereat mirth grew in them the more
and they rehearsed to him his curious rite of wedlock for the disrobing
and deflowering of spouses, as the priests use in Madagascar island,
she to be in guise of white and saffron, her groom in white and grain,
with burning of nard and tapers, on a bridebed while clerks sung kyries
and the anthem _Ut novetur sexus omnis corporis mysterium_ till she was
there unmaided. He gave them then a much admirable hymen minim by those
delicate poets Master John Fletcher and Master Francis Beaumont that is
in their _Maid’s Tragedy_ that was writ for a like twining of lovers:
_To bed, to bed_ was the burden of it to be played with accompanable
concent upon the virginals. An exquisite dulcet epithalame of most
mollificative suadency for juveniles amatory whom the odoriferous
flambeaus of the paranymphs have escorted to the quadrupedal proscenium
of connubial communion. Well met they were, said Master Dixon, joyed,
but, harkee, young sir, better were they named Beau Mount and Lecher
for, by my troth, of such a mingling much might come. Young Stephen
said indeed to his best remembrance they had but the one doxy between
them and she of the stews to make shift with in delights amorous for
life ran very high in those days and the custom of the country approved
with it. Greater love than this, he said, no man hath that a man lay
down his wife for his friend. Go thou and do likewise. Thus, or words
to that effect, saith Zarathustra, sometime regius professor of French
letters to the university of Oxtail nor breathed there ever that man to
whom mankind was more beholden. Bring a stranger within thy tower it
will go hard but thou wilt have the secondbest bed. _Orate, fratres,
pro memetipso_. And all the people shall say, Amen. Remember, Erin, thy
generations and thy days of old, how thou settedst little by me and by
my word and broughtedst in a stranger to my gates to commit fornication
in my sight and to wax fat and kick like Jeshurum. Therefore hast thou
sinned against my light and hast made me, thy lord, to be the slave of
servants. Return, return, Clan Milly: forget me not, O Milesian. Why
hast thou done this abomination before me that thou didst spurn me for
a merchant of jalaps and didst deny me to the Roman and to the Indian
of dark speech with whom thy daughters did lie luxuriously? Look forth
now, my people, upon the land of behest, even from Horeb and from Nebo
and from Pisgah and from the Horns of Hatten unto a land flowing with
milk and money. But thou hast suckled me with a bitter milk: my moon
and my sun thou hast quenched for ever. And thou hast left me alone for
ever in the dark ways of my bitterness: and with a kiss of ashes hast
thou kissed my mouth. This tenebrosity of the interior, he proceeded to
say, hath not been illumined by the wit of the septuagint nor so much
as mentioned for the Orient from on high which brake hell’s gates
visited a darkness that was foraneous. Assuefaction minorates
atrocities (as Tully saith of his darling Stoics) and Hamlet his father
showeth the prince no blister of combustion. The adiaphane in the noon
of life is an Egypt’s plague which in the nights of prenativity and
postmortemity is their most proper _ubi_ and _quomodo_. And as the ends
and ultimates of all things accord in some mean and measure with their
inceptions and originals, that same multiplicit concordance which leads
forth growth from birth accomplishing by a retrogressive metamorphosis
that minishing and ablation towards the final which is agreeable unto
nature so is it with our subsolar being. The aged sisters draw us into
life: we wail, batten, sport, clip, clasp, sunder, dwindle, die: over
us dead they bend. First, saved from waters of old Nile, among
bulrushes, a bed of fasciated wattles: at last the cavity of a
mountain, an occulted sepulchre amid the conclamation of the hillcat
and the ossifrage. And as no man knows the ubicity of his tumulus nor
to what processes we shall thereby be ushered nor whether to Tophet or
to Edenville in the like way is all hidden when we would backward see
from what region of remoteness the whatness of our whoness hath fetched
his whenceness.

Thereto Punch Costello roared out mainly _Etienne chanson_ but he
loudly bid them, lo, wisdom hath built herself a house, this vast
majestic longstablished vault, the crystal palace of the Creator, all
in applepie order, a penny for him who finds the pea.

     Behold the mansion reared by dedal Jack
     See the malt stored in many a refluent sack,
     In the proud cirque of Jackjohn’s bivouac.

A black crack of noise in the street here, alack, bawled back. Loud on
left Thor thundered: in anger awful the hammerhurler. Came now the
storm that hist his heart. And Master Lynch bade him have a care to
flout and witwanton as the god self was angered for his hellprate and
paganry. And he that had erst challenged to be so doughty waxed wan as
they might all mark and shrank together and his pitch that was before
so haught uplift was now of a sudden quite plucked down and his heart
shook within the cage of his breast as he tasted the rumour of that
storm. Then did some mock and some jeer and Punch Costello fell hard
again to his yale which Master Lenehan vowed he would do after and he
was indeed but a word and a blow on any the least colour. But the
braggart boaster cried that an old Nobodaddy was in his cups it was
muchwhat indifferent and he would not lag behind his lead. But this was
only to dye his desperation as cowed he crouched in Horne’s hall. He
drank indeed at one draught to pluck up a heart of any grace for it
thundered long rumblingly over all the heavens so that Master Madden,
being godly certain whiles, knocked him on his ribs upon that crack of
doom and Master Bloom, at the braggart’s side, spoke to him calming
words to slumber his great fear, advertising how it was no other thing
but a hubbub noise that he heard, the discharge of fluid from the
thunderhead, look you, having taken place, and all of the order of a
natural phenomenon.

But was young Boasthard’s fear vanquished by Calmer’s words? No, for he
had in his bosom a spike named Bitterness which could not by words be
done away. And was he then neither calm like the one nor godly like the
other? He was neither as much as he would have liked to be either. But
could he not have endeavoured to have found again as in his youth the
bottle Holiness that then he lived withal? Indeed no for Grace was not
there to find that bottle. Heard he then in that clap the voice of the
god Bringforth or, what Calmer said, a hubbub of Phenomenon? Heard?
Why, he could not but hear unless he had plugged him up the tube
Understanding (which he had not done). For through that tube he saw
that he was in the land of Phenomenon where he must for a certain one
day die as he was like the rest too a passing show. And would he not
accept to die like the rest and pass away? By no means would he though
he must nor would he make more shows according as men do with wives
which Phenomenon has commanded them to do by the book Law. Then wotted
he nought of that other land which is called Believe-on-Me, that is the
land of promise which behoves to the king Delightful and shall be for
ever where there is no death and no birth neither wiving nor mothering
at which all shall come as many as believe on it? Yes, Pious had told
him of that land and Chaste had pointed him to the way but the reason
was that in the way he fell in with a certain whore of an eyepleasing
exterior whose name, she said, is Bird-in-the-Hand and she beguiled him
wrongways from the true path by her flatteries that she said to him as,
Ho, you pretty man, turn aside hither and I will show you a brave
place, and she lay at him so flatteringly that she had him in her grot
which is named Two-in-the-Bush or, by some learned, Carnal
Concupiscence.

This was it what all that company that sat there at commons in Manse of
Mothers the most lusted after and if they met with this whore
Bird-in-the-Hand (which was within all foul plagues, monsters and a
wicked devil) they would strain the last but they would make at her and
know her. For regarding Believe-on-Me they said it was nought else but
notion and they could conceive no thought of it for, first,
Two-in-the-Bush whither she ticed them was the very goodliest grot and
in it were four pillows on which were four tickets with these words
printed on them, Pickaback and Topsyturvy and Shameface and Cheek by
Jowl and, second, for that foul plague Allpox and the monsters they
cared not for them for Preservative had given them a stout shield of
oxengut and, third, that they might take no hurt neither from Offspring
that was that wicked devil by virtue of this same shield which was
named Killchild. So were they all in their blind fancy, Mr Cavil and Mr
Sometimes Godly, Mr Ape Swillale, Mr False Franklin, Mr Dainty Dixon,
Young Boasthard and Mr Cautious Calmer. Wherein, O wretched company,
were ye all deceived for that was the voice of the god that was in a
very grievous rage that he would presently lift his arm up and spill
their souls for their abuses and their spillings done by them
contrariwise to his word which forth to bring brenningly biddeth.

So Thursday sixteenth June Patk. Dignam laid in clay of an apoplexy and
after hard drought, please God, rained, a bargeman coming in by water a
fifty mile or thereabout with turf saying the seed won’t sprout, fields
athirst, very sadcoloured and stunk mightily, the quags and tofts too.
Hard to breathe and all the young quicks clean consumed without
sprinkle this long while back as no man remembered to be without. The
rosy buds all gone brown and spread out blobs and on the hills nought
but dry flag and faggots that would catch at first fire. All the world
saying, for aught they knew, the big wind of last February a year that
did havoc the land so pitifully a small thing beside this barrenness.
But by and by, as said, this evening after sundown, the wind sitting in
the west, biggish swollen clouds to be seen as the night increased and
the weatherwise poring up at them and some sheet lightnings at first
and after, past ten of the clock, one great stroke with a long thunder
and in a brace of shakes all scamper pellmell within door for the
smoking shower, the men making shelter for their straws with a clout or
kerchief, womenfolk skipping off with kirtles catched up soon as the
pour came. In Ely place, Baggot street, Duke’s lawn, thence through
Merrion green up to Holles street a swash of water flowing that was
before bonedry and not one chair or coach or fiacre seen about but no
more crack after that first. Over against the Rt. Hon. Mr Justice
Fitzgibbon’s door (that is to sit with Mr Healy the lawyer upon the
college lands) Mal. Mulligan a gentleman’s gentleman that had but come
from Mr Moore’s the writer’s (that was a papish but is now, folk say, a
good Williamite) chanced against Alec. Bannon in a cut bob (which are
now in with dance cloaks of Kendal green) that was new got to town from
Mullingar with the stage where his coz and Mal M’s brother will stay a
month yet till Saint Swithin and asks what in the earth he does there,
he bound home and he to Andrew Horne’s being stayed for to crush a cup
of wine, so he said, but would tell him of a skittish heifer, big of
her age and beef to the heel, and all this while poured with rain and
so both together on to Horne’s. There Leop. Bloom of Crawford’s journal
sitting snug with a covey of wags, likely brangling fellows, Dixon
jun., scholar of my lady of Mercy’s, Vin. Lynch, a Scots fellow, Will.
Madden, T. Lenehan, very sad about a racer he fancied and Stephen D.
Leop. Bloom there for a languor he had but was now better, he having
dreamed tonight a strange fancy of his dame Mrs Moll with red slippers
on in a pair of Turkey trunks which is thought by those in ken to be
for a change and Mistress Purefoy there, that got in through pleading
her belly, and now on the stools, poor body, two days past her term,
the midwives sore put to it and can’t deliver, she queasy for a bowl of
riceslop that is a shrewd drier up of the insides and her breath very
heavy more than good and should be a bullyboy from the knocks, they
say, but God give her soon issue. ’Tis her ninth chick to live, I hear,
and Lady day bit off her last chick’s nails that was then a twelvemonth
and with other three all breastfed that died written out in a fair hand
in the king’s bible. Her hub fifty odd and a methodist but takes the
sacrament and is to be seen any fair sabbath with a pair of his boys
off Bullock harbour dapping on the sound with a heavybraked reel or in
a punt he has trailing for flounder and pollock and catches a fine bag,
I hear. In sum an infinite great fall of rain and all refreshed and
will much increase the harvest yet those in ken say after wind and
water fire shall come for a prognostication of Malachi’s almanac (and I
hear that Mr Russell has done a prophetical charm of the same gist out
of the Hindustanish for his farmer’s gazette) to have three things in
all but this a mere fetch without bottom of reason for old crones and
bairns yet sometimes they are found in the right guess with their
queerities no telling how.

With this came up Lenehan to the feet of the table to say how the
letter was in that night’s gazette and he made a show to find it about
him (for he swore with an oath that he had been at pains about it) but
on Stephen’s persuasion he gave over the search and was bidden to sit
near by which he did mighty brisk. He was a kind of sport gentleman
that went for a merryandrew or honest pickle and what belonged of
women, horseflesh or hot scandal he had it pat. To tell the truth he
was mean in fortunes and for the most part hankered about the
coffeehouses and low taverns with crimps, ostlers, bookies, Paul’s men,
runners, flatcaps, waistcoateers, ladies of the bagnio and other rogues
of the game or with a chanceable catchpole or a tipstaff often at
nights till broad day of whom he picked up between his sackpossets much
loose gossip. He took his ordinary at a boilingcook’s and if he had but
gotten into him a mess of broken victuals or a platter of tripes with a
bare tester in his purse he could always bring himself off with his
tongue, some randy quip he had from a punk or whatnot that every
mother’s son of them would burst their sides. The other, Costello that
is, hearing this talk asked was it poetry or a tale. Faith, no, he
says, Frank (that was his name), ’tis all about Kerry cows that are to
be butchered along of the plague. But they can go hang, says he with a
wink, for me with their bully beef, a pox on it. There’s as good fish
in this tin as ever came out of it and very friendly he offered to take
of some salty sprats that stood by which he had eyed wishly in the
meantime and found the place which was indeed the chief design of his
embassy as he was sharpset. _Mort aux vaches_, says Frank then in the
French language that had been indentured to a brandyshipper that has a
winelodge in Bordeaux and he spoke French like a gentleman too. From a
child this Frank had been a donought that his father, a headborough,
who could ill keep him to school to learn his letters and the use of
the globes, matriculated at the university to study the mechanics but
he took the bit between his teeth like a raw colt and was more familiar
with the justiciary and the parish beadle than with his volumes. One
time he would be a playactor, then a sutler or a welsher, then nought
would keep him from the bearpit and the cocking main, then he was for
the ocean sea or to hoof it on the roads with the romany folk,
kidnapping a squire’s heir by favour of moonlight or fecking maids’
linen or choking chicken behind a hedge. He had been off as many times
as a cat has lives and back again with naked pockets as many more to
his father the headborough who shed a pint of tears as often as he saw
him. What, says Mr Leopold with his hands across, that was earnest to
know the drift of it, will they slaughter all? I protest I saw them but
this day morning going to the Liverpool boats, says he. I can scarce
believe ’tis so bad, says he. And he had experience of the like brood
beasts and of springers, greasy hoggets and wether wool, having been
some years before actuary for Mr Joseph Cuffe, a worthy salesmaster
that drove his trade for live stock and meadow auctions hard by Mr
Gavin Low’s yard in Prussia street. I question with you there, says he.
More like ’tis the hoose or the timber tongue. Mr Stephen, a little
moved but very handsomely told him no such matter and that he had
dispatches from the emperor’s chief tailtickler thanking him for the
hospitality, that was sending over Doctor Rinderpest, the bestquoted
cowcatcher in all Muscovy, with a bolus or two of physic to take the
bull by the horns. Come, come, says Mr Vincent, plain dealing. He’ll
find himself on the horns of a dilemma if he meddles with a bull that’s
Irish, says he. Irish by name and irish by nature, says Mr Stephen, and
he sent the ale purling about, an Irish bull in an English chinashop. I
conceive you, says Mr Dixon. It is that same bull that was sent to our
island by farmer Nicholas, the bravest cattlebreeder of them all, with
an emerald ring in his nose. True for you, says Mr Vincent cross the
table, and a bullseye into the bargain, says he, and a plumper and a
portlier bull, says he, never shit on shamrock. He had horns galore, a
coat of cloth of gold and a sweet smoky breath coming out of his
nostrils so that the women of our island, leaving doughballs and
rollingpins, followed after him hanging his bulliness in daisychains.
What for that, says Mr Dixon, but before he came over farmer Nicholas
that was a eunuch had him properly gelded by a college of doctors who
were no better off than himself. So be off now, says he, and do all my
cousin german the lord Harry tells you and take a farmer’s blessing,
and with that he slapped his posteriors very soundly. But the slap and
the blessing stood him friend, says Mr Vincent, for to make up he
taught him a trick worth two of the other so that maid, wife, abbess
and widow to this day affirm that they would rather any time of the
month whisper in his ear in the dark of a cowhouse or get a lick on the
nape from his long holy tongue than lie with the finest strapping young
ravisher in the four fields of all Ireland. Another then put in his
word: And they dressed him, says he, in a point shift and petticoat
with a tippet and girdle and ruffles on his wrists and clipped his
forelock and rubbed him all over with spermacetic oil and built stables
for him at every turn of the road with a gold manger in each full of
the best hay in the market so that he could doss and dung to his
heart’s content. By this time the father of the faithful (for so they
called him) was grown so heavy that he could scarce walk to pasture. To
remedy which our cozening dames and damsels brought him his fodder in
their apronlaps and as soon as his belly was full he would rear up on
his hind 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.

A man’s a man for a’ that._

Our worthy acquaintance Mr Malachi Mulligan now appeared in the doorway
as the students were finishing their apologue accompanied with a friend
whom he had just rencountered, a young gentleman, his name Alec Bannon,
who had late come to town, it being his intention to buy a colour or a
cornetcy in the fencibles and list for the wars. Mr Mulligan was civil
enough to express some relish of it all the more as it jumped with a
project of his own for the cure of the very evil that had been touched
on. Whereat he handed round to the company a set of pasteboard cards
which he had had printed that day at Mr Quinnell’s bearing a legend
printed in fair italics: _Mr Malachi Mulligan. Fertiliser and
Incubator. Lambay Island_. His project, as he went on to expound, was
to withdraw from the round of idle pleasures such as form the chief
business of sir Fopling Popinjay and sir Milksop Quidnunc in town and
to devote himself to the noblest task for which our bodily organism has
been framed. Well, let us hear of it, good my friend, said Mr Dixon. I
make no doubt it smacks of wenching. Come, be seated, both. ’Tis as
cheap sitting as standing. Mr Mulligan accepted of the invitation and,
expatiating upon his design, told his hearers that he had been led into
this thought by a consideration of the causes of sterility, both the
inhibitory and the prohibitory, whether the inhibition in its turn were
due to conjugal vexations or to a parsimony of the balance as well as
whether the prohibition proceeded from defects congenital or from
proclivities acquired. It grieved him plaguily, he said, to see the
nuptial couch defrauded of its dearest pledges: and to reflect upon so
many agreeable females with rich jointures, a prey to the vilest
bonzes, who hide their flambeau under a bushel in an uncongenial
cloister or lose their womanly bloom in the embraces of some
unaccountable muskin when they might multiply the inlets of happiness,
sacrificing the inestimable jewel of their sex when a hundred pretty
fellows were at hand to caress, this, he assured them, made his heart
weep. To curb this inconvenient (which he concluded due to a
suppression of latent heat), having advised with certain counsellors of
worth and inspected into this matter, he had resolved to purchase in
fee simple for ever the freehold of Lambay island from its holder, lord
Talbot de Malahide, a Tory gentleman of note much in favour with our
ascendancy party. He proposed to set up there a national fertilising
farm to be named _Omphalos_ with an obelisk hewn and erected after the
fashion of Egypt and to offer his dutiful yeoman services for the
fecundation of any female of what grade of life soever who should there
direct to him with the desire of fulfilling the functions of her
natural. Money was no object, he said, nor would he take a penny for
his pains. The poorest kitchenwench no less than the opulent lady of
fashion, if so be their constructions and their tempers were warm
persuaders for their petitions, would find in him their man. For his
nutriment he shewed how he would feed himself exclusively upon a diet
of savoury tubercles and fish and coneys there, the flesh of these
latter prolific rodents being highly recommended for his purpose, both
broiled and stewed with a blade of mace and a pod or two of capsicum
chillies. After this homily which he delivered with much warmth of
asseveration Mr Mulligan in a trice put off from his hat a kerchief
with which he had shielded it. They both, it seems, had been overtaken
by the rain and for all their mending their pace had taken water, as
might be observed by Mr Mulligan’s smallclothes of a hodden grey which
was now somewhat piebald. His project meanwhile was very favourably
entertained by his auditors and won hearty eulogies from all though Mr
Dixon of Mary’s excepted to it, asking with a finicking air did he
purpose also to carry coals to Newcastle. Mr Mulligan however made
court to the scholarly by an apt quotation from the classics which, as
it dwelt upon his memory, seemed to him a sound and tasteful support of
his contention: _Talis ac tanta depravatio hujus seculi, O quirites, ut
matresfamiliarum nostrae lascivas cujuslibet semiviri libici
titillationes testibus ponderosis atque excelsis erectionibus
centurionum Romanorum magnopere anteponunt_, while for those of ruder
wit he drove home his point by analogies of the animal kingdom more
suitable to their stomach, the buck and doe of the forest glade, the
farmyard drake and duck.

Valuing himself not a little upon his elegance, being indeed a proper
man of person, this talkative now applied himself to his dress with
animadversions of some heat upon the sudden whimsy of the atmospherics
while the company lavished their encomiums upon the project he had
advanced. The young gentleman, his friend, overjoyed as he was at a
passage that had late befallen him, could not forbear to tell it his
nearest neighbour. Mr Mulligan, now perceiving the table, asked for
whom were those loaves and fishes and, seeing the stranger, he made him
a civil bow and said, Pray, sir, was you in need of any professional
assistance we could give? Who, upon his offer, thanked him very
heartily, though preserving his proper distance, and replied that he
was come there about a lady, now an inmate of Horne’s house, that was
in an interesting condition, poor body, from woman’s woe (and here he
fetched a deep sigh) to know if her happiness had yet taken place. Mr
Dixon, to turn the table, took on to ask of Mr Mulligan himself whether
his incipient ventripotence, upon which he rallied him, betokened an
ovoblastic gestation in the prostatic utricle or male womb or was due,
as with the noted physician, Mr Austin Meldon, to a wolf in the
stomach. For answer Mr Mulligan, in a gale of laughter at his smalls,
smote himself bravely below the diaphragm, exclaiming with an admirable
droll mimic of Mother Grogan (the most excellent creature of her sex
though ’tis pity she’s a trollop): There’s a belly that never bore a
bastard. This was so happy a conceit that it renewed the storm of mirth
and threw the whole room into the most violent agitations of delight.
The spry rattle had run on in the same vein of mimicry but for some
larum in the antechamber.

Here the listener who was none other than the Scotch student, a little
fume of a fellow, blond as tow, congratulated in the liveliest fashion
with the young gentleman and, interrupting the narrative at a salient
point, having desired his visavis with a polite beck to have the
obligingness to pass him a flagon of cordial waters at the same time by
a questioning poise of the head (a whole century of polite breeding had
not achieved so nice a gesture) to which was united an equivalent but
contrary balance of the bottle asked the narrator as plainly as was
ever done in words if he might treat him with a cup of it. _Mais bien
sûr_, 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
Fécondateur, tripping in, my friend Monsieur Moore, that most
accomplished traveller (I have just cracked a half bottle _avec lui_ in
a circle of the best wits of the town), is my authority that in Cape
Horn, _ventre biche_, they have a rain that will wet through any, even
the stoutest cloak. A drenching of that violence, he tells me, _sans
blague_, has sent more than one luckless fellow in good earnest
posthaste to another world. Pooh! A _livre!_ cries Monsieur Lynch. The
clumsy things are dear at a sou. One umbrella, were it no bigger than a
fairy mushroom, is worth ten such stopgaps. No woman of any wit would
wear one. My dear Kitty told me today that she would dance in a deluge
before ever she would starve in such an ark of salvation for, as she
reminded me (blushing piquantly and whispering in my ear though there
was none to snap her words but giddy butterflies), dame Nature, by the
divine blessing, has implanted it in our hearts and it has become a
household word that _il y a deux choses_ for which the innocence of our
original garb, in other circumstances a breach of the proprieties, is
the fittest, nay, the only garment. The first, said she (and here my
pretty philosopher, as I handed her to her tilbury, to fix my
attention, gently tipped with her tongue the outer chamber of my ear),
the first is a bath... But at this point a bell tinkling in the hall
cut short a discourse which promised so bravely for the enrichment of
our store of knowledge.

Amid the general vacant hilarity of the assembly a bell rang and, while
all were conjecturing what might be the cause, Miss Callan entered and,
having spoken a few words in a low tone to young Mr Dixon, retired with
a profound bow to the company. The presence even for a moment among a
party of debauchees of a woman endued with every quality of modesty and
not less severe than beautiful refrained the humourous sallies even of
the most licentious but her departure was the signal for an outbreak of
ribaldry. Strike me silly, said Costello, a low fellow who was fuddled.
A monstrous fine bit of cowflesh! I’ll be sworn she has rendezvoused
you. What, you dog? Have you a way with them? Gad’s bud, immensely so,
said Mr Lynch. The bedside manner it is that they use in the Mater
hospice. Demme, does not Doctor O’Gargle chuck the nuns there under the
chin. As I look to be saved I had it from my Kitty who has been
wardmaid there any time these seven months. Lawksamercy, doctor, cried
the young blood in the primrose vest, feigning a womanish simper and
with immodest squirmings of his body, how you do tease a body! Drat the
man! Bless me, I’m all of a wibbly wobbly. Why, you’re as bad as dear
little Father Cantekissem, that you are! May this pot of four half
choke me, cried Costello, if she aint in the family way. I knows a lady
what’s got a white swelling quick as I claps eyes on her. The young
surgeon, however, rose and begged the company to excuse his retreat as
the nurse had just then informed him that he was needed in the ward.
Merciful providence had been pleased to put a period to the sufferings
of the lady who was _enceinte_ which she had borne with a laudable
fortitude and she had given birth to a bouncing boy. I want patience,
said he, with those who, without wit to enliven or learning to
instruct, revile an ennobling profession which, saving the reverence
due to the Deity, is the greatest power for happiness upon the earth. I
am positive when I say that if need were I could produce a cloud of
witnesses to the excellence of her noble exercitations which, so far
from being a byword, should be a glorious incentive in the human
breast. I cannot away with them. What? Malign such an one, the amiable
Miss Callan, who is the lustre of her own sex and the astonishment of
ours? And at an instant the most momentous that can befall a puny child
of clay? Perish the thought! I shudder to think of the future of a race
where the seeds of such malice have been sown and where no right
reverence is rendered to mother and maid in house of Horne. Having
delivered himself of this rebuke he saluted those present on the by and
repaired to the door. A murmur of approval arose from all and some were
for ejecting the low soaker without more ado, a design which would have
been effected nor would he have received more than his bare deserts had
he not abridged his transgression by affirming with a horrid
imprecation (for he swore a round hand) that he was as good a son of
the true fold as ever drew breath. Stap my vitals, said he, them was
always the sentiments of honest Frank Costello which I was bred up most
particular to honour thy father and thy mother that had the best hand
to a rolypoly or a hasty pudding as you ever see what I always looks
back on with a loving heart.

To revert to Mr Bloom who, after his first entry, had been conscious of
some impudent mocks which he however had borne with as being the fruits
of that age upon which it is commonly charged that it knows not pity.
The young sparks, it is true, were as full of extravagancies as
overgrown children: the words of their tumultuary discussions were
difficultly understood and not often nice: their testiness and
outrageous _mots_ were such that his intellects resiled from: nor were
they scrupulously sensible of the proprieties though their fund of
strong animal spirits spoke in their behalf. But the word of Mr
Costello was an unwelcome language for him for he nauseated the wretch
that seemed to him a cropeared creature of a misshapen gibbosity, born
out of wedlock and thrust like a crookback toothed and feet first into
the world, which the dint of the surgeon’s pliers in his skull lent
indeed a colour to, so as to put him in thought of that missing link of
creation’s chain desiderated by the late ingenious Mr Darwin. It was
now for more than the middle span of our allotted years that he had
passed through the thousand vicissitudes of existence and, being of a
wary ascendancy and self a man of rare forecast, he had enjoined his
heart to repress all motions of a rising choler and, by intercepting
them with the readiest precaution, foster within his breast that
plenitude of sufferance which base minds jeer at, rash judgers scorn
and all find tolerable and but tolerable. To those who create
themselves wits at the cost of feminine delicacy (a habit of mind which
he never did hold with) to them he would concede neither to bear the
name nor to herit the tradition of a proper breeding: while for such
that, having lost all forbearance, can lose no more, there remained the
sharp antidote of experience to cause their insolency to beat a
precipitate and inglorious retreat. Not but what he could feel with
mettlesome youth which, caring nought for the mows of dotards or the
gruntlings of the severe, is ever (as the chaste fancy of the Holy
Writer expresses it) for eating of the tree forbid it yet not so far
forth as to pretermit humanity upon any condition soever towards a
gentlewoman when she was about her lawful occasions. To conclude, while
from the sister’s words he had reckoned upon a speedy delivery he was,
however, it must be owned, not a little alleviated by the intelligence
that the issue so auspicated after an ordeal of such duress now
testified once more to the mercy as well as to the bounty of the
Supreme Being.

Accordingly he broke his mind to his neighbour, saying that, to express
his notion of the thing, his opinion (who ought not perchance to
express one) was that one must have a cold constitution and a frigid
genius not to be rejoiced by this freshest news of the fruition of her
confinement since she had been in such pain through no fault of hers.
The dressy young blade said it was her husband’s that put her in that
expectation or at least it ought to be unless she were another Ephesian
matron. I must acquaint you, said Mr Crotthers, clapping on the table
so as to evoke a resonant comment of emphasis, old Glory Allelujurum
was round again today, an elderly man with dundrearies, preferring
through his nose a request to have word of Wilhelmina, my life, as he
calls her. I bade him hold himself in readiness for that the event
would burst anon. ’Slife, I’ll be round with you. I cannot but extol
the virile potency of the old bucko that could still knock another
child out of her. All fell to praising of it, each after his own
fashion, though the same young blade held with his former view that
another than her conjugial had been the man in the gap, a clerk in
orders, a linkboy (virtuous) or an itinerant vendor of articles needed
in every household. Singular, communed the guest with himself, the
wonderfully unequal faculty of metempsychosis possessed by them, that
the puerperal dormitory and the dissecting theatre should be the
seminaries of such frivolity, that the mere acquisition of academic
titles should suffice to transform in a pinch of time these votaries of
levity into exemplary practitioners of an art which most men anywise
eminent have esteemed the noblest. But, he further added, it is mayhap
to relieve the pentup feelings that in common oppress them for I have
more than once observed that birds of a feather laugh together.

But with what fitness, let it be asked of the noble lord, his patron,
has this alien, whom the concession of a gracious prince has admitted
to civic rights, constituted himself the lord paramount of our internal
polity? Where is now that gratitude which loyalty should have
counselled? During the recent war whenever the enemy had a temporary
advantage with his granados did this traitor to his kind not seize that
moment to discharge his piece against the empire of which he is a
tenant at will while he trembled for the security of his four per
cents? Has he forgotten this as he forgets all benefits received? Or is
it that from being a deluder of others he has become at last his own
dupe as he is, if report belie him not, his own and his only enjoyer?
Far be it from candour to violate the bedchamber of a respectable lady,
the daughter of a gallant major, or to cast the most distant
reflections upon her virtue but if he challenges attention there (as it
was indeed highly his interest not to have done) then be it so. Unhappy
woman, she has been too long and too persistently denied her legitimate
prerogative to listen to his objurgations with any other feeling than
the derision of the desperate. He says this, a censor of morals, a very
pelican in his piety, who did not scruple, oblivious of the ties of
nature, to attempt illicit intercourse with a female domestic drawn
from the lowest strata of society! Nay, had the hussy’s scouringbrush
not been her tutelary angel, it had gone with her as hard as with
Hagar, the Egyptian! In the question of the grazing lands his peevish
asperity is notorious and in Mr Cuffe’s hearing brought upon him from
an indignant rancher a scathing retort couched in terms as
straightforward as they were bucolic. It ill becomes him to preach that
gospel. Has he not nearer home a seedfield that lies fallow for the
want of the ploughshare? A habit reprehensible at puberty is second
nature and an opprobrium in middle life. If he must dispense his balm
of Gilead in nostrums and apothegms of dubious taste to restore to
health a generation of unfledged profligates let his practice consist
better with the doctrines that now engross him. His marital breast is
the repository of secrets which decorum is reluctant to adduce. The
lewd suggestions of some faded beauty may console him for a consort
neglected and debauched but this new exponent of morals and healer of
ills is at his best an exotic tree which, when rooted in its native
orient, throve and flourished and was abundant in balm but,
transplanted to a clime more temperate, its roots have lost their
quondam vigour while the stuff that comes away from it is stagnant,
acid and inoperative.

The news was imparted with a circumspection recalling the ceremonial
usage of the Sublime Porte by the second female infirmarian to the
junior medical officer in residence, who in his turn announced to the
delegation that an heir had been born. When he had betaken himself to
the women’s apartment to assist at the prescribed ceremony of the
afterbirth in the presence of the secretary of state for domestic
affairs and the members of the privy council, silent in unanimous
exhaustion and approbation the delegates, chafing under the length and
solemnity of their vigil and hoping that the joyful occurrence would
palliate a licence which the simultaneous absence of abigail and
obstetrician rendered the easier, broke out at once into a strife of
tongues. In vain the voice of Mr Canvasser Bloom was heard endeavouring
to urge, to mollify, to refrain. The moment was too propitious for the
display of that discursiveness which seemed the only bond of union
among tempers so divergent. Every phase of the situation was
successively eviscerated: the prenatal repugnance of uterine brothers,
the Caesarean section, posthumity with respect to the father and, that
rarer form, with respect to the mother, the fratricidal case known as
the Childs Murder and rendered memorable by the impassioned plea of Mr
Advocate Bushe which secured the acquittal of the wrongfully accused,
the rights of primogeniture and king’s bounty touching twins and
triplets, miscarriages and infanticides, simulated or dissimulated, the
acardiac _foetus in foetu_ and aprosopia due to a congestion, the
agnathia of certain chinless Chinamen (cited by Mr Candidate Mulligan)
in consequence of defective reunion of the maxillary knobs along the
medial line so that (as he said) one ear could hear what the other
spoke, the benefits of anesthesia or twilight sleep, the prolongation
of labour pains in advanced gravidancy by reason of pressure on the
vein, the premature relentment of the amniotic fluid (as exemplified in
the actual case) with consequent peril of sepsis to the matrix,
artificial insemination by means of syringes, involution of the womb
consequent upon the menopause, the problem of the perpetration of the
species in the case of females impregnated by delinquent rape, that
distressing manner of delivery called by the Brandenburghers
_Sturzgeburt,_ the recorded instances of multiseminal, twikindled and
monstrous births conceived during the catamenic period or of
consanguineous parents—in a word all the cases of human nativity which
Aristotle has classified in his masterpiece with chromolithographic
illustrations. The gravest problems of obstetrics and forensic medicine
were examined with as much animation as the most popular beliefs on the
state of pregnancy such as the forbidding to a gravid woman to step
over a countrystile lest, by her movement, the navelcord should
strangle her creature and the injunction upon her in the event of a
yearning, ardently and ineffectually entertained, to place her hand
against that part of her person which long usage has consecrated as the
seat of castigation. The abnormalities of harelip, breastmole,
supernumerary digits, negro’s inkle, strawberry mark and portwine stain
were alleged by one as a _prima facie_ and natural hypothetical
explanation of those swineheaded (the case of Madame Grissel Steevens
was not forgotten) or doghaired infants occasionally born. The
hypothesis of a plasmic memory, advanced by the Caledonian envoy and
worthy of the metaphysical traditions of the land he stood for,
envisaged in such cases an arrest of embryonic development at some
stage antecedent to the human. An outlandish delegate sustained against
both these views, with such heat as almost carried conviction, the
theory of copulation between women and the males of brutes, his
authority being his own avouchment in support of fables such as that of
the Minotaur which the genius of the elegant Latin poet has handed down
to us in the pages of his Metamorphoses. The impression made by his
words was immediate but shortlived. It was effaced as easily as it had
been evoked by an allocution from Mr Candidate Mulligan in that vein of
pleasantry which none better than he knew how to affect, postulating as
the supremest object of desire a nice clean old man. Contemporaneously,
a heated argument having arisen between Mr Delegate Madden and Mr
Candidate Lynch regarding the juridical and theological dilemma created
in the event of one Siamese twin predeceasing the other, the difficulty
by mutual consent was referred to Mr Canvasser Bloom for instant
submittal to Mr Coadjutor Deacon Dedalus. Hitherto silent, whether the
better to show by preternatural gravity that curious dignity of the
garb with which he was invested or in obedience to an inward voice, he
delivered briefly and, as some thought, perfunctorily the
ecclesiastical ordinance forbidding man to put asunder what God has
joined.

But Malachias’ tale began to freeze them with horror. He conjured up
the scene before them. The secret panel beside the chimney slid back
and in the recess appeared... Haines! Which of us did not feel his
flesh creep! He had a portfolio full of Celtic literature in one hand,
in the other a phial marked _Poison._ Surprise, horror, loathing were
depicted on all faces while he eyed them with a ghostly grin. I
anticipated some such reception, he began with an eldritch laugh, for
which, it seems, history is to blame. Yes, it is true. I am the
murderer of Samuel Childs. And how I am punished! The inferno has no
terrors for me. This is the appearance is on me. Tare and ages, what
way would I be resting at all, he muttered thickly, and I tramping
Dublin this while back with my share of songs and himself after me the
like of a soulth or a bullawurrus? My hell, and Ireland’s, is in this
life. It is what I tried to obliterate my crime. Distractions,
rookshooting, the Erse language (he recited some), laudanum (he raised
the phial to his lips), camping out. In vain! His spectre stalks me.
Dope is my only hope... Ah! Destruction! The black panther! With a cry
he suddenly vanished and the panel slid back. An instant later his head
appeared in the door opposite and said: Meet me at Westland Row station
at ten past eleven. He was gone. Tears gushed from the eyes of the
dissipated host. The seer raised his hand to heaven, murmuring: The
vendetta of Mananaun! The sage repeated: _Lex talionis_. The
sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense
debtorship for a thing done. Malachias, overcome by emotion, ceased.
The mystery was unveiled. Haines was the third brother. His real name
was Childs. The black panther was himself the ghost of his own father.
He drank drugs to obliterate. For this relief much thanks. The lonely
house by the graveyard is uninhabited. No soul will live there. The
spider pitches her web in the solitude. The nocturnal rat peers from
his hole. A curse is on it. It is haunted. Murderer’s ground.

What is the age of the soul of man? As she hath the virtue of the
chameleon to change her hue at every new approach, to be gay with the
merry and mournful with the downcast, so too is her age changeable as
her mood. No longer is Leopold, as he sits there, ruminating, chewing
the cud of reminiscence, that staid agent of publicity and holder of a
modest substance in the funds. A score of years are blown away. He is
young Leopold. There, as in a retrospective arrangement, a mirror
within a mirror (hey, presto!), he beholdeth himself. That young figure
of then is seen, precociously manly, walking on a nipping morning from
the old house in Clanbrassil street to the high school, his booksatchel
on him bandolierwise, and in it a goodly hunk of wheaten loaf, a
mother’s thought. Or it is the same figure, a year or so gone over, in
his first hard hat (ah, that was a day!), already on the road, a
fullfledged traveller for the family firm, equipped with an orderbook,
a scented handkerchief (not for show only), his case of bright
trinketware (alas! a thing now of the past!) and a quiverful of
compliant smiles for this or that halfwon housewife reckoning it out
upon her fingertips or for a budding virgin, shyly acknowledging (but
the heart? tell me!) his studied baisemoins. The scent, the smile, but,
more than these, the dark eyes and oleaginous address, brought home at
duskfall many a commission to the head of the firm, seated with Jacob’s
pipe after like labours in the paternal ingle (a meal of noodles, you
may be sure, is aheating), reading through round horned spectacles some
paper from the Europe of a month before. But hey, presto, the mirror is
breathed on and the young knighterrant recedes, shrivels, dwindles to a
tiny speck within the mist. Now he is himself paternal and these about
him might be his sons. Who can say? The wise father knows his own
child. He thinks of a drizzling night in Hatch street, hard by the
bonded stores there, the first. Together (she is a poor waif, a child
of shame, yours and mine and of all for a bare shilling and her
luckpenny), together they hear the heavy tread of the watch as two
raincaped shadows pass the new royal university. Bridie! Bridie Kelly!
He will never forget the name, ever remember the night: first night,
the bridenight. They are entwined in nethermost darkness, the willer
with the willed, and in an instant (_fiat!_) light shall flood the
world. Did heart leap to heart? Nay, fair reader. In a breath ’twas
done but—hold! Back! It must not be! In terror the poor girl flees away
through the murk. She is the bride of darkness, a daughter of night.
She dare not bear the sunnygolden babe of day. No, Leopold. Name and
memory solace thee not. That youthful illusion of thy strength was
taken from thee—and in vain. No son of thy loins is by thee. There is
none now to be for Leopold, what Leopold was for Rudolph.

The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is the
infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the soul is wafted over
regions of cycles of generations that have lived. A region where grey
twilight ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields,
shedding her dusk, scattering a perennial dew of stars. She follows her
mother with ungainly steps, a mare leading her fillyfoal. Twilight
phantoms are they, yet moulded in prophetic grace of structure, slim
shapely haunches, a supple tendonous neck, the meek apprehensive skull.
They fade, sad phantoms: all is gone. Agendath is a waste land, a home
of screechowls and the sandblind upupa. Netaim, the golden, is no more.
And on the highway of the clouds they come, muttering thunder of
rebellion, the ghosts of beasts. Huuh! Hark! Huuh! Parallax stalks
behind and goads them, the lancinating lightnings of whose brow are
scorpions. Elk and yak, the bulls of Bashan and of Babylon, mammoth and
mastodon, they come trooping to the sunken sea, _Lacus Mortis_. Ominous
revengeful zodiacal host! They moan, passing upon the clouds, horned
and capricorned, the trumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned, the
giantantlered, snouter and crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all
their moving moaning multitude, murderers of the sun.

Onward to the dead sea they tramp to drink, unslaked and with horrible
gulpings, the salt somnolent inexhaustible flood. And the equine
portent grows again, magnified in the deserted heavens, nay to heaven’s
own magnitude, till it looms, vast, over the house of Virgo. And lo,
wonder of metempsychosis, it is she, the everlasting bride, harbinger
of the daystar, the bride, ever virgin. It is she, Martha, thou lost
one, Millicent, the young, the dear, the radiant. How serene does she
now arise, a queen among the Pleiades, in the penultimate antelucan
hour, shod in sandals of bright gold, coifed with a veil of what do you
call it gossamer. It floats, it flows about her starborn flesh and
loose it streams, emerald, sapphire, mauve and heliotrope, sustained on
currents of the cold interstellar wind, winding, coiling, simply
swirling, writhing in the skies a mysterious writing till, after a
myriad metamorphoses of symbol, it blazes, Alpha, a ruby and triangled
sign upon the forehead of Taurus.

Francis was reminding Stephen of years before when they had been at
school together in Conmee’s time. He asked about Glaucon, Alcibiades,
Pisistratus. Where were they now? Neither knew. You have spoken of the
past and its phantoms, Stephen said. Why think of them? If I call them
into life across the waters of Lethe will not the poor ghosts troop to
my call? Who supposes it? I, Bous Stephanoumenos, bullockbefriending
bard, am lord and giver of their life. He encircled his gadding hair
with a coronal of vineleaves, smiling at Vincent. That answer and those
leaves, Vincent said to him, will adorn you more fitly when something
more, and greatly more, than a capful of light odes can call your
genius father. All who wish you well hope this for you. All desire to
see you bring forth the work you meditate, to acclaim you
Stephaneforos. I heartily wish you may not fail them. O no, Vincent
Lenehan said, laying a hand on the shoulder near him. Have no fear. He
could not leave his mother an orphan. The young man’s face grew dark.
All could see how hard it was for him to be reminded of his promise and
of his recent loss. He would have withdrawn from the feast had not the
noise of voices allayed the smart. Madden had lost five drachmas on
Sceptre for a whim of the rider’s name: Lenehan as much more. He told
them of the race. The flag fell and, huuh! off, scamper, the mare ran
out freshly with O. Madden up. She was leading the field. All hearts
were beating. Even Phyllis could not contain herself. She waved her
scarf and cried: Huzzah! Sceptre wins! But in the straight on the run
home when all were in close order the dark horse Throwaway drew level,
reached, outstripped her. All was lost now. Phyllis was silent: her
eyes were sad anemones. Juno, she cried, I am undone. But her lover
consoled her and brought her a bright casket of gold in which lay some
oval sugarplums which she partook. A tear fell: one only. A whacking
fine whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane. Four winners yesterday and three
today. What rider is like him? Mount him on the camel or the boisterous
buffalo the victory in a hack canter is still his. But let us bear it
as was the ancient wont. Mercy on the luckless! Poor Sceptre! he said
with a light sigh. She is not the filly that she was. Never, by this
hand, shall we behold such another. By gad, sir, a queen of them. Do
you remember her, Vincent? I wish you could have seen my queen today,
Vincent said. How young she was and radiant (Lalage were scarce fair
beside her) in her yellow shoes and frock of muslin, I do not know the
right name of it. The chestnuts that shaded us were in bloom: the air
drooped with their persuasive odour and with pollen floating by us. In
the sunny patches one might easily have cooked on a stone a batch of
those buns with Corinth fruit in them that Periplipomenes sells in his
booth near the bridge. But she had nought for her teeth but the arm
with which I held her and in that she nibbled mischievously when I
pressed too close. A week ago she lay ill, four days on the couch, but
today she was free, blithe, mocked at peril. She is more taking then.
Her posies too! Mad romp that she is, she had pulled her fill as we
reclined together. And in your ear, my friend, you will not think who
met us as we left the field. Conmee himself! He was walking by the
hedge, reading, I think a brevier book with, I doubt not, a witty
letter in it from Glycera or Chloe to keep the page. The sweet creature
turned all colours in her confusion, feigning to reprove a slight
disorder in her dress: a slip of underwood clung there for the very
trees adore her. When Conmee had passed she glanced at her lovely echo
in that little mirror she carries. But he had been kind. In going by he
had blessed us. The gods too are ever kind, Lenehan said. If I had poor
luck with Bass’s mare perhaps this draught of his may serve me more
propensely. He was laying his hand upon a winejar: Malachi saw it and
withheld his act, pointing to the stranger and to the scarlet label.
Warily, Malachi whispered, preserve a druid silence. His soul is far
away. It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be
born. Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the
incorruptible eon of the gods. Do you not think it, Stephen? Theosophos
told me so, Stephen answered, whom in a previous existence Egyptian
priests initiated into the mysteries of karmic law. The lords of the
moon, Theosophos told me, an orangefiery shipload from planet Alpha of
the lunar chain would not assume the etheric doubles and these were
therefore incarnated by the rubycoloured egos from the second
constellation.

However, as a matter of fact though, the preposterous surmise about him
being in some description of a doldrums or other or mesmerised which
was entirely due to a misconception of the shallowest character, was
not the case at all. The individual whose visual organs while the above
was going on were at this juncture commencing to exhibit symptoms of
animation was as astute if not astuter than any man living and anybody
that conjectured the contrary would have found themselves pretty
speedily in the wrong shop. During the past four minutes or thereabouts
he had been staring hard at a certain amount of number one Bass bottled
by Messrs Bass and Co at Burton-on-Trent which happened to be situated
amongst a lot of others right opposite to where he was and which was
certainly calculated to attract anyone’s remark on account of its
scarlet appearance. He was simply and solely, as it subsequently
transpired for reasons best known to himself, which put quite an
altogether different complexion on the proceedings, after the moment
before’s observations about boyhood days and the turf, recollecting two
or three private transactions of his own which the other two were as
mutually innocent of as the babe unborn. Eventually, however, both
their eyes met and as soon as it began to dawn on him that the other
was endeavouring to help himself to the thing he involuntarily
determined to help him himself and so he accordingly took hold of the
neck of the mediumsized glass recipient which contained the fluid
sought after and made a capacious hole in it by pouring a lot of it out
with, also at the same time, however, a considerable degree of
attentiveness in order not to upset any of the beer that was in it
about the place.

The debate which ensued was in its scope and progress an epitome of the
course of life. Neither place nor council was lacking in dignity. The
debaters were the keenest in the land, the theme they were engaged on
the loftiest and most vital. The high hall of Horne’s house had never
beheld an assembly so representative and so varied nor had the old
rafters of that establishment ever listened to a language so
encyclopaedic. A gallant scene in truth it made. Crotthers was there at
the foot of the table in his striking Highland garb, his face glowing
from the briny airs of the Mull of Galloway. There too, opposite to
him, was Lynch whose countenance bore already the stigmata of early
depravity and premature wisdom. Next the Scotchman was the place
assigned to Costello, the eccentric, while at his side was seated in
stolid repose the squat form of Madden. The chair of the resident
indeed stood vacant before the hearth but on either flank of it the
figure of Bannon in explorer’s kit of tweed shorts and salted cowhide
brogues contrasted sharply with the primrose elegance and townbred
manners of Malachi Roland St John Mulligan. Lastly at the head of the
board was the young poet who found a refuge from his labours of
pedagogy and metaphysical inquisition in the convivial atmosphere of
Socratic discussion, while to right and left of him were accommodated
the flippant prognosticator, fresh from the hippodrome, and that
vigilant wanderer, soiled by the dust of travel and combat and stained
by the mire of an indelible dishonour, but from whose steadfast and
constant heart no lure or peril or threat or degradation could ever
efface the image of that voluptuous loveliness which the inspired
pencil of Lafayette has limned for ages yet to come.

It had better be stated here and now at the outset that the perverted
transcendentalism to which Mr S. Dedalus’ (Div. Scep.) contentions
would appear to prove him pretty badly addicted runs directly counter
to accepted scientific methods. Science, it cannot be too often
repeated, deals with tangible phenomena. The man of science like the
man in the street has to face hardheaded facts that cannot be blinked
and explain them as best he can. There may be, it is true, some
questions which science cannot answer—at present—such as the first
problem submitted by Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv.) regarding the future
determination of sex. Must we accept the view of Empedocles of
Trinacria that the right ovary (the postmenstrual period, assert
others) is responsible for the birth of males or are the too long
neglected spermatozoa or nemasperms the differentiating factors or is
it, as most embryologists incline to opine, such as Culpepper,
Spallanzani, Blumenbach, Lusk, Hertwig, Leopold and Valenti, a mixture
of both? This would be tantamount to a cooperation (one of nature’s
favourite devices) between the _nisus formativus_ of the nemasperm on
the one hand and on the other a happily chosen position, _succubitus
felix_, of the passive element. The other problem raised by the same
inquirer is scarcely less vital: infant mortality. It is interesting
because, as he pertinently remarks, we are all born in the same way but
we all die in different ways. Mr M. Mulligan (Hyg. et Eug. Doc.) blames
the sanitary conditions in which our greylunged citizens contract
adenoids, pulmonary complaints etc. by inhaling the bacteria which lurk
in dust. These factors, he alleged, and the revolting spectacles
offered by our streets, hideous publicity posters, religious ministers
of all denominations, mutilated soldiers and sailors, exposed scorbutic
cardrivers, the suspended carcases of dead animals, paranoic bachelors
and unfructified duennas—these, he said, were accountable for any and
every fallingoff in the calibre of the race. Kalipedia, he prophesied,
would soon be generally adopted and all the graces of life, genuinely
good music, agreeable literature, light philosophy, instructive
pictures, plastercast reproductions of the classical statues such as
Venus and Apollo, artistic coloured photographs of prize babies, all
these little attentions would enable ladies who were in a particular
condition to pass the intervening months in a most enjoyable manner. Mr
J. Crotthers (Disc. Bacc.) attributes some of these demises to
abdominal trauma in the case of women workers subjected to heavy
labours in the workshop and to marital discipline in the home but by
far the vast majority to neglect, private or official, culminating in
the exposure of newborn infants, the practice of criminal abortion or
in the atrocious crime of infanticide. Although the former (we are
thinking of neglect) is undoubtedly only too true the case he cites of
nurses forgetting to count the sponges in the peritoneal cavity is too
rare to be normative. In fact when one comes to look into it the wonder
is that so many pregnancies and deliveries go off so well as they do,
all things considered and in spite of our human shortcomings which
often baulk nature in her intentions. An ingenious suggestion is that
thrown out by Mr V. Lynch (Bacc. Arith.) that both natality and
mortality, as well as all other phenomena of evolution, tidal
movements, lunar phases, blood temperatures, diseases in general,
everything, in fine, in nature’s vast workshop from the extinction of
some remote sun to the blossoming of one of the countless flowers which
beautify our public parks is subject to a law of numeration as yet
unascertained. Still the plain straightforward question why a child of
normally healthy parents and seemingly a healthy child and properly
looked after succumbs unaccountably in early childhood (though other
children of the same marriage do not) must certainly, in the poet’s
words, give us pause. Nature, we may rest assured, has her own good and
cogent reasons for whatever she does and in all probability such deaths
are due to some law of anticipation by which organisms in which morbous
germs have taken up their residence (modern science has conclusively
shown that only the plasmic substance can be said to be immortal) tend
to disappear at an increasingly earlier stage of development, an
arrangement which, though productive of pain to some of our feelings
(notably the maternal), is nevertheless, some of us think, in the long
run beneficial to the race in general in securing thereby the survival
of the fittest. Mr S. Dedalus’ (Div. Scep.) remark (or should it be
called an interruption?) that an omnivorous being which can masticate,
deglute, digest and apparently pass through the ordinary channel with
pluterperfect imperturbability such multifarious aliments as cancrenous
females emaciated by parturition, corpulent professional gentlemen, not
to speak of jaundiced politicians and chlorotic nuns, might possibly
find gastric relief in an innocent collation of staggering bob, reveals
as nought else could and in a very unsavoury light the tendency above
alluded to. For the enlightenment of those who are not so intimately
acquainted with the minutiae of the municipal abattoir as this
morbidminded esthete and embryo philosopher who for all his overweening
bumptiousness in things scientific can scarcely distinguish an acid
from an alkali prides himself on being, it should perhaps be stated
that staggering bob in the vile parlance of our lowerclass licensed
victuallers signifies the cookable and eatable flesh of a calf newly
dropped from its mother. In a recent public controversy with Mr L.
Bloom (Pubb. Canv.) which took place in the commons’ hall of the
National Maternity Hospital, 29, 30 and 31 Holles street, of which, as
is well known, Dr A. Horne (Lic. in Midw., F. K. Q. C. P. I.) is the
able and popular master, he is reported by eyewitnesses as having
stated that once a woman has let the cat into the bag (an esthete’s
allusion, presumably, to one of the most complicated and marvellous of
all nature’s processes—the act of sexual congress) she must let it out
again or give it life, as he phrased it, to save her own. At the risk
of her own, was the telling rejoinder of his interlocutor, none the
less effective for the moderate and measured tone in which it was
delivered.

Meanwhile the skill and patience of the physician had brought about a
happy _accouchement._ It had been a weary weary while both for patient
and doctor. All that surgical skill could do was done and the brave
woman had manfully helped. She had. She had fought the good fight and
now she was very very happy. Those who have passed on, who have gone
before, are happy too as they gaze down and smile upon the touching
scene. Reverently look at her as she reclines there with the
motherlight in her eyes, that longing hunger for baby fingers (a pretty
sight it is to see), in the first bloom of her new motherhood,
breathing a silent prayer of thanksgiving to One above, the Universal
Husband. And as her loving eyes behold her babe she wishes only one
blessing more, to have her dear Doady there with her to share her joy,
to lay in his arms that mite of God’s clay, the fruit of their lawful
embraces. He is older now (you and I may whisper it) and a trifle
stooped in the shoulders yet in the whirligig of years a grave dignity
has come to the conscientious second accountant of the Ulster bank,
College Green branch. O Doady, loved one of old, faithful lifemate now,
it may never be again, that faroff time of the roses! With the old
shake of her pretty head she recalls those days. God! How beautiful now
across the mist of years! But their children are grouped in her
imagination about the bedside, hers and his, Charley, Mary Alice,
Frederick Albert (if he had lived), Mamy, Budgy (Victoria Frances),
Tom, Violet Constance Louisa, darling little Bobsy (called after our
famous hero of the South African war, lord Bobs of Waterford and
Candahar) and now this last pledge of their union, a Purefoy if ever
there was one, with the true Purefoy nose. Young hopeful will be
christened Mortimer Edward after the influential third cousin of Mr
Purefoy in the Treasury Remembrancer’s office, Dublin Castle. And so
time wags on: but father Cronion has dealt lightly here. No, let no
sigh break from that bosom, dear gentle Mina. And Doady, knock the
ashes from your pipe, the seasoned briar you still fancy when the
curfew rings for you (may it be the distant day!) and dout the light
whereby you read in the Sacred Book for the oil too has run low, and so
with a tranquil heart to bed, to rest. He knows and will call in His
own good time. You too have fought the good fight and played loyally
your man’s part. Sir, to you my hand. Well done, thou good and faithful
servant!

There are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil
memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the
heart but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow
dim, let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade
himself that they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance
word will call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront
him in the most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while
timbrel and harp soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility
of the evening or at the feast, at midnight, when he is now filled with
wine. Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies
under her wrath, not for vengeance to cut him off from the living but
shrouded in the piteous vesture of the past, silent, remote,
reproachful.

The stranger still regarded on the face before him a slow recession of
that false calm there, imposed, as it seemed, by habit or some studied
trick, upon words so embittered as to accuse in their speaker an
unhealthiness, a _flair,_ for the cruder things of life. A scene
disengages itself in the observer’s memory, evoked, it would seem, by a
word of so natural a homeliness as if those days were really present
there (as some thought) with their immediate pleasures. A shaven space
of lawn one soft May evening, the wellremembered grove of lilacs at
Roundtown, purple and white, fragrant slender spectators of the game
but with much real interest in the pellets as they run slowly forward
over the sward or collide and stop, one by its fellow, with a brief
alert shock. And yonder about that grey urn where the water moves at
times in thoughtful irrigation you saw another as fragrant sisterhood,
Floey, Atty, Tiny and their darker friend with I know not what of
arresting in her pose then, Our Lady of the Cherries, a comely brace of
them pendent from an ear, bringing out the foreign warmth of the skin
so daintily against the cool ardent fruit. A lad of four or five in
linseywoolsey (blossomtime but there will be cheer in the kindly hearth
when ere long the bowls are gathered and hutched) is standing on the
urn secured by that circle of girlish fond hands. He frowns a little
just as this young man does now with a perhaps too conscious enjoyment
of the danger but must needs glance at whiles towards where his mother
watches from the _piazzetta_ giving upon the flowerclose with a faint
shadow of remoteness or of reproach (_alles Vergängliche_) 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
Trübsal melkest Du. Nun Trinkst Du die süsse Milch des Euters_. See! it
displodes for thee in abundance. Drink, man, an udderful! Mother’s
milk, Purefoy, the milk of human kin, milk too of those burgeoning
stars overhead rutilant in thin rainvapour, punch milk, such as those
rioters will quaff in their guzzling den, milk of madness, the
honeymilk of Canaan’s land. Thy cow’s dug was tough, what? Ay, but her
milk is hot and sweet and fattening. No dollop this but thick rich
bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch! Pap! _Per deam Partulam et
Pertundam nunc est bibendum!_

All off for a buster, armstrong, hollering down the street. Bonafides.
Where you slep las nigh? Timothy of the battered naggin. Like ole
Billyo. Any brollies or gumboots in the fambly? Where the Henry Nevil’s
sawbones and ole clo? Sorra one o’ me knows. Hurrah there, Dix! Forward
to the ribbon counter. Where’s Punch? All serene. Jay, look at the
drunken minister coming out of the maternity hospal! _Benedicat vos
omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius_. A make, mister. The Denzille lane
boys. Hell, blast ye! Scoot. Righto, Isaacs, shove em out of the
bleeding limelight. Yous join uz, dear sir? No hentrusion in life. Lou
heap good man. Allee samee dis bunch. _En avant, mes enfants!_ Fire
away number one on the gun. Burke’s! Burke’s! Thence they advanced five
parasangs. Slattery’s mounted foot. Where’s that bleeding awfur? Parson
Steve, apostates’ creed! No, no, Mulligan! Abaft there! Shove ahead.
Keep a watch on the clock. Chuckingout time. Mullee! What’s on you? _Ma
mère m’a mariée._ 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 (attitudes!)
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 _Übermensch._
Dittoh. Five number ones. You, sir? Ginger cordial. Chase me, the
cabby’s caudle. Stimulate the caloric. Winding of his ticker. Stopped
short never to go again when the old. Absinthe for me, savvy?
_Caramba!_ Have an eggnog or a prairie oyster. Enemy? Avuncular’s got
my timepiece. Ten to. Obligated awful. Don’t mention it. Got a pectoral
trauma, eh, Dix? Pos fact. Got bet be a boomblebee whenever he wus
settin sleepin in hes bit garten. Digs up near the Mater. Buckled he
is. Know his dona? Yup, sartin I do. Full of a dure. See her in her
dishybilly. Peels off a credit. Lovey lovekin. None of your lean kine,
not much. Pull down the blind, love. Two Ardilauns. Same here. Look
slippery. If you fall don’t wait to get up. Five, seven, nine. Fine!
Got a prime pair of mincepies, no kid. And her take me to rests and her
anker of rum. Must be seen to be believed. Your starving eyes and
allbeplastered neck you stole my heart, O gluepot. Sir? Spud again the
rheumatiz? All poppycock, you’ll scuse me saying. For the hoi polloi. I
vear thee beest a gert vool. Well, doc? Back fro Lapland? Your
corporosity sagaciating O K? How’s the squaws and papooses? Womanbody
after going on the straw? Stand and deliver. Password. There’s hair.
Ours the white death and the ruddy birth. Hi! Spit in your own eye,
boss! Mummer’s wire. Cribbed out of Meredith. Jesified, orchidised,
polycimical jesuit! Aunty mine’s writing Pa Kinch. Baddybad Stephen
lead astray goodygood Malachi.

Hurroo! Collar the leather, youngun. Roun wi the nappy. Here, Jock braw
Hielentman’s your barleybree. Lang may your lum reek and your kailpot
boil! My tipple. _Merci._ Here’s to us. How’s that? Leg before wicket.
Don’t stain my brandnew sitinems. Give’s a shake of peppe, you there.
Catch aholt. Caraway seed to carry away. Twig? Shrieks of silence.
Every cove to his gentry mort. Venus Pandemos. _Les petites femmes_.
Bold bad girl from the town of Mullingar. Tell her I was axing at her.
Hauding Sara by the wame. On the road to Malahide. Me? If she who
seduced me had left but the name. What do you want for ninepence?
Machree, macruiskeen. Smutty Moll for a mattress jig. And a pull all
together. _Ex!_

Waiting, guvnor? Most deciduously. Bet your boots on. Stunned like,
seeing as how no shiners is acoming. Underconstumble? He’ve got the
chink _ad lib_. Seed near free poun on un a spell ago a said war hisn.
Us come right in on your invite, see? Up to you, matey. Out with the
oof. Two bar and a wing. You larn that go off of they there Frenchy
bilks? Won’t wash here for nuts nohow. Lil chile velly solly. Ise de
cutest colour coon down our side. Gawds teruth, Chawley. We are nae
fou. We’re nae tha fou. Au reservoir, mossoo. Tanks you.

’Tis, sure. What say? In the speakeasy. Tight. I shee you, shir.
Bantam, two days teetee. Bowsing nowt but claretwine. Garn! Have a
glint, do. Gum, I’m jiggered. And been to barber he have. Too full for
words. With a railway bloke. How come you so? Opera he’d like? Rose of
Castile. Rows of cast. Police! Some H2O for a gent fainted. Look at
Bantam’s flowers. Gemini. He’s going to holler. The colleen bawn. My
colleen bawn. O, cheese it! Shut his blurry Dutch oven with a firm
hand. Had the winner today till I tipped him a dead cert. The ruffin
cly the nab of Stephen Hand as give me the jady coppaleen. He strike a
telegramboy paddock wire big bug Bass to the depot. Shove him a joey
and grahamise. Mare on form hot order. Guinea to a goosegog. Tell a
cram, that. Gospeltrue. Criminal diversion? I think that yes. Sure
thing. Land him in chokeechokee if the harman beck copped the game.
Madden back Madden’s a maddening back. O lust our refuge and our
strength. Decamping. Must you go? Off to mammy. Stand by. Hide my
blushes someone. All in if he spots me. Come ahome, our Bantam.
Horryvar, mong vioo. Dinna forget the cowslips for hersel. Cornfide.
Wha gev ye thon colt? Pal to pal. Jannock. Of John Thomas, her spouse.
No fake, old man Leo. S’elp me, honest injun. Shiver my timbers if I
had. There’s a great big holy friar. Vyfor you no me tell? Vel, I ses,
if that aint a sheeny nachez, vel, I vil get misha mishinnah. Through
yerd our lord, Amen.

You move a motion? Steve boy, you’re going it some. More bluggy
drunkables? Will immensely splendiferous stander permit one stooder of
most extreme poverty and one largesize grandacious thirst to terminate
one expensive inaugurated libation? Give’s a breather. Landlord,
landlord, have you good wine, staboo? Hoots, mon, a wee drap to pree.
Cut and come again. Right. Boniface! Absinthe the lot. _Nos omnes
biberimus viridum toxicum diabolus capiat posterioria nostria_.
Closingtime, gents. Eh? Rome boose for the Bloom toff. I hear you say
onions? Bloo? Cadges ads. Photo’s papli, by all that’s gorgeous. Play
low, pardner. Slide. _Bonsoir la compagnie_. And snares of the
poxfiend. Where’s the buck and Namby Amby? Skunked? Leg bail. Aweel, ye
maun e’en gang yer gates. Checkmate. King to tower. Kind Kristyann wil
yu help yung man hoose frend tuk bungellow kee tu find plais whear tu
lay crown of his hed 2 night. Crickey, I’m about sprung. Tarnally dog
gone my shins if this beent the bestest puttiest longbreak yet. Item,
curate, couple of cookies for this child. Cot’s plood and prandypalls,
none! Not a pite of sheeses? Thrust syphilis down to hell and with him
those other licensed spirits. Time, gents! Who wander through the
world. Health all! _À la vôtre_!

Golly, whatten tunket’s yon guy in the mackintosh? Dusty Rhodes. Peep
at his wearables. By mighty! What’s he got? Jubilee mutton. Bovril, by
James. Wants it real bad. D’ye ken bare socks? Seedy cuss in the
Richmond? Rawthere! Thought he had a deposit of lead in his penis.
Trumpery insanity. Bartle the Bread we calls him. That, sir, was once a
prosperous cit. Man all tattered and torn that married a maiden all
forlorn. Slung her hook, she did. Here see lost love. Walking
Mackintosh of lonely canyon. Tuck and turn in. Schedule time. Nix for
the hornies. Pardon? Seen him today at a runefal? Chum o’ yourn passed
in his checks? Ludamassy! Pore piccaninnies! Thou’ll no be telling me
thot, Pold veg! Did ums blubble bigsplash crytears cos fren Padney was
took off in black bag? Of all de darkies Massa Pat was verra best. I
never see the like since I was born. _Tiens, tiens_, but it is well
sad, that, my faith, yes. O, get, rev on a gradient one in nine. Live
axle drives are souped. Lay you two to one Jenatzy licks him ruddy well
hollow. Jappies? High angle fire, inyah! Sunk by war specials. Be worse
for him, says he, nor any Rooshian. Time all. There’s eleven of them.
Get ye gone. Forward, woozy wobblers! Night. Night. May Allah the
Excellent One your soul this night ever tremendously conserve.

Your attention! We’re nae tha fou. The Leith police dismisseth us. The
least tholice. Ware hawks for the chap puking. Unwell in his abominable
regions. Yooka. Night. Mona, my true love. Yook. Mona, my own love.
Ook.

Hark! Shut your obstropolos. Pflaap! Pflaap! Blaze on. There she goes.
Brigade! Bout ship. Mount street way. Cut up! Pflaap! Tally ho. You not
come? Run, skelter, race. Pflaaaap!

Lynch! Hey? Sign on long o’ me. Denzille lane this way. Change here for
Bawdyhouse. We two, she said, will seek the kips where shady Mary is.
Righto, any old time. _Laetabuntur in cubilibus suis_. You coming long?
Whisper, who the sooty hell’s the johnny in the black duds? Hush!
Sinned against the light and even now that day is at hand when he shall
come to judge the world by fire. Pflaap! _Ut implerentur scripturae_.
Strike up a ballad. Then outspake medical Dick to his comrade medical
Davy. Christicle, who’s this excrement yellow gospeller on the Merrion
hall? Elijah is coming! Washed in the blood of the Lamb. Come on you
winefizzling, ginsizzling, booseguzzling existences! Come on, you
dog-gone, bullnecked, beetlebrowed, hogjowled, peanutbrained,
weaseleyed fourflushers, false alarms and excess baggage! Come on, you
triple extract of infamy! Alexander J Christ Dowie, that’s my name,
that’s yanked to glory most half this planet from Frisco beach to
Vladivostok. The Deity aint no nickel dime bumshow. I put it to you
that He’s on the square and a corking fine business proposition. He’s
the grandest thing yet and don’t you forget it. Shout salvation in King
Jesus. You’ll need to rise precious early, you sinner there, if you
want to diddle the Almighty God. Pflaaaap! Not half. He’s got a
coughmixture with a punch in it for you, my friend, in his back pocket.
Just you try it on.




[ 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 fans. Round Rabaiotti’s halted ice
gondola stunted men and women squabble. They grab wafers between which
are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. Sucking, they scatter
slowly. Children. The swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges on
through the murk, white and blue under a lighthouse. Whistles call and
answer.)_

THE CALLS: Wait, my love, and I’ll be with you.

THE ANSWERS: Round behind the stable.

_(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, his shapeless mouth dribbling,
jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus’ dance. A chain of children ’s hands
imprisons him.)_

THE CHILDREN: Kithogue! Salute!

THE IDIOT: _(Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles.)_ Grhahute!

THE CHILDREN: Where’s the great light?

THE IDIOT: _(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 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 corner two night watch
in shouldercapes, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall. A
plate crashes: a woman screams: a child wails. Oaths of a man roar,
mutter, cease. Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens. In a room lit
by a candle stuck in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the
hair of a scrofulous child. Cissy Caffrey’s voice, still young, sings
shrill from a lane.)_

CISSY CAFFREY:

     I gave it to Molly
     Because she was jolly,
     The leg of the duck,
     The leg of the duck.

_(Private Carr and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their
oxters, as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from
their mouths a volleyed fart. Laughter of men from the lane. A hoarse
virago retorts.)_

THE VIRAGO: Signs on you, hairy arse. More power the Cavan girl.

CISSY CAFFREY: More luck to me. Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet. _(She
sings.)_

     I gave it to Nelly
     To stick in her belly,
     The leg of the duck,
     The leg of the duck.

_(Private Carr and Private Compton turn and counterretort, their tunics
bloodbright in a lampglow, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped
polls. Stephen Dedalus and Lynch pass through the crowd close to the
redcoats.)_

PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Jerks his finger.)_ Way for the parson.

PRIVATE CARR: _(Turns and calls.)_ What ho, parson!

CISSY CAFFREY: _(Her voice soaring higher.)_

     She has it, she got it,
     Wherever she put it,
     The leg of the duck.

_(Stephen, flourishing the ashplant in his left hand, chants with joy
the_ introit _for paschal time. Lynch, his jockeycap low on his brow,
attends him, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face.)_

STEPHEN: _Vidi aquam egredientem de templo a latere dextro. Alleluia_.

_(The famished snaggletusks of an elderly bawd protrude from a
doorway.)_

THE BAWD: _(Her voice whispering huskily.)_ Sst! Come here till I tell
you. Maidenhead inside. Sst!

STEPHEN: _(Altius aliquantulum.) Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista_.

THE BAWD: _(Spits in their trail her jet of venom.)_ Trinity medicals.
Fallopian tube. All prick and no pence.

_(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with Bertha Supple, draws her shawl
across her nostrils.)_

EDY BOARDMAN: _(Bickering.)_ And says the one: I seen you up Faithful
place with your squarepusher, the greaser off the railway, in his
cometobed hat. Did you, says I. That’s not for you to say, says I. You
never seen me in the mantrap with a married highlander, says I. The
likes of her! Stag that one is! Stubborn as a mule! And her walking
with two fellows the one time, Kilbride, the enginedriver, and
lancecorporal Oliphant.

STEPHEN: _(Triumphaliter.) Salvi facti sunt._

_(He flourishes his ashplant, shivering the lamp image, shattering
light over the world. A liver and white spaniel on the prowl slinks
after him, growling. Lynch scares it with a kick.)_

LYNCH: So that?

STEPHEN: (_Looks behind_.) So that gesture, not music not odour, would
be a universal language, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the
lay sense but the first entelechy, the structural rhythm.

LYNCH: Pornosophical philotheology. Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street!

STEPHEN: We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates. Even
the allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of
love.

LYNCH: Ba!

STEPHEN: Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and a jug?
This movement illustrates the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar.
Hold my stick.

LYNCH: Damn your yellow stick. Where are we going?

STEPHEN: Lecherous lynx, to _la belle dame sans merci,_ Georgina
Johnson, _ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam._

_(Stephen thrusts the ashplant on him and slowly holds out his hands,
his head going back till both hands are a span from his breast, down
turned, in planes intersecting, the fingers about to part, the left
being higher.)_

LYNCH: Which is the jug of bread? It skills not. That or the
customhouse. Illustrate thou. Here take your crutch and walk.

_(They pass. Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a gaslamp and, clasping, climbs
in spasms. From the top spur he slides down. Jacky Caffrey clasps to
climb. The navvy lurches against the lamp. The twins scuttle off in the
dark. The navvy, swaying, presses a forefinger against a wing of his
nose and ejects from the farther nostril a long liquid jet of snot.
Shouldering the lamp he staggers away through the crowd with his
flaring cresset._

_Snakes of river fog creep slowly. From drains, clefts, cesspools,
middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes. A glow leaps in the south
beyond the seaward reaches of the river. The navvy, staggering forward,
cleaves the crowd and lurches towards the tramsiding. On the farther
side under the railway bridge Bloom appears, flushed, panting, cramming
bread and chocolate into a sidepocket. From Gillen’s hairdresser’s
window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson’s image. A concave
mirror at the side presents to him lovelorn longlost lugubru
Booloohoom. Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom. He passes,
struck by the stare of truculent Wellington, but in the convex mirror
grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the
rixdix doldy._

_At Antonio Rabaiotti’s door Bloom halts, sweated under the bright
arclamp. He disappears. In a moment he reappears and hurries on.)_

BLOOM: Fish and taters. N. g. Ah!

_(He disappears into Olhausen’s, the porkbutcher’s, under the
downcoming rollshutter. A few moments later he emerges from under the
shutter, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. In each hand he holds a
parcel, one containing a lukewarm pig’s crubeen, the other a cold
sheep’s trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper. He gasps, standing
upright. Then bending to one side he presses a parcel against his ribs
and groans.)_

BLOOM: Stitch in my side. Why did I run?

_(He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards the lampset
siding. The glow leaps again.)_

BLOOM: What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.

_(He stands at Cormack’s corner, watching.)_

BLOOM: _Aurora borealis_ or a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade, of
course. South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar’s
bush. We’re safe. _(He hums cheerfully.)_ London’s burning, London’s
burning! On fire, on fire! (_He catches sight of the navvy lurching
through the crowd at the farther side of Talbot street._) I’ll miss
him. Run. Quick. Better cross here.

_(He darts to cross the road. Urchins shout.)_

THE URCHINS: Mind out, mister!

(_Two cyclists, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him,
grazing him, their bells rattling._)

THE BELLS: Haltyaltyaltyall.

BLOOM: _(Halts erect, stung by a spasm.)_ Ow!

_(He looks round, darts forward suddenly. Through rising fog a dragon
sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon him, its
huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the wire. The
motorman bangs his footgong.)_

THE GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.

_(The brake cracks violently. Bloom, raising a policeman’s whitegloved
hand, blunders stifflegged out of the track. The motorman, thrown
forward, pugnosed, on the guidewheel, yells as he slides past over
chains and keys.)_

THE MOTORMAN: Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?

_(Bloom 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, señorita 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._)

BLOOM: Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a signpost planted
by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon? I who
lost my way and contributed to the columns of the _Irish Cyclist_ the
letter headed _In darkest Stepaside_. Keep, keep, keep to the right.
Rags and bones at midnight. A fence more likely. First place murderer
makes for. Wash off his sins of the world.

_(Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey, runs full tilt against
Bloom.)_

BLOOM: O.

_(Shocked, on weak hams, he halts. Tommy and Jacky vanish there, there.
Bloom pats with parcelled hands watch, fobpocket, bookpocket,
pursepoke, sweets of sin, potato soap.)_

BLOOM: Beware of pickpockets. Old thieves’ dodge. Collide. Then snatch
your purse.

_(The retriever approaches sniffing, nose to the ground. A sprawled
form sneezes. A stooped bearded figure appears garbed in the long
caftan of an elder in Zion and a smokingcap with magenta tassels.
Horned spectacles hang down at the wings of the nose. Yellow poison
streaks are on the drawn face.)_

RUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today. I told you not go with
drunken goy ever. So you catch no money.

BLOOM: _(Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back and,
crestfallen, feels warm and cold feetmeat.) Ja, ich weiss, papachi._

RUDOLPH: What you making down this place? Have you no soul? _(With
feeble vulture talons he feels the silent face of Bloom.)_ Are you not
my son Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? Are you not my dear son
Leopold who left the house of his father and left the god of his
fathers Abraham and Jacob?

BLOOM: _(With precaution.)_ I suppose so, father. Mosenthal. All that’s
left of him.

RUDOLPH: _(Severely.)_ One night they bring you home drunk as dog after
spend your good money. What you call them running chaps?

BLOOM: _(In youth’s smart blue Oxford suit with white vestslips,
narrowshouldered, in brown Alpine hat, wearing gent’s sterling silver
waterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with seal attached, one
side of him coated with stiffening mud.)_ Harriers, father. Only that
once.

RUDOLPH: Once! Mud head to foot. Cut your hand open. Lockjaw. They make
you kaputt, Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps.

BLOOM: _(Weakly.)_ They challenged me to a sprint. It was muddy. I
slipped.

RUDOLPH: _(With contempt.) Goim nachez!_ Nice spectacles for your poor
mother!

BLOOM: Mamma!

ELLEN BLOOM: _(In pantomime dame’s stringed mobcap, widow Twankey’s
crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind,
grey mittens and cameo brooch, her plaited hair in a crispine net,
appears over the staircase banisters, a slanted candlestick in her
hand, and cries out in shrill alarm.)_ O blessed Redeemer, what have
they done to him! My smelling salts! _(She hauls up a reef of skirt and
ransacks the pouch of her striped blay petticoat. A phial, an Agnus
Dei, a shrivelled potato and a celluloid doll fall out.)_ Sacred Heart
of Mary, where were you at all at all?

_(Bloom, mumbling, his eyes downcast, begins to bestow his parcels in
his filled pockets but desists, muttering.)_

A VOICE: _(Sharply.)_ Poldy!

BLOOM: Who? _(He ducks and wards off a blow clumsily.)_ At your
service.

_(He looks up. Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in
Turkish costume stands before him. Opulent curves fill out her scarlet
trousers and jacket, slashed with gold. A wide yellow cummerbund
girdles her. A white yashmak, violet in the night, covers her face,
leaving free only her large dark eyes and raven hair.)_

BLOOM: Molly!

MARION: Welly? Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to
me. _(Satirically.)_ Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?

BLOOM: _(Shifts from foot to foot.)_ No, no. Not the least little bit.

_(He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, questions,
hopes, crubeens for her supper, things to tell her, excuse, desire,
spellbound. A coin gleams on her forehead. On her feet are jewelled
toerings. Her ankles are linked by a slender fetterchain. Beside her a
camel, hooded with a turreting turban, waits. A silk ladder of
innumerable rungs climbs to his bobbing howdah. He ambles near with
disgruntled hindquarters. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her goldcurb
wristbangles angriling, scolding him in Moorish.)_

MARION: Nebrakada! Femininum!

_(The camel, lifting a foreleg, plucks from a tree a large mango fruit,
offers it to his mistress, blinking, in his cloven hoof, then droops
his head and, grunting, with uplifted neck, fumbles to kneel. Bloom
stoops his back for leapfrog.)_

BLOOM: I can give you... I mean as your business menagerer... Mrs
Marion... if you...

MARION: So you notice some change? _(Her hands passing slowly over her
trinketed stomacher, a slow friendly mockery in her eyes.)_ O Poldy,
Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud! Go and see life. See the
wide world.

BLOOM: I was just going back for that lotion whitewax, orangeflower
water. Shop closes early on Thursday. But the first thing in the
morning. _(He pats divers pockets.)_ This moving kidney. Ah!

_(He points to the south, then to the east. A cake of new clean lemon
soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.)_

THE SOAP:

     We’re a capital couple are Bloom and I.
     He brightens the earth. I polish the sky.

_(The freckled face of Sweny, the druggist, appears in the disc of the
soapsun.)_

SWENY: Three and a penny, please.

BLOOM: Yes. For my wife. Mrs Marion. Special recipe.

MARION: _(Softly.)_ Poldy!

BLOOM: Yes, ma’am?

MARION: _Ti trema un poco il cuore?_

_(In disdain she saunters away, plump as a pampered pouter pigeon,
humming the duet from_ Don Giovanni.)

BLOOM: Are you sure about that _Voglio_? I mean the pronunciati...

_(He follows, followed by the sniffing terrier. The elderly bawd seizes
his sleeve, the bristles of her chinmole glittering.)_

THE BAWD: Ten shillings a maidenhead. Fresh thing was never touched.
Fifteen. There’s no-one in it only her old father that’s dead drunk.

_(She points. In the gap of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled,
Bridie Kelly stands.)_

BRIDIE: Hatch street. Any good in your mind?

_(With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. A burly rough pursues
with booted strides. He stumbles on the steps, recovers, plunges into
gloom. Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker.)_

THE BAWD: _(Her wolfeyes shining.)_ He’s getting his pleasure. You
won’t get a virgin in the flash houses. Ten shillings. Don’t be all
night before the polis in plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is a bitch.

_(Leering, Gerty Macdowell limps forward. She draws from behind,
ogling, and shows coyly her bloodied clout.)_

GERTY: With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. _(She murmurs.)_ You
did that. I hate you.

BLOOM: I? When? You’re dreaming. I never saw you.

THE BAWD: Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. Writing the gentleman
false letters. Streetwalking and soliciting. Better for your mother
take the strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you.

GERTY: _(To Bloom.)_ When you saw all the secrets of my bottom drawer.
_(She paws his sleeve, slobbering.)_ Dirty married man! I love you for
doing that to me.

_(She glides away crookedly. Mrs Breen in man’s frieze overcoat with
loose bellows pockets, stands in the causeway, her roguish eyes
wideopen, smiling in all her herbivorous buckteeth.)_

MRS BREEN: Mr...

BLOOM: _(Coughs gravely.)_ Madam, when we last had this pleasure by
letter dated the sixteenth instant...

MRS BREEN: Mr Bloom! You down here in the haunts of sin! I caught you
nicely! Scamp!

BLOOM: _(Hurriedly.)_ Not so loud my name. Whatever do you think of me?
Don’t give me away. Walls have ears. How do you do? It’s ages since I.
You’re looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable weather we are
having this time of year. Black refracts heat. Short cut home here.
Interesting quarter. Rescue of fallen women. Magdalen asylum. I am the
secretary...

MRS BREEN: _(Holds up a finger.)_ Now, don’t tell a big fib! I know
somebody won’t like that. O just wait till I see Molly! _(Slily.)_
Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!

BLOOM: _(Looks behind.)_ She often said she’d like to visit. Slumming.
The exotic, you see. Negro servants in livery too if she had money.
Othello black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the bones and cornerman at
the Livermore christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter.

_(Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits, scarlet socks,
upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their buttonholes,
leap out. Each has his banjo slung. Their paler smaller negroid hands
jingle the twingtwang wires. Flashing white Kaffir eyes and tusks they
rattle through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back to
back, toe heel, heel toe, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.)_

TOM AND SAM:

     There’s someone in the house with Dina
     There’s someone in the house, I know,
     There’s someone in the house with Dina
     Playing on the old banjo.

_(They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then, chuckling,
chortling, trumming, twanging, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance
away.)_

BLOOM: _(With a sour tenderish smile.)_ A little frivol, shall we, if
you are so inclined? Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for
a fraction of a second?

MRS BREEN: _(Screams gaily.)_ O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself!

BLOOM: For old sake’ sake. I only meant a square party, a mixed
marriage mingling of our different little conjugials. You know I had a
soft corner for you. _(Gloomily.)_ ’Twas I sent you that valentine of
the dear gazelle.

MRS BREEN: Glory Alice, you do look a holy show! Killing simply. _(She
puts out her hand inquisitively.)_ What are you hiding behind your
back? Tell us, there’s a dear.

BLOOM: _(Seizes her wrist with his free hand.)_ Josie Powell that was,
prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember, harking
back in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, Georgina
Simpson’s housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game,
finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this
snuffbox?

MRS BREEN: You were the lion of the night with your seriocomic
recitation and you looked the part. You were always a favourite with
the ladies.

BLOOM: _(Squire of dames, in dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings,
blue masonic badge in his buttonhole, black bow and mother-of-pearl
studs, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his hand.)_ Ladies and
gentlemen, I give you Ireland, home and beauty.

MRS BREEN: The dear dead days beyond recall. Love’s old sweet song.

BLOOM: _(Meaningfully dropping his voice.)_ I confess I’m teapot with
curiosity to find out whether some person’s something is a little
teapot at present.

MRS BREEN: _(Gushingly.)_ Tremendously teapot! London’s teapot and I’m
simply teapot all over me! _(She rubs sides with him.)_ After the
parlour mystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat on the
staircase ottoman. Under the mistletoe. Two is company.

BLOOM: _(Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an amber halfmoon, his
fingers and thumb passing slowly down to her soft moist meaty palm
which she surrenders gently.)_ The witching hour of night. I took the
splinter out of this hand, carefully, slowly. _(Tenderly, as he slips
on her finger a ruby ring.) Là ci darem la mano._

MRS BREEN: _(In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, a
tinsel sylph’s diadem on her brow with her dancecard fallen beside her
moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, breathing quickly.)
Voglio e non._ You’re hot! You’re scalding! The left hand nearest the
heart.

BLOOM: When you made your present choice they said it was beauty and
the beast. I can never forgive you for that. _(His clenched fist at his
brow.)_ Think what it means. All you meant to me then. _(Hoarsely.)_
Woman, it’s breaking me!

_(Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with Wisdom Hely’s sandwichboards,
shuffles past them in carpet slippers, his dull beard thrust out,
muttering to right and left. Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the pall of
the ace of spades, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter.)_

ALF BERGAN: _(Points jeering at the sandwichboards.)_ U. p: up.

MRS BREEN: _(To Bloom.)_ High jinks below stairs. _(She gives him the
glad eye.)_ Why didn’t you kiss the spot to make it well? You wanted
to.

BLOOM: _(Shocked.)_ Molly’s best friend! Could you?

MRS BREEN: _(Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers a pigeon kiss.)_
Hnhn. The answer is a lemon. Have you a little present for me there?

BLOOM: _(Offhandedly.)_ Kosher. A snack for supper. The home without
potted meat is incomplete. I was at _Leah_, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.
Trenchant exponent of Shakespeare. Unfortunately threw away the
programme. Rattling good place round there for pigs’ feet. Feel.

_(Richie Goulding, three ladies’ hats pinned on his head, appears
weighted to one side by the black legal bag of Collis and Ward on which
a skull and crossbones are painted in white limewash. He opens it and
shows it full of polonies, kippered herrings, Findon haddies and
tightpacked pills.)_

RICHIE: Best value in Dub.

_(Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands on the curbstone, folding his
napkin, waiting to wait.)_

PAT: _(Advances with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy.)_ Steak and
kidney. Bottle of lager. Hee hee hee. Wait till I wait.

RICHIE: Goodgod. Inev erate inall...

_(With hanging head he marches doggedly forward. The navvy, lurching
by, gores him with his flaming pronghorn.)_

RICHIE: _(With a cry of pain, his hand to his back.)_ Ah! Bright’s!
Lights!

BLOOM: _(Points to the navvy.)_ A spy. Don’t attract attention. I hate
stupid crowds. I am not on pleasure bent. I am in a grave predicament.

MRS BREEN: Humbugging and deluthering as per usual with your cock and
bull story.

BLOOM: I want to tell you a little secret about how I came to be here.
But you must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a most particular
reason.

MRS BREEN: _(All agog.)_ O, not for worlds.

BLOOM: Let’s walk on. Shall us?

MRS BREEN: Let’s.

_(The bawd makes an unheeded sign. Bloom walks on with Mrs Breen. The
terrier follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail.)_

THE BAWD: Jewman’s melt!

BLOOM: _(In an oatmeal sporting suit, a sprig of woodbine in the lapel,
tony buff shirt, shepherd’s plaid Saint Andrew’s cross scarftie, white
spats, fawn dustcoat on his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in
bandolier and a grey billycock hat.)_ Do you remember a long long time,
years and years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was
weaned when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it?

MRS BREEN: _(In smart Saxe tailormade, white velours hat and spider
veil.)_ Leopardstown.

BLOOM: I mean, Leopardstown. And Molly won seven shillings on a three
year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old
fiveseater shanderadan of a waggonette you were in your heyday then and
you had on that new hat of white velours with a surround of molefur
that Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was marked down to
nineteen and eleven, a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and
I’ll lay you what you like she did it on purpose...

MRS BREEN: She did, of course, the cat! Don’t tell me! Nice adviser!

BLOOM: Because it didn’t suit you one quarter as well as the other
ducky little tammy toque with the bird of paradise wing in it that I
admired on you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though
it was a pity to kill it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a
thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.

MRS BREEN: _(Squeezes his arm, simpers.)_ Naughty cruel I was!

BLOOM: _(Low, secretly, ever more rapidly.)_ And Molly was eating a
sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher’s lunch basket.
Frankly, though she had her advisers or admirers, I never cared much
for her style. She was...

MRS BREEN: Too...

BLOOM: Yes. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O’Reilly
were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius
Moses, the tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his daughter,
Dancer Moses was her name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you
asked me if I ever heard or read or knew or came across...

MRS BREEN: _(Eagerly.)_ Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

_(She fades from his side. Followed by the whining dog he walks on
towards hellsgates. In an archway a standing woman, bent forward, her
feet apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of loiterers
listen to a tale which their brokensnouted gaffer rasps out with
raucous humour. An armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in
maimed sodden playfight.)_

THE GAFFER: _(Crouches, his voice twisted in his snout.)_ And when
Cairns came down from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he
after doing it into only into the bucket of porter that was there
waiting on the shavings for Derwan’s plasterers.

THE LOITERERS: _(Guffaw with cleft palates.)_ O jays!

_(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Spattered with size and lime of their
lodges they frisk limblessly about him.)_

BLOOM: Coincidence too. They think it funny. Anything but that. Broad
daylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman.

THE LOITERERS: Jays, that’s a good one. Glauber salts. O jays, into the
men’s porter.

_(Bloom passes. Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, dishevelled,
call from lanes, doors, corners.)_

THE WHORES:

Are you going far, queer fellow?

How’s your middle leg?

Got a match on you?

Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.

_(He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. From
a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk.
In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy and the two
redcoats.)_

THE NAVVY: _(Belching.)_ Where’s the bloody house?

THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Purdon street. Shilling a bottle of stout.
Respectable woman.

THE NAVVY: _(Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them.)_
Come on, you British army!

PRIVATE CARR: _(Behind his back.)_ He aint half balmy.

PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Laughs.)_ What ho!

PRIVATE CARR: _(To the navvy.)_ Portobello barracks canteen. You ask
for Carr. Just Carr.

THE NAVVY: _(Shouts.)_

     We are the boys. Of Wexford.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Say! What price the sergeantmajor?

PRIVATE CARR: Bennett? He’s my pal. I love old Bennett.

THE NAVVY: _(Shouts.)_

     The galling chain.
     And free our native land.

_(He staggers forward, dragging them with him. Bloom stops, at fault.
The dog approaches, his tongue outlolling, panting.)_

BLOOM: Wildgoose chase this. Disorderly houses. Lord knows where they
are gone. Drunks cover distance double quick. Nice mixup. Scene at
Westland row. Then jump in first class with third ticket. Then too far.
Train with engine behind. Might have taken me to Malahide or a siding
for the night or collision. Second drink does it. Once is a dose. What
am I following him for? Still, he’s the best of that lot. If I hadn’t
heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn’t have gone and wouldn’t have
met. Kismet. He’ll lose that cash. Relieving office here. Good biz for
cheapjacks, organs. What do ye lack? Soon got, soon gone. Might have
lost my life too with that mangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut only
for presence of mind. Can’t always save you, though. If I had passed
Truelock’s window that day two minutes later would have been shot.
Absence of body. Still if bullet only went through my coat get damages
for shock, five hundred pounds. What was he? Kildare street club toff.
God help his gamekeeper.

_(He gazes ahead, reading on the wall a scrawled chalk legend_ Wet
Dream _and a phallic design._) Odd! Molly drawing on the frosted
carriagepane at Kingstown. What’s that like? _(Gaudy dollwomen loll in
the lighted doorways, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye
cigarettes. The odour of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in slow
round ovalling wreaths.)_

THE WREATHS: Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin.

BLOOM: My spine’s a bit limp. Go or turn? And this food? Eat it and get
all pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste of money. One and eightpence too
much. _(The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand,
wagging his tail.)_ Strange how they take to me. Even that brute today.
Better speak to him first. Like women they like _rencontres._ Stinks
like a polecat. _Chacun son goût_. He might be mad. Dogdays. Uncertain
in his movements. Good fellow! Fido! Good fellow! Garryowen! _(The
wolfdog sprawls on his back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, his
long black tongue lolling out.)_ Influence of his surroundings. Give
and have done with it. Provided nobody. _(Calling encouraging words he
shambles back with a furtive poacher’s tread, dogged by the setter into
a dark stalestunk corner. He unrolls one parcel and goes to dump the
crubeen softly but holds back and feels the trotter.)_ Sizeable for
threepence. But then I have it in my left hand. Calls for more effort.
Why? Smaller from want of use. O, let it slide. Two and six.

_(With regret he lets the unrolled crubeen and trotter slide. The
mastiff mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts himself with growling
greed, crunching the bones. Two raincaped watch approach, silent,
vigilant. They murmur together.)_

THE WATCH: Bloom. Of Bloom. For Bloom. Bloom.

_(Each lays hand on Bloom’s shoulder.)_

FIRST WATCH: Caught in the act. Commit no nuisance.

BLOOM: _(Stammers.)_ I am doing good to others.

_(A covey of gulls, storm petrels, rises hungrily from Liffey slime
with Banbury cakes in their beaks.)_

THE GULLS: Kaw kave kankury kake.

BLOOM: The friend of man. Trained by kindness.

_(He points. Bob Doran, toppling from a high barstool, sways over the
munching spaniel.)_

BOB DORAN: Towser. Give us the paw. Give the paw.

_(The bulldog growls, his scruff standing, a gobbet of pig’s knuckle
between his molars through which rabid scumspittle dribbles. Bob Doran
falls silently into an area.)_

SECOND WATCH: Prevention of cruelty to animals.

BLOOM: _(Enthusiastically.)_ A noble work! I scolded that tramdriver on
Harold’s cross bridge for illusing the poor horse with his harness
scab. Bad French I got for my pains. Of course it was frosty and the
last tram. All tales of circus life are highly demoralising.

_(Signor Maffei, passionpale, in liontamer’s costume with diamond studs
in his shirtfront, steps forward, holding a circus paperhoop, a curling
carriagewhip and a revolver with which he covers the gorging
boarhound.)_

SIGNOR MAFFEI: _(With a sinister smile.)_ Ladies and gentlemen, my
educated greyhound. It was I broke in the bucking broncho Ajax with my
patent spiked saddle for carnivores. Lash under the belly with a
knotted thong. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your
lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even _Leo ferox_ there, the
Libyan maneater. A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the
burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the thinking hyena. _(He
glares.)_ I possess the Indian sign. The glint of my eye does it with
these breastsparklers. _(With a bewitching smile.)_ I now introduce
Mademoiselle Ruby, the pride of the ring.

FIRST WATCH: Come. Name and address.

BLOOM: I have forgotten for the moment. Ah, yes! _(He takes off his
high grade hat, saluting.)_ Dr Bloom, Leopold, dental surgeon. You have
heard of von Blum Pasha. Umpteen millions. _Donnerwetter!_ Owns half
Austria. Egypt. Cousin.

FIRST WATCH: Proof.

_(A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom’s hat.)_

BLOOM: _(In red fez, cadi’s dress coat with broad green sash, wearing a
false badge of the Legion of Honour, picks up the card hastily and
offers it.)_ Allow me. My club is the Junior Army and Navy. Solicitors:
Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor’s Walk.

FIRST WATCH: _(Reads.)_ Henry Flower. No fixed abode. Unlawfully
watching and besetting.

SECOND WATCH: An alibi. You are cautioned.

BLOOM: _(Produces from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower.)_ This
is the flower in question. It was given me by a man I don’t know his
name. _(Plausibly.)_ You know that old joke, rose of Castile. Bloom.
The change of name. Virag. _(He murmurs privately and confidentially.)_
We are engaged you see, sergeant. Lady in the case. Love entanglement.
_(He shoulders the second watch gently.)_ Dash it all. It’s a way we
gallants have in the navy. Uniform that does it. _(He turns gravely to
the first watch.)_ Still, of course, you do get your Waterloo
sometimes. Drop in some evening and have a glass of old Burgundy. _(To
the second watch gaily.)_ I’ll introduce you, inspector. She’s game. Do
it in the shake of a lamb’s tail.

_(A dark mercurialised face appears, leading a veiled figure.)_

THE DARK MERCURY: The Castle is looking for him. He was drummed out of
the army.

MARTHA: _(Thickveiled, a crimson halter round her neck, a copy of the_
Irish Times _in her hand, in tone of reproach, pointing.)_ Henry!
Leopold! Lionel, thou lost one! Clear my name.

FIRST WATCH: _(Sternly.)_ Come to the station.

BLOOM: _(Scared, hats himself, steps back, then, plucking at his heart
and lifting his right forearm on the square, he gives the sign and
dueguard of fellowcraft.)_ No, no, worshipful master, light of love.
Mistaken identity. The Lyons mail. Lesurques and Dubosc. You remember
the Childs fratricide case. We medical men. By striking him dead with a
hatchet. I am wrongfully accused. Better one guilty escape than
ninetynine wrongfully condemned.

MARTHA: _(Sobbing behind her veil.)_ Breach of promise. My real name is
Peggy Griffin. He wrote to me that he was miserable. I’ll tell my
brother, the Bective rugger fullback, on you, heartless flirt.

BLOOM: _(Behind his hand.)_ She’s drunk. The woman is inebriated. _(He
murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim.)_ Shitbroleeth.

SECOND WATCH: _(Tears in his eyes, to Bloom.)_ You ought to be
thoroughly well ashamed of yourself.

BLOOM: Gentlemen of the jury, let me explain. A pure mare’s nest. I am
a man misunderstood. I am being made a scapegoat of. I am a respectable
married man, without a stain on my character. I live in Eccles street.
My wife, I am the daughter of a most distinguished commander, a gallant
upstanding gentleman, what do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy,
one of Britain’s fighting men who helped to win our battles. Got his
majority for the heroic defence of Rorke’s Drift.

FIRST WATCH: Regiment.

BLOOM: _(Turns to the gallery.)_ The royal Dublins, boys, the salt of
the earth, known the world over. I think I see some old comrades in
arms up there among you. The R. D. F., with our own Metropolitan
police, guardians of our homes, the pluckiest lads and the finest body
of men, as physique, in the service of our sovereign.

A VOICE: Turncoat! Up the Boers! Who booed Joe Chamberlain?

BLOOM: _(His hand on the shoulder of the first watch.)_ My old dad too
was a J. P. I’m as staunch a Britisher as you are, sir. I fought with
the colours for king and country in the absentminded war under general
Gough in the park and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was
mentioned in dispatches. I did all a white man could. _(With quiet
feeling.)_ Jim Bludso. Hold her nozzle again the bank.

FIRST WATCH: Profession or trade.

BLOOM: Well, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist. In fact
we are just bringing out a collection of prize stories of which I am
the inventor, something that is an entirely new departure. I am
connected with the British and Irish press. If you ring up...

_(Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a quill between his teeth. His
scarlet beak blazes within the aureole of his straw hat. He dangles a
hank of Spanish onions in one hand and holds with the other hand a
telephone receiver nozzle to his ear.)_

MYLES CRAWFORD: _(His cock’s wattles wagging.)_ Hello, seventyseven
eightfour. Hello. _Freeman’s Urinal_ and _Weekly Arsewipe_ here.
Paralyse Europe. You which? Bluebags? Who writes? Is it Bloom?

_(Mr Philip Beaufoy, palefaced, stands in the witnessbox, in accurate
morning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing,
creased lavender trousers and patent boots. He carries a large
portfolio labelled_ Matcham’s Masterstrokes.)

BEAUFOY: _(Drawls.)_ No, you aren’t. Not by a long shot if I know it. I
don’t see it, that’s all. No born gentleman, no-one with the most
rudimentary promptings of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly
loathsome conduct. One of those, my lord. A plagiarist. A soapy sneak
masquerading as a literateur. It’s perfectly obvious that with the most
inherent baseness he has cribbed some of my bestselling copy, really
gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages in which are beneath
suspicion. The Beaufoy books of love and great possessions, with which
your lordship is doubtless familiar, are a household word throughout
the kingdom.

BLOOM: _(Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum.)_ That bit about the
laughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may...

BEAUFOY: _(His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the court.)_ You
funny ass, you! You’re too beastly awfully weird for words! I don’t
think you need over excessively disincommodate yourself in that regard.
My literary agent Mr J. B. Pinker is in attendance. I presume, my lord,
we shall receive the usual witnesses’ fees, shan’t we? We are
considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this
jackdaw of Rheims, who has not even been to a university.

BLOOM: _(Indistinctly.)_ University of life. Bad art.

BEAUFOY: _(Shouts.)_ It’s a damnably foul lie, showing the moral
rottenness of the man! _(He extends his portfolio.)_ We have here
damning evidence, the _corpus delicti_, my lord, a specimen of my
maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the beast.

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY:

     Moses, Moses, king of the jews,
     Wiped his arse in the _Daily News_.

BLOOM: _(Bravely.)_ Overdrawn.

BEAUFOY: You low cad! You ought to be ducked in the horsepond, you
rotter! _(To the court.)_ Why, look at the man’s private life! Leading
a quadruple existence! Street angel and house devil. Not fit to be
mentioned in mixed society! The archconspirator of the age!

BLOOM: _(To the court.)_ And he, a bachelor, how...

FIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom. Call the woman Driscoll.

THE CRIER: Mary Driscoll, scullerymaid!

_(Mary Driscoll, a slipshod servant girl, approaches. She has a bucket
on the crook of her arm and a scouringbrush in her hand.)_

SECOND WATCH: Another! Are you of the unfortunate class?

MARY DRISCOLL: _(Indignantly.)_ I’m not a bad one. I bear a respectable
character and was four months in my last place. I was in a situation,
six pounds a year and my chances with Fridays out and I had to leave
owing to his carryings on.

FIRST WATCH: What do you tax him with?

MARY DRISCOLL: He made a certain suggestion but I thought more of
myself as poor as I am.

BLOOM: _(In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, heelless
slippers, unshaven, his hair rumpled: softly.)_ I treated you white. I
gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station.
Incautiously I took your part when you were accused of pilfering.
There’s a medium in all things. Play cricket.

MARY DRISCOLL: _(Excitedly.)_ As God is looking down on me this night
if ever I laid a hand to them 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 remonstrated with him, Your lord, and he
remarked: keep it quiet.

_(General laughter.)_

GEORGE FOTTRELL: _(Clerk of the crown and peace, resonantly.)_ Order in
court! The accused will now make a bogus statement.

_(Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a fullblown waterlily, begins
a long unintelligible speech. They would hear what counsel had to say
in his stirring address to the grand jury. He was down and out but,
though branded as a black sheep, if he might say so, he meant to
reform, to retrieve the memory of the past in a purely sisterly way and
return to nature as a purely domestic animal. A sevenmonths’ child, he
had been carefully brought up and nurtured by an aged bedridden parent.
There might have been lapses of an erring father but he wanted to turn
over a new leaf and now, when at long last in sight of the whipping
post, to lead a homely life in the evening of his days, permeated by
the affectionate surroundings of the heaving bosom of the family. An
acclimatised Britisher, he had seen that summer eve from the footplate
of an engine cab of the Loop line railway company while the rain
refrained from falling glimpses, as it were, through the windows of
loveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly
rural of happiness of the better land with Dockrell’s wallpaper at one
and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to
the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their pensums or
model young ladies playing on the pianoforte or anon all with fervour
reciting the family rosary round the crackling Yulelog while in the
boreens and green lanes the colleens with their swains strolled what
times the strains of the organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with
four acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a sacrifice, greatest bargain
ever...._

_(Renewed laughter. He mumbles incoherently. Reporters complain that
they cannot hear.)_

LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: _(Without looking up from their notebooks.)_
Loosen his boots.

PROFESSOR MACHUGH: _(From the presstable, coughs and calls.)_ Cough it
up, man. Get it out in bits.

_(The crossexamination proceeds_ re _Bloom and the bucket. A large
bucket. Bloom himself. Bowel trouble. In Beaver street. Gripe, yes.
Quite bad. A plasterer’s bucket. By walking stifflegged. Suffered
untold misery. Deadly agony. About noon. Love or burgundy. Yes, some
spinach. Crucial moment. He did not look in the bucket. Nobody. Rather
a mess. Not completely. A_ Titbits _back number_.)

_(Uproar and catcalls. Bloom in a torn frockcoat stained with
whitewash, dinged silk hat sideways on his head, a strip of
stickingplaster across his nose, talks inaudibly.)_

J. J. O’MOLLOY: _(In barrister’s grey wig and stuffgown, speaking with
a voice of pained protest.)_ This is no place for indecent levity at
the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. We are not in a
beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. My
client is an infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch as a
stowaway and is now trying to turn an honest penny. The trumped up
misdemeanour was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on
by hallucination, such familiarities as the alleged guilty occurrence
being quite permitted in my client’s native place, the land of the
Pharaoh. _Prima facie_, I put it to you that there was no attempt at
carnally knowing. Intimacy did not occur and the offence complained of
by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was not repeated. I would
deal in especial with atavism. There have been cases of shipwreck and
somnambulism in my client’s family. If the accused could speak he could
a tale unfold—one of the strangest that have ever been narrated between
the covers of a book. He himself, my lord, is a physical wreck from
cobbler’s weak chest. His submission is that he is of Mongolian
extraction and irresponsible for his actions. Not all there, in fact.

BLOOM: _(Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in lascar’s vest and trousers,
apologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny mole’s eyes and looks about
him dazedly, passing a slow hand across his forehead. Then he hitches
his belt sailor fashion and with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes
the court, pointing one thumb heavenward.)_ Him makee velly muchee fine
night. _(He begins to lilt simply.)_

     Li li poo lil chile
     Blingee pigfoot evly night
     Payee two shilly...

_(He is howled down.)_

J. J. O’MOLLOY: _(Hotly to the populace.)_ This is a lonehand fight. By
Hades, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this
fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. The Mosaic code has
superseded the law of the jungle. I say it and I say it emphatically,
without wishing for one moment to defeat the ends of justice, accused
was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered
with. The young person was treated by defendant as if she were his very
own daughter. _(Bloom takes J. J. O’Molloy’s hand and raises it to his
lips.)_ I shall call rebutting evidence to prove up to the hilt that
the hidden hand is again at its old game. When in doubt persecute
Bloom. My client, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the
world to do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object
to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some
dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will
on her. He wants to go straight. I regard him as the whitest man I
know. He is down on his luck at present owing to the mortgaging of his
extensive property at Agendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of
which will now be shown. _(To Bloom.)_ I suggest that you will do the
handsome thing.

BLOOM: A penny in the pound.

_(The image of the lake of Kinnereth with blurred cattle cropping in
silver haze is projected on the wall. Moses Dlugacz, ferreteyed albino,
in blue dungarees, stands up in the gallery, holding in each hand an
orange citron and a pork kidney.)_

DLUGACZ: _(Hoarsely.)_ Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W. 13.

_(J. J. O’Molloy steps on to a low plinth and holds the lapel of his
coat with solemnity. His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with
sunken eyes, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John F.
Taylor. He applies his handkerchief to his mouth and scrutinises the
galloping tide of rosepink blood.)_

J. J. O’MOLLOY: _(Almost voicelessly.)_ Excuse me. I am suffering from
a severe chill, have recently come from a sickbed. A few wellchosen
words. _(He assumes the avine head, foxy moustache and proboscidal
eloquence of Seymour Bushe.)_ When the angel’s book comes to be opened
if aught that the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and
of soultransfiguring deserves to live I say accord the prisoner at the
bar the sacred benefit of the doubt.

_(A paper with something written on it is handed into court._)

BLOOM: _(In court dress.)_ Can give best references. Messrs Callan,
Coleman. Mr Wisdom Hely J. P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. Mr V. B. Dillon,
ex lord mayor of Dublin. I have moved in the charmed circle of the
highest... Queens of Dublin society. _(Carelessly.)_ I was just
chatting this afternoon at the viceregal lodge to my old pals, sir
Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal, at the levee. Sir Bob, I
said...

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: _(In lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength
ivory gloves, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a comb of
brilliants and panache of osprey in her hair.)_ Arrest him, constable.
He wrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband
was in the North Riding of Tipperary on the Munster circuit, signed
James Lovebirch. He said that he had seen from the gods my peerless
globes as I sat in a box of the _Theatre Royal_ at a command
performance of _La Cigale_. I deeply inflamed him, he said. He made
improper overtures to me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on
the following Thursday, Dunsink time. He offered to send me through the
post a work of fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock, entitled _The Girl
with the Three Pairs of Stays_.

MRS BELLINGHAM: _(In cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to the nose,
steps out of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell
quizzing-glasses which she takes from inside her huge opossum muff.)_
Also to me. Yes, I believe it is the same objectionable person. Because
he closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker’s one sleety day
during the cold snap of February ninetythree when even the grid of the
wastepipe and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen. Subsequently
he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the heights, as he said, in
my honour. I had it examined by a botanical expert and elicited the
information that it was 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 señorita, frail and lovely (his wife, as
he solemnly assured me, taken by him from nature), practising illicit
intercourse with a muscular torero, evidently a blackguard. He urged me
to do likewise, to misbehave, to sin with officers of the garrison. He
implored me to soil his letter in an unspeakable manner, to chastise
him as he richly deserves, to bestride and ride him, to give him a most
vicious horsewhipping.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Me too.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Me too.

_(Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters
received from Bloom.)_

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: _(Stamps her jingling spurs in a
sudden paroxysm of fury.)_ I will, by the God above me. I’ll scourge
the pigeonlivered cur as long as I can stand over him. I’ll flay him
alive.

BLOOM: _(His eyes closing, quails expectantly.)_ Here? _(He squirms.)_
Again! _(He pants cringing.)_ I love the danger.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: Very much so! I’ll make it hot for
you. I’ll make you dance Jack Latten for that.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Tan his breech well, the upstart! Write the stars and
stripes on it!

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Disgraceful! There’s no excuse for him! A married
man!

BLOOM: All these people. I meant only the spanking idea. A warm
tingling glow without effusion. Refined birching to stimulate the
circulation.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: _(Laughs derisively.)_ O, did you,
my fine fellow? Well, by the living God, you’ll get the surprise of
your life now, believe me, the most unmerciful hiding a man ever
bargained for. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into
fury.

MRS BELLINGHAM: _(Shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses vindictively.)_
Make him smart, Hanna dear. Give him ginger. Thrash the mongrel within
an inch of his life. The cat-o’-nine-tails. Geld him. Vivisect him.

BLOOM: _(Shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands: with hangdog mien.)_ O
cold! O shivery! It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet.
Let me off this once. _(He offers the other cheek.)_

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: _(Severely.)_ Don’t do so on any account, Mrs
Talboys! He should be soundly trounced!

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: _(Unbuttoning her gauntlet
violently.)_ I’ll do no such thing. Pigdog and always was ever since he
was pupped! To dare address me! I’ll flog him black and blue in the
public streets. I’ll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel. He is a
wellknown cuckold. _(She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the air.)_
Take down his trousers without loss of time. Come here, sir! Quick!
Ready?

BLOOM: _(Trembling, beginning to obey.)_ The weather has been so warm.

_(Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with a bevy of barefoot newsboys.)_

DAVY STEPHENS: _Messenger of the Sacred Heart_ and _Evening Telegraph_
with Saint Patrick’s Day supplement. Containing the new addresses of
all the cuckolds in Dublin.

_(The very reverend Canon O’Hanlon in cloth of gold cope elevates and
exposes a marble timepiece. Before him Father Conroy and the reverend
John Hughes S. J. bend low.)_

THE TIMEPIECE: _(Unportalling.)_

     Cuckoo.
     Cuckoo.
     Cuckoo.

_(The brass quoits of a bed are heard to jingle.)_

THE QUOITS: Jigjag. Jigajiga. Jigjag.

_(A panel of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing rapidly in the jurybox
the faces of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon
Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton, Myles Crawford,
Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M’Coy and the featureless face of
a Nameless One.)_

THE NAMELESS ONE: Bareback riding. Weight for age. Gob, he organised
her.

THE JURORS: _(All their heads turned to his voice.)_ Really?

THE NAMELESS ONE: _(Snarls.)_ Arse over tip. Hundred shillings to five.

THE JURORS: _(All their heads lowered in assent.)_ Most of us thought
as much.

FIRST WATCH: He is a marked man. Another girl’s plait cut. Wanted: Jack
the Ripper. A thousand pounds reward.

SECOND WATCH: _(Awed, whispers.)_ And in black. A mormon. Anarchist.

THE CRIER: _(Loudly.)_ Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a
wellknown dynamitard, forger, bigamist, bawd and cuckold and a public
nuisance to the citizens of Dublin and whereas at this commission of
assizes the most honourable...

_(His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, in judicial
garb of grey stone rises from the bench, stonebearded. He bears in his
arms an umbrella sceptre. From his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic
ramshorns.)_

THE RECORDER: I will put an end to this white slave traffic and rid
Dublin of this odious pest. Scandalous! _(He dons the black cap.)_ Let
him be taken, Mr Subsheriff, from the dock where he now stands and
detained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty’s pleasure
and there be hanged by the neck until he is dead and therein fail not
at your peril or may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Remove him. _(A
black skullcap descends upon his head.)_

_(The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, smoking a pungent Henry
Clay.)_

LONG JOHN FANNING: _(Scowls and calls with rich rolling utterance.)_
Who’ll hang Judas Iscariot?

_(H. Rumbold, master barber, in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner’s
apron, a rope coiled over his shoulder, mounts the block. A life
preserver and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in his belt. He rubs
grimly his grappling hands, knobbed with knuckledusters.)_

RUMBOLD: _(To the recorder with sinister familiarity.)_ Hanging Harry,
your Majesty, the Mersey terror. Five guineas a jugular. Neck or
nothing.

_(The bells of George’s church toll slowly, loud dark iron.)_

THE BELLS: Heigho! Heigho!

BLOOM: _(Desperately.)_ Wait. Stop. Gulls. Good heart. I saw.
Innocence. Girl in the monkeyhouse. Zoo. Lewd chimpanzee.
_(Breathlessly.)_ Pelvic basin. Her artless blush unmanned me.
_(Overcome with emotion.)_ I left the precincts. (He turns to a figure
in the crowd, appealing.) Hynes, may I speak to you? You know me. That
three shillings you can keep. If you want a little more...

HYNES: _(Coldly.)_ You are a perfect stranger.

SECOND WATCH: _(Points to the corner.)_ The bomb is here.

FIRST WATCH: Infernal machine with a time fuse.

BLOOM: No, no. Pig’s feet. I was at a funeral.

FIRST WATCH: _(Draws his truncheon.)_ Liar!

_(The beagle lifts his snout, showing the grey scorbutic face of Paddy
Dignam. He has gnawed all. He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath. He
grows to human size and shape. His dachshund coat becomes a brown
mortuary habit. His green eye flashes bloodshot. Half of one ear, all
the nose and both thumbs are ghouleaten.)_

PADDY DIGNAM: _(In a hollow voice.)_ It is true. It was my funeral.
Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the disease
from natural causes.

_(He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously.)_

BLOOM: _(In triumph.)_ You hear?

PADDY DIGNAM: Bloom, I am Paddy Dignam’s spirit. List, list, O list!

BLOOM: The voice is the voice of Esau.

SECOND WATCH: _(Blesses himself.)_ How is that possible?

FIRST WATCH: It is not in the penny catechism.

PADDY DIGNAM: By metempsychosis. Spooks.

A VOICE: O rocks.

PADDY DIGNAM: _(Earnestly.)_ Once I was in the employ of Mr J. H.
Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27
Bachelor’s Walk. Now I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied.
Hard lines. The poor wife was awfully cut up. How is she bearing it?
Keep her off that bottle of sherry. _(He looks round him.)_ A lamp. I
must satisfy an animal need. That buttermilk didn’t agree with me.

_(The portly figure of John O’Connell, caretaker, stands forth, holding
a bunch of keys tied with crape. Beside him stands Father Coffey,
chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in a surplice and bandanna nightcap,
holding sleepily a staff of 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
stiffpointed, his ears cocked.)_

PADDY DIGNAM: Pray for the repose of his soul.

_(He worms down through a coalhole, his brown habit trailing its tether
over rattling pebbles. After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on
fungus turtle paws under a grey carapace. Dignam’s voice, muffled, is
heard baying under ground:_ Dignam’s dead and gone below. _Tom
Rochford, robinredbreasted, in cap and breeches, jumps from his
twocolumned machine.)_

TOM ROCHFORD: _(A hand to his breastbone, bows.)_ Reuben J. A florin I
find him. _(He fixes the manhole with a resolute stare.)_ My turn now
on. Follow me up to Carlow.

_(He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the air and is engulfed in the
coalhole. Two discs on the columns wobble, eyes of nought. All recedes.
Bloom plodges forward again through the sump. Kisses chirp amid the
rifts of fog. A piano sounds. He stands before a lighted house,
listening. The kisses, winging from their bowers, fly about him,
twittering, warbling, cooing.)_

THE KISSES: _(Warbling.)_ Leo! _(Twittering.)_ Icky licky micky sticky
for Leo! _(Cooing.)_ Coo coocoo! Yummyyum, Womwom! _(Warbling.)_ Big
comebig! Pirouette! Leopopold! _(Twittering.)_ Leeolee! _(Warbling.)_ O
Leo!

_(They rustle, flutter upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks,
silvery sequins.)_

BLOOM: A man’s touch. Sad music. Church music. Perhaps here.

_(Zoe Higgins, a young whore in a sapphire slip, closed with three
bronze buckles, a slim black velvet fillet round her throat, nods,
trips down the steps and accosts him.)_

ZOE: Are you looking for someone? He’s inside with his friend.

BLOOM: Is this Mrs Mack’s?

ZOE: No, eightyone. Mrs Cohen’s. You might go farther and fare worse.
Mother Slipperslapper. _(Familiarly.)_ She’s on the job herself tonight
with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for
her son in Oxford. Working overtime but her luck’s turned today.
_(Suspiciously.)_ You’re not his father, are you?

BLOOM: Not I!

ZOE: You both in black. Has little mousey any tickles tonight?

_(His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach. A hand glides over
his left thigh.)_

ZOE: How’s the nuts?

BLOOM: Off side. Curiously they are on the right. Heavier, I suppose.
One in a million my tailor, Mesias, says.

ZOE: _(In sudden alarm.)_ You’ve a hard chancre.

BLOOM: Not likely.

ZOE: I feel it.

_(Her hand slides into his left trouser pocket and brings out a hard
black shrivelled potato. She regards it and Bloom with dumb moist
lips.)_

BLOOM: A talisman. Heirloom.

ZOE: For Zoe? For keeps? For being so nice, eh?

_(She puts the potato greedily into a pocket then links his arm,
cuddling him with supple warmth. He smiles uneasily. Slowly, note by
note, oriental music is played. He gazes in the tawny crystal of her
eyes, ringed with kohol. His smile softens.)_

ZOE: You’ll know me the next time.

BLOOM: _(Forlornly.)_ I never loved a dear gazelle but it was sure
to...

_(Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near are lakes. Round
their shores file shadows black of cedargroves. Aroma rises, a strong
hairgrowth of resin. It burns, the orient, a sky of sapphire, cleft by
the bronze flight of eagles. Under it lies the womancity, nude, white,
still, cool, in luxury. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Mammoth
roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes. A wine of shame, lust, blood
exudes, strangely murmuring.)_

ZOE: _(Murmuring singsong with the music, her odalisk lips lusciously
smeared with salve of swinefat and rosewater.) Schorach ani wenowach,
benoith Hierushaloim._

BLOOM: _(Fascinated.)_ I thought you were of good stock by your accent.

ZOE: And you know what thought did?

_(She bites his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth, sending on
him a cloying breath of stale garlic. The roses draw apart, disclose a
sepulchre of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones.)_

BLOOM: _(Draws back, mechanically caressing her right bub with a flat
awkward hand.)_ Are you a Dublin girl?

ZOE: _(Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her coil.)_ No
bloody fear. I’m English. Have you a swaggerroot?

BLOOM: _(As before.)_ Rarely smoke, dear. Cigar now and then. Childish
device. _(Lewdly.)_ The mouth can be better engaged than with a
cylinder of rank weed.

ZOE: Go on. Make a stump speech out of it.

BLOOM: _(In workman’s corduroy overalls, black gansy with red floating
tie and apache cap.)_ Mankind is incorrigible. Sir Walter Ralegh
brought from the new world that potato and that weed, the one a killer
of pestilence by absorption, the other a poisoner of the ear, eye,
heart, memory, will, understanding, all. That is to say he brought the
poison a hundred years before another person whose name I forget
brought the food. Suicide. Lies. All our habits. Why, look at our
public life!

_(Midnight chimes from distant steeples.)_

THE CHIMES: Turn again, Leopold! Lord mayor of Dublin!

BLOOM: _(In alderman’s gown and chain.)_ Electors of Arran Quay, Inns
Quay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better run a tramline, I say,
from the cattlemarket to the river. That’s the music of the future.
That’s my programme. _Cui bono?_ But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in
their phantom ship of finance...

AN ELECTOR: Three times three for our future chief magistrate!

_(The aurora borealis of the torchlight procession leaps.)_

THE TORCHBEARERS: Hooray!

_(Several wellknown burgesses, city magnates and freemen of the city
shake hands with Bloom and congratulate him. Timothy Harrington, late
thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold chain
and white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock,_ locum
tenens. _They nod vigorously in agreement.)_

LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: _(In scarlet robe with mace, gold mayoral
chain and large white silk scarf.)_ That alderman sir Leo Bloom’s
speech be printed at the expense of the ratepayers. That the house in
which he was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and that
the thoroughfare hitherto known as Cow Parlour off Cork street be
henceforth designated Boulevard Bloom.

COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: Carried unanimously.

BLOOM: _(Impassionedly.)_ These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as
they recline in their upholstered poop, casting dice, what reck they?
Machines is their cry, their chimera, their panacea. Laboursaving
apparatuses, supplanters, bugbears, manufactured monsters for mutual
murder, hideous hobgoblins produced by a horde of capitalistic lusts
upon our prostituted labour. The poor man starves while they are
grassing their royal mountain stags or shooting peasants and
phartridges in their purblind pomp of pelf and power. But their reign
is rover for rever and ever and ev...

_(Prolonged applause. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring
up. A streamer bearing the legends_ Cead Mile Failte _and_ Mah Ttob
Melek Israel _spans the street. All the windows are thronged with
sightseers, chiefly ladies. Along the route the regiments of the Royal
Dublin Fusiliers, the King’s own Scottish Borderers, the Cameron
Highlanders and the Welsh Fusiliers, standing to attention, keep back
the crowd. Boys from High school are perched on the lampposts,
telegraph poles, windowsills, cornices, gutters, chimneypots, railings,
rainspouts, whistling and cheering. The pillar of the cloud appears. A
fife and drum band is heard in the distance playing the Kol Nidre. The
beaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing banners and
waving oriental palms. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high,
surrounded by pennons of the civic flag. The van of the procession
appears headed by John Howard Parnell, city marshal, in a chessboard
tabard, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster King of Arms. They are
followed by the Right Honourable Joseph Hutchinson, lord mayor of
Dublin, his lordship the lord mayor of Cork, their worships the mayors
of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish
representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the
cloth of estate, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the chapter of
the saints of finance in their plutocratic order of precedence, the
bishop of Down and Connor, His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue,
archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, His Grace, the most
reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all
Ireland, the chief rabbi, the presbyterian moderator, the heads of the
baptist, anabaptist, methodist and Moravian chapels and the honorary
secretary of the society of friends. After them march the guilds and
trades and trainbands with flying colours: coopers, bird fanciers,
millwrights, newspaper canvassers, law scriveners, masseurs, vintners,
trussmakers, chimneysweeps, lard refiners, tabinet and poplin weavers,
farriers, Italian warehousemen, church decorators, bootjack
manufacturers, undertakers, silk mercers, lapidaries, salesmasters,
corkcutters, assessors of fire losses, dyers and cleaners, export
bottlers, fellmongers, ticketwriters, heraldic seal engravers, horse
repository hands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters,
riddlemakers, egg and potato factors, hosiers and glovers, plumbing
contractors. After them march gentlemen of the bedchamber, Black Rod,
Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the master of horse, the lord great
chamberlain, the earl marshal, the high constable carrying the sword of
state, saint Stephen’s iron crown, the chalice and bible. Four buglers
on foot blow a sennet. Beefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome.
Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, bareheaded, in a crimson velvet
mantle trimmed with ermine, bearing Saint Edward’s staff, the orb and
sceptre with the dove, the curtana. He is seated on a milkwhite horse
with long flowing crimson tail, richly caparisoned, with golden
headstall. Wild excitement. The ladies from their balconies throw down
rosepetals. The air is perfumed with essences. The men cheer. Bloom’s
boys run amid the bystanders with branches of hawthorn and
wrenbushes.)_

BLOOM’S BOYS:

     The wren, the wren,
     The king of all birds,
     Saint Stephen’s his day
     Was caught in the furze.

A BLACKSMITH: _(Murmurs.)_ For the honour of God! And is that Bloom? He
scarcely looks thirtyone.

A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: That’s the famous Bloom now, the world’s greatest
reformer. Hats off!

_(All uncover their heads. Women whisper eagerly.)_

A MILLIONAIRESS: _(Richly.)_ Isn’t he simply wonderful?

A NOBLEWOMAN: _(Nobly.)_ All that man has seen!

A FEMINIST: _(Masculinely.)_ And done!

A BELLHANGER: A classic face! He has the forehead of a thinker.

_(Bloom’s weather. A sunburst appears in the northwest.)_

THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: I here present your undoubted
emperor-president and king-chairman, the most serene and potent and
very puissant ruler of this realm. God save Leopold the First!

ALL: God save Leopold the First!

BLOOM: _(In dalmatic and purple mantle, to the bishop of Down and
Connor, with dignity.)_ Thanks, somewhat eminent sir.

WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: _(In purple stock and shovel hat.)_ Will
you to your power cause law and mercy to be executed in all your
judgments in Ireland and territories thereunto belonging?

BLOOM: _(Placing his right hand on his testicles, swears.)_ So may the
Creator deal with me. All this I promise to do.

MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: _(Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom’s
head.) Gaudium magnum annuntio vobis. Habemus carneficem._ Leopold,
Patrick, Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed!

_(Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold and puts on a ruby ring. He
ascends and stands on the stone of destiny. The representative peers
put on at the same time their twentyeight crowns. Joybells ring in
Christ church, Saint Patrick’s, George’s and gay Malahide. Mirus bazaar
fireworks go up from all sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic
designs. The peers do homage, one by one, approaching and
genuflecting.)_

THE PEERS: I do become your liege man of life and limb to earthly
worship.

_(Bloom holds up his right hand on which sparkles the Koh-i-Noor
diamond. His palfrey neighs. Immediate silence. Wireless
intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception
of message.)_

BLOOM: My subjects! We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula
Felix hereditary Grand Vizier and announce that we have this day
repudiated our former spouse and have bestowed our royal hand upon the
princess Selene, the splendour of night.

_(The former morganatic spouse of Bloom is hastily removed in the Black
Maria. The princess Selene, in moonblue robes, a silver crescent on her
head, descends from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants. An outburst of
cheering.)_

JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: _(Raises the royal standard.)_ Illustrious Bloom!
Successor to my famous brother!

BLOOM: _(Embraces John Howard Parnell.)_ We thank you from our heart,
John, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the promised land of
our common ancestors.

_(The freedom of the city is presented to him embodied in a charter.
The keys of Dublin, crossed on a crimson cushion, are given to him. He
shows all that he is wearing green socks.)_

TOM KERNAN: You deserve it, your honour.

BLOOM: On this day twenty years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at
Ladysmith. Our howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with
telling effect. Half a league onward! They charge! All is lost now! Do
we yield? No! We drive them headlong! Lo! We charge! Deploying to the
left our light horse swept across the heights of Plevna and, uttering
their warcry _Bonafide Sabaoth_, sabred the Saracen gunners to a man.

THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Hear! Hear!

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: There’s the man that got away James Stephens.

A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: Bravo!

AN OLD RESIDENT: You’re a credit to your country, sir, that’s what you
are.

AN APPLEWOMAN: He’s a man like Ireland wants.

BLOOM: My beloved subjects, a new era is about to dawn. I, Bloom, tell
you verily it is even now at hand. Yea, on the word of a Bloom, ye
shall ere long enter into the golden city which is to be, the new
Bloomusalem in the Nova Hibernia of the future.

_(Thirtytwo workmen, wearing rosettes, from all the counties of
Ireland, under the guidance of Derwan the builder, construct the new
Bloomusalem. It is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the
shape of a huge pork kidney, containing forty thousand rooms. In the
course of its extension several buildings and monuments are demolished.
Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds.
Numerous houses are razed to the ground. The inhabitants are lodged in
barrels and boxes, all marked in red with the letters: L. B. Several
paupers fall from a ladder. A part of the walls of Dublin, crowded with
loyal sightseers, collapses.)_

THE SIGHTSEERS: _(Dying.) Morituri te salutant. (They die.)_

_(A man in a brown macintosh springs up through a trapdoor. He points
an elongated finger at Bloom.)_

THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Don’t you believe a word he says. That man is
Leopold M’Intosh, the notorious fireraiser. His real name is Higgins.

BLOOM: Shoot him! Dog of a christian! So much for M’Intosh!

_(A cannonshot. The man in the macintosh disappears. Bloom with his
sceptre strikes down poppies. The instantaneous deaths of many powerful
enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of standing
committees, are reported. Bloom’s bodyguard distribute Maundy money,
commemoration medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive
Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in
sealed envelopes tied with gold thread, butter scotch, pineapple rock,_
billets doux _in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringers
of toad in the hole, bottles of Jeyes’ Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days’
indulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes,
season tickets available for all tramlines, coupons of the royal and
privileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of
the World’s Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz (politic), Care of the
Baby (infantilic), 50 Meals for 7/6 (culinic), Was Jesus a Sun Myth?
(historic), Expel that Pain (medic), Infant’s Compendium of the
Universe (cosmic), Let’s All Chortle (hilaric), Canvasser’s Vade Mecum
(journalic), Loveletters of Mother Assistant (erotic), Who’s Who in
Space (astric), Songs that Reached Our Heart (melodic), Pennywise’s Way
to Wealth (parsimonic). A general rush and scramble. Women press
forward to touch the hem of Bloom’s robe. The lady Gwendolen Dubedat
bursts through the throng, leaps on his horse and kisses him on both
cheeks amid great acclamation. A magnesium flashlight photograph is
taken. Babes and sucklings are held up.)_

THE WOMEN: Little father! Little father!

THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS:

     Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home,
     Cakes in his pocket for Leo alone.

_(Bloom, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the stomach.)_

BABY BOARDMAN: _(Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his mouth.)_
Hajajaja.

BLOOM: _(Shaking hands with a blind stripling.)_ My more than Brother!
_(Placing his arms round the shoulders of an old couple.)_ Dear old
friends! _(He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls.)_
Peep! Bopeep! _(He wheels twins in a perambulator.)_ Ticktacktwo
wouldyousetashoe? _(He performs juggler’s tricks, draws red, orange,
yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet silk handkerchiefs from his
mouth.)_ Roygbiv. 32 feet per second. _(He consoles a widow.)_ Absence
makes the heart grow younger. _(He dances the Highland fling with
grotesque antics.)_ Leg it, ye devils! _(He kisses the bedsores of a
palsied veteran.)_ Honourable wounds! _(He trips up a fat 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 1 of the
Paradisiacal Era.

PADDY LEONARD: What am I to do about my rates and taxes?

BLOOM: Pay them, my friend.

PADDY LEONARD: Thank you.

NOSEY FLYNN: Can I raise a mortgage on my fire insurance?

BLOOM: _(Obdurately.)_ Sirs, take notice that by the law of torts you
are bound over in your own recognisances for six months in the sum of
five pounds.

J. J. O’MOLLOY: A Daniel did I say? Nay! A Peter O’Brien!

NOSEY FLYNN: Where do I draw the five pounds?

PISSER BURKE: For bladder trouble?

BLOOM:

_Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil.,_ 20 minims
_Tinct. nux vom.,_ 5 minims
_Extr. taraxel. lig.,_ 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. 11.

JOE HYNES: Why aren’t you in uniform?

BLOOM: When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the
Austrian despot in a dank prison where was yours?

BEN DOLLARD: Pansies?

BLOOM: Embellish (beautify) suburban gardens.

BEN DOLLARD: When twins arrive?

BLOOM: Father (pater, dad) starts thinking.

LARRY O’ROURKE: An eightday licence for my new premises. You remember
me, sir Leo, when you were in number seven. I’m sending around a dozen
of stout for the missus.

BLOOM: _(Coldly.)_ You have the advantage of me. Lady Bloom accepts no
presents.

CROFTON: This is indeed a festivity.

BLOOM: _(Solemnly.)_ You call it a festivity. I call it a sacrament.

ALEXANDER KEYES: When will we have our own house of keys?

BLOOM: I stand for the reform of municipal morals and the plain ten
commandments. New worlds for old. Union of all, jew, moslem and
gentile. Three acres and a cow for all children of nature. Saloon motor
hearses. Compulsory manual labour for all. All parks open to the public
day and night. Electric dishscrubbers. Tuberculosis, lunacy, war and
mendicancy must now cease. General amnesty, weekly carnival with masked
licence, bonuses for all, esperanto the universal language with
universal brotherhood. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical
impostors. Free money, free rent, free love and a free lay church in a
free lay state.

O’MADDEN BURKE: Free fox in a free henroost.

DAVY BYRNE: _(Yawning.)_ Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach!

BLOOM: Mixed races and mixed marriage.

LENEHAN: What about mixed bathing?

_(Bloom explains to those near him his schemes for social regeneration.
All agree with him. The keeper of the Kildare street museum appears,
dragging a lorry on which are the shaking statues of several naked
goddesses, Venus Callipyge, Venus Pandemos, Venus Metempsychosis, and
plaster figures, also naked, representing the new nine muses, Commerce,
Operatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty of Speech, Plural
Voting, Gastronomy, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments,
Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People.)_

FATHER FARLEY: He is an episcopalian, an agnostic, an anythingarian
seeking to overthrow our holy faith.

MRS RIORDAN: _(Tears up her will.)_ I’m disappointed in you! You bad
man!

MOTHER GROGAN: _(Removes her boot to throw it at Bloom.)_ You beast!
You abominable person!

NOSEY FLYNN: Give us a tune, Bloom. One of the old sweet songs.

BLOOM: _(With rollicking humour.)_

     I vowed that I never would leave her,
     She turned out a cruel deceiver.
     With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom.

HOPPY HOLOHAN: Good old Bloom! There’s nobody like him after all.

PADDY LEONARD: Stage Irishman!

BLOOM: What railway opera is like a tramline in Gibraltar? The Rows of
Casteele.

_(Laughter.)_

LENEHAN: Plagiarist! Down with Bloom!

THE VEILED SIBYL: _(Enthusiastically.)_ I’m a Bloomite and I glory in
it. I believe in him in spite of all. I’d give my life for him, the
funniest man on earth.

BLOOM: _(Winks at the bystanders.)_ I bet she’s a bonny lassie.

THEODORE PUREFOY: _(In fishingcap and oilskin jacket.)_ He employs a
mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature.

THE VEILED SIBYL: _(Stabs herself.)_ My hero god! _(She dies.)_

_(Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by
stabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening
their veins, refusing food, casting themselves under steamrollers, from
the top of Nelson’s Pillar, into the great vat of Guinness’s brewery,
asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads in gasovens, hanging
themselves in stylish garters, leaping from windows of different
storeys.)_

ALEXANDER J DOWIE: _(Violently.)_ Fellowchristians and antiBloomites,
the man called Bloom is from the roots of hell, a disgrace to christian
men. A fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat of
Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery, recalling the
cities of the plain, with a dissolute granddam. This vile hypocrite,
bronzed with infamy, is the white bull mentioned in the Apocalypse. A
worshipper of the Scarlet Woman, intrigue is the very breath of his
nostrils. The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him.
Caliban!

THE MOB: Lynch him! Roast him! He’s as bad as Parnell was. Mr Fox!

_(Mother Grogan throws her boot at Bloom. Several shopkeepers from
upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial
value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stale bread,
sheep’s tails, odd pieces of fat.)_

BLOOM: _(Excitedly.)_ This is midsummer madness, some ghastly joke
again. By heaven, I am guiltless as the unsunned snow! It was my
brother Henry. He is my double. He lives in number 2 Dolphin’s Barn.
Slander, the viper, has wrongfully accused me. Fellowcountrymen, _sgenl
inn ban bata coisde gan capall._ I call on my old friend, Dr Malachi
Mulligan, sex specialist, to give medical testimony on my behalf.

DR MULLIGAN: _(In motor jerkin, green motorgoggles on his brow.)_ Dr
Bloom is bisexually abnormal. He has recently escaped from Dr Eustace’s
private asylum for demented gentlemen. Born out of bedlock hereditary
epilepsy is present, the consequence of unbridled lust. Traces of
elephantiasis have been discovered among his ascendants. There are
marked symptoms of chronic exhibitionism. Ambidexterity is also latent.
He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in
consequence, a reformed rake, and has metal teeth. In consequence of a
family complex he has temporarily lost his memory and I believe him to
be more sinned against than sinning. I have made a pervaginal
examination and, after application of the acid test to 5427 anal,
axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be _virgo
intacta._

_(Bloom holds his high grade hat over his genital organs.)_

DR MADDEN: Hypsospadia is also marked. In the interest of coming
generations I suggest that the parts affected should be preserved in
spirits of wine in the national teratological museum.

DR CROTTHERS: I have examined the patient’s urine. It is albuminoid.
Salivation is insufficient, the patellar reflex intermittent.

DR PUNCH COSTELLO: The _fetor judaicus_ is most perceptible.

DR DIXON: _(Reads a bill of health.)_ Professor Bloom is a finished
example of the new womanly man. His moral nature is simple and lovable.
Many have found him a dear man, a dear person. He is a rather quaint
fellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the medical sense.
He has written a really beautiful letter, a poem in itself, to the
court missionary of the Reformed Priests’ Protection Society which
clears up everything. He is practically a total abstainer and I can
affirm that he sleeps on a straw litter and eats the most Spartan food,
cold dried grocer’s peas. He wears a hairshirt of pure Irish
manufacture winter and summer and scourges himself every Saturday. He
was, I understand, at one time a firstclass misdemeanant in Glencree
reformatory. Another report states that he was a very posthumous child.
I appeal for clemency in the name of the most sacred word our vocal
organs have ever been called upon to speak. He is about to have a baby.

_(General commotion and compassion. Women faint. A wealthy American
makes a street collection for Bloom. Gold and silver coins, blank
cheques, banknotes, jewels, treasury bonds, maturing bills of exchange,
I. O. U’s, wedding rings, watchchains, lockets, necklaces and bracelets
are rapidly collected.)_

BLOOM: O, I so want to be a mother.

MRS THORNTON: _(In nursetender’s gown.)_ Embrace me tight, dear. You’ll
be soon over it. Tight, dear.

_(Bloom embraces her tightly and bears eight male yellow and white
children. They appear on a redcarpeted staircase adorned with expensive
plants. All the octuplets are handsome, with valuable metallic faces,
wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern
languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences. Each
has his name printed in legible letters on his shirtfront: Nasodoro,
Goldfinger, Chrysostomos, Maindorée, Silversmile, Silberselber,
Vifargent, Panargyros. They are immediately appointed to positions of
high public trust in several different countries as managing directors
of banks, traffic managers of railways, chairmen of limited liability
companies, vicechairmen of hotel syndicates.)_

A VOICE: Bloom, are you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David?

BLOOM: _(Darkly.)_ You have said it.

BROTHER BUZZ: Then perform a miracle like Father Charles.

BANTAM LYONS: Prophesy who will win the Saint Leger.

_(Bloom walks on a net, covers his left eye with his left ear, passes
through several walls, climbs Nelson’s Pillar, hangs from the top ledge
by his eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters (shells included), heals
several sufferers from king’s evil, contracts his face so as to
resemble many historical personages, Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Byron, Wat
Tyler, Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry
Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold
Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot
simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back,
eclipses the sun by extending his little finger.)_

BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: _(In papal zouave’s uniform, steel cuirasses as
breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large profane
moustaches and brown paper mitre.) Leopoldi autem generatio._ Moses
begat Noah and Noah begat Eunuch and Eunuch begat O’Halloran and
O’Halloran begat Guggenheim and Guggenheim begat Agendath and Agendath
begat Netaim and Netaim begat Le Hirsch and Le Hirsch begat Jesurum and
Jesurum begat MacKay and MacKay begat Ostrolopsky and Ostrolopsky begat
Smerdoz and Smerdoz begat Weiss and Weiss begat Schwarz and Schwarz
begat Adrianopoli and Adrianopoli begat Aranjuez and Aranjuez begat
Lewy Lawson and Lewy Lawson begat Ichabudonosor and Ichabudonosor begat
O’Donnell Magnus and O’Donnell Magnus begat Christbaum and Christbaum
begat ben Maimun and ben Maimun begat Dusty Rhodes and Dusty Rhodes
begat Benamor and Benamor begat Jones-Smith and Jones-Smith begat
Savorgnanovich and Savorgnanovich begat Jasperstone and Jasperstone
begat Vingtetunieme and Vingtetunieme begat Szombathely and Szombathely
begat Virag and Virag begat Bloom _et vocabitur nomen eius Emmanuel._

A DEADHAND: _(Writes on the wall.)_ Bloom is a cod.

CRAB: _(In bushranger’s kit.)_ What did you do in the cattlecreep
behind Kilbarrack?

A FEMALE INFANT: _(Shakes a rattle.)_ And under Ballybough bridge?

A HOLLYBUSH: And in the devil’s glen?

BLOOM: _(Blushes furiously all over from frons to nates, three tears
falling from his left eye.)_ Spare my past.

THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: _(In bodycoats, kneebreeches, with
Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.)_ Sjambok him!

_(Bloom with asses’ ears seats himself in the pillory with crossed
arms, his feet protruding. He whistles_ Don Giovanni, a cenar teco.
_Artane orphans, joining hands, caper round him. Girls of the Prison
Gate Mission, joining hands, caper round in the opposite direction.)_

THE ARTANE ORPHANS:

     You hig, you hog, you dirty dog!
     You think the ladies love you!

 THE PRISON GATE GIRLS:

     If you see Kay
     Tell him he may
     See you in tea
     Tell him from me.

HORNBLOWER: _(In ephod and huntingcap, announces.)_ And he shall carry
the sins of the people to Azazel, the spirit which is in the
wilderness, and to Lilith, the nighthag. And they shall stone him and
defile him, yea, all from Agendath Netaim and from Mizraim, the land of
Ham.

_(All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Bloom. Many bonafide
travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and defile him. Mastiansky
and Citron approach in gaberdines, wearing long earlocks. They wag
their beards at Bloom.)_

MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: Belial! Laemlein of Istria, the false Messiah!
Abulafia! Recant!

_(George R Mesias, Bloom’s tailor, appears, a tailor’s goose under his
arm, presenting a bill.)_

MESIAS: To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings.

BLOOM: _(Rubs his hands cheerfully.)_ Just like old times. Poor Bloom!

_(Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded Iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his
shoulders the drowned corpse of his son, approaches the pillory.)_

REUBEN J: _(Whispers hoarsely.)_ The squeak is out. A split is gone for
the flatties. Nip the first rattler.

THE FIRE BRIGADE: Pflaap!

BROTHER BUZZ: _(Invests Bloom in a yellow habit with embroidery of
painted flames and high pointed hat. He places a bag of gunpowder round
his neck and hands him over to the civil power, saying.)_ Forgive him
his trespasses.

_(Lieutenant Myers of the Dublin Fire Brigade by general request sets
fire to Bloom. Lamentations.)_

THE CITIZEN: Thank heaven!

BLOOM: _(In a seamless garment marked I. H. S. stands upright amid
phoenix flames.)_ Weep not for me, O daughters of Erin.

_(He exhibits to Dublin reporters traces of burning. The daughters of
Erin, in black garments, with large prayerbooks and long lighted
candles in their hands, kneel down and pray.)_

THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN:

     Kidney of Bloom, pray for us
     Flower of the Bath, pray for us
     Mentor of Menton, pray for us
     Canvasser for the Freeman, pray for us
     Charitable Mason, pray for us
     Wandering Soap, pray for us
     Sweets of Sin, pray for us
     Music without Words, pray for us
     Reprover of the Citizen, pray for us
     Friend of all Frillies, pray for us
     Midwife Most Merciful, pray for us
     Potato Preservative against Plague and Pestilence, pray for us.

_(A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O’Brien, sings
the chorus from Handel’s Messiah_ Alleluia for the Lord God Omnipotent
reigneth, _accompanied on the organ by Joseph Glynn. Bloom becomes
mute, shrunken, carbonised.)_

ZOE: Talk away till you’re black in the face.

BLOOM: _(In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in the band, dusty brogues, an
emigrant’s red handkerchief bundle in his hand, leading a black bogoak
pig by a sugaun, with a smile in his eye.)_ Let me be going now, woman
of the house, for by all the goats in Connemara I’m after having the
father and mother of a bating. _(With a tear in his eye.)_ All
insanity. Patriotism, sorrow for the dead, music, future of the race.
To be or not to be. Life’s dream is o’er. End it peacefully. They can
live on. _(He gazes far away mournfully.)_ I am ruined. A few pastilles
of aconite. The blinds drawn. A letter. Then lie back to rest. _(He
breathes softly.)_ No more. I have lived. Fare. Farewell.

ZOE: _(Stiffly, her finger in her neckfillet.)_ Honest? Till the next
time. _(She sneers.)_ Suppose you got up the wrong side of the bed or
came too quick with your best girl. O, I can read your thoughts!

BLOOM: _(Bitterly.)_ Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and
bottle. I’m sick of it. Let everything rip.

ZOE: _(In sudden sulks.)_ I hate a rotter that’s insincere. Give a
bleeding whore a chance.

BLOOM: _(Repentantly.)_ I am very disagreeable. You are a necessary
evil. Where are you from? London?

ZOE: _(Glibly.)_ Hog’s Norton where the pigs plays the organs. I’m
Yorkshire born. _(She holds his hand which is feeling for her nipple.)_
I say, Tommy Tittlemouse. Stop that and begin worse. Have you cash for
a short time? Ten shillings?

BLOOM: _(Smiles, nods slowly.)_ More, houri, more.

ZOE: And more’s mother? _(She pats him offhandedly with velvet paws.)_
Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola? Come and I’ll
peel off.

BLOOM: _(Feeling his occiput dubiously with the unparalleled
embarrassment of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her peeled
pears.)_ Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew. The
greeneyed monster. _(Earnestly.)_ You know how difficult it is. I
needn’t tell you.

ZOE: _(Flattered.)_ What the eye can’t see the heart can’t grieve for.
_(She pats him.)_ Come.

BLOOM: Laughing witch! The hand that rocks the cradle.

ZOE: Babby!

BLOOM: _(In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with a caul of dark hair,
fixes big eyes on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles with a
chubby finger, his moist tongue lolling and lisping.)_ One two tlee:
tlee tlwo tlone.

THE BUCKLES: Love me. Love me not. Love me.

ZOE: Silent means consent. _(With little parted talons she captures his
hand, her forefinger giving to his palm the passtouch of secret
monitor, luring him to doom.)_ Hot hands cold gizzard.

_(He hesitates amid scents, music, temptations. She leads him towards
the steps, drawing him by the odour of her armpits, the vice of her
painted eyes, the rustle of her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the
lion reek of all the male brutes that have possessed her.)_

THE MALE BRUTES: _(Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in
their loosebox, faintly roaring, their drugged heads swaying to and
fro.)_ Good!

_(Zoe and Bloom reach the doorway where two sister whores are seated.
They examine him curiously from under their pencilled brows and smile
to his hasty bow. He trips awkwardly.)_

ZOE: _(Her lucky hand instantly saving him.)_ Hoopsa! Don’t fall
upstairs.

BLOOM: The just man falls seven times. _(He stands aside at the
threshold.)_ After you is good manners.

ZOE: Ladies first, gentlemen after.

_(She crosses the threshold. He hesitates. She turns and, holding out
her hands, draws him over. He hops. On the antlered rack of the hall
hang a man’s hat and waterproof. Bloom uncovers himself but, seeing
them, frowns, then smiles, preoccupied. A door on the return landing is
flung open. A man in purple shirt and grey trousers, brownsocked,
passes with an ape’s gait, his bald head and goatee beard upheld,
hugging a full waterjugjar, his twotailed black braces dangling at
heels. Averting his face quickly Bloom bends to examine on the
halltable the spaniel eyes of a running fox: then, his lifted head
sniffing, follows Zoe into the musicroom. A shade of mauve tissuepaper
dims the light of the chandelier. Round and round a moth flies,
colliding, escaping. The floor is covered with an oilcloth mosaic of
jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. Footmarks are stamped over it in
all senses, heel to heel, heel to hollow, toe to toe, feet locked, a
morris of shuffling feet without body phantoms, all in a scrimmage
higgledypiggledy. The walls are tapestried with a paper of yewfronds
and clear glades. In the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers.
Lynch squats crosslegged on the hearthrug of matted hair, his cap back
to the front. With a wand he beats time slowly. Kitty Ricketts, a bony
pallid whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a coral
wristlet, a chain purse in her hand, sits perched on the edge of the
table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the gilt mirror over
the mantelpiece. A tag of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her
jacket. Lynch indicates mockingly the couple at the piano.)_

KITTY: _(Coughs behind her hand.)_ She’s a bit imbecillic. _(She signs
with a waggling forefinger.)_ Blemblem. _(Lynch lifts up her skirt and
white petticoat with the wand. She settles them down quickly.)_ Respect
yourself. _(She hiccups, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which
her hair glows, red with henna.)_ O, excuse!

ZOE: More limelight, Charley. _(She goes to the chandelier and turns
the gas full cock.)_

KITTY: _(Peers at the gasjet.)_ What ails it tonight?

LYNCH: _(Deeply.)_ Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.

ZOE: Clap on the back for Zoe.

_(The wand in Lynch’s hand flashes: a brass poker. Stephen stands at
the pianola on which sprawl his hat and ashplant. With two fingers he
repeats once more the series of empty fifths. Florry Talbot, a blond
feeble goosefat whore in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry,
lolls spreadeagle in the sofacorner, her limp forearm pendent over the
bolster, listening. A heavy stye droops over her sleepy eyelid.)_

KITTY: _(Hiccups again with a kick of her horsed foot.)_ O, excuse!

ZOE: _(Promptly.)_ Your boy’s thinking of you. Tie a knot on your
shift.

_(Kitty Ricketts bends her head. Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over
her shoulder, back, arm, chair to the ground. Lynch lifts the curled
catterpillar 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 _Cœla enarrant gloriam Domini._
It is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and
mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round
David’s that is Circe’s or what am I saying Ceres’ altar and David’s
tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightness of
his almightiness. _Mais nom de nom,_ that is another pair of trousers.
_Jetez la gourme. Faut que jeunesse se passe. (He stops, points at
Lynch’s cap, smiles, laughs.)_ Which side is your knowledge bump?

THE CAP: _(With saturnine spleen.)_ Bah! It is because it is. Woman’s
reason. Jewgreek is greekjew. Extremes meet. Death is the highest form
of life. Bah!

STEPHEN: You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts,
mistakes. How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty?
Whetstone!

THE CAP: Bah!

STEPHEN: Here’s another for you. _(He frowns.)_ The reason is because
the fundamental and the dominant are separated by the greatest possible
interval which...

THE CAP: Which? Finish. You can’t.

STEPHEN: _(With an effort.)_ Interval which. Is the greatest possible
ellipse. Consistent with. The ultimate return. The octave. Which.

THE CAP: Which?

_(Outside the gramophone begins to blare_ The Holy City.)

STEPHEN: _(Abruptly.)_ What went forth to the ends of the world to
traverse not itself, God, the sun, Shakespeare, a commercial traveller,
having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self. Wait a
moment. Wait a second. Damn that fellow’s noise in the street. Self
which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. _Ecco!_

LYNCH: _(With a mocking whinny of laughter grins at Bloom and Zoe
Higgins.)_ What a learned speech, eh?

ZOE: _(Briskly.)_ God help your head, he knows more than you have
forgotten.

_(With obese stupidity Florry Talbot regards Stephen.)_

FLORRY: They say the last day is coming this summer.

KITTY: No!

ZOE: _(Explodes in laughter.)_ Great unjust God!

FLORRY: _(Offended.)_ Well, it was in the papers about Antichrist. O,
my foot’s tickling.

_(Ragged barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past,
yelling.)_

THE NEWSBOYS: Stop press edition. Result of the rockinghorse races. Sea
serpent in the royal canal. Safe arrival of Antichrist.

_(Stephen turns and sees Bloom.)_

STEPHEN: A time, times and half a time.

_(Reuben J 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 primigène! (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 falls from it,
proclaiming the consummation of all things and second coming of Elijah.
Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End
of the World, a twoheaded octopus in gillie’s kilts, busby and tartan
filibegs, whirls through the murk, head over heels, in the form of the
Three Legs of Man.)_

THE END OF THE WORLD: _(With a Scotch accent.)_ Wha’ll dance the keel
row, the keel row, the keel row?

_(Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah’s voice,
harsh as a corncrake’s, jars on high. Perspiring in a loose lawn
surplice with funnel sleeves he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum
about which the banner of old glory is draped. He thumps the parapet.)_

ELIJAH: No yapping, if you please, in this booth. Jake Crane, Creole
Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughing with your mouths
shut. Say, I am operating all this trunk line. Boys, do it now. God’s
time is 12.25. Tell mother you’ll be there. Rush your order and you
play a slick ace. Join on right here. Book through to eternity
junction, the nonstop run. Just one word more. Are you a god or a
doggone clod? If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready?
Florry Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ,
Lynch Christ, it’s up to you to sense that cosmic force. Have we cold
feet about the cosmos? No. Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism.
You have that something within, the higher self. You can rub shoulders
with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Are you all in this vibration? I
say you are. You once nobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to
heaven becomes a back number. You got me? It’s a lifebrightener, sure.
The hottest stuff ever was. It’s the whole pie with jam in. It’s just
the cutest snappiest line out. It is immense, supersumptuous. It
restores. It vibrates. I know and I am some vibrator. Joking apart and,
getting down to bedrock, A. J. Christ Dowie and the harmonial
philosophy, have you got that? O. K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth
street. Got me? That’s it. You call me up by sunphone any old time.
Bumboosers, save your stamps. _(He shouts.)_ Now then our glory song.
All join heartily in the singing. Encore! _(He sings.)_ Jeru...

THE GRAMOPHONE: _(Drowning his voice.)_ Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh...
_(The disc rasps gratingly against the needle.)_

THE THREE WHORES: _(Covering their ears, squawk.)_ Ahhkkk!

ELIJAH: _(In rolledup shirtsleeves, black in the face, shouts at the
top of his voice, his arms uplifted.)_ Big Brother up there, Mr
President, you hear what I done just been saying to you. Certainly, I
sort of believe strong in you, Mr President. I certainly am thinking
now Miss Higgins and Miss Ricketts got religion way inside them.
Certainly seems to me I don’t never see no wusser scared female than
the way you been, Miss Florry, just now as I done seed you. Mr
President, you come long and help me save our sisters dear. _(He winks
at his audience.)_ Our Mr President, he twig the whole lot and he aint
saying nothing.

KITTY-KATE: I forgot myself. In a weak moment I erred and did what I
did on Constitution hill. I was confirmed by the bishop and enrolled in
the brown scapular. My mother’s sister married a Montmorency. It was a
working plumber was my ruination when I was pure.

ZOE-FANNY: I let him larrup it into me for the fun of it.

FLORRY-TERESA: It was in consequence of a portwine beverage on top of
Hennessy’s three star. I was guilty with Whelan when he slipped into
the bed.

STEPHEN: In the beginning was the word, in the end the world without
end. Blessed be the eight beatitudes.

_(The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, Lenehan, Bannon,
Mulligan and Lynch in white surgical students’ gowns, four abreast,
goosestepping, tramp fast past in noisy marching.)_

THE BEATITUDES: _(Incoherently.)_ Beer beef battledog buybull businum
barnum buggerum bishop.

LYSTER: _(In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, says
discreetly.)_ He is our friend. I need not mention names. Seek thou the
light.

_(He corantos by. Best enters in hairdresser’s attire, shinily
laundered, his locks in curlpapers. He leads John Eglinton who wears a
mandarin’s kimono of Nankeen yellow, lizardlettered, and a high pagoda
hat.)_

BEST: _(Smiling, lifts the hat and displays a shaven poll from the
crown of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with an orange topknot.)_
I was just beautifying him, don’t you know. A thing of beauty, don’t
you know, Yeats says, or I mean, Keats says.

JOHN EGLINTON: _(Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it
towards a corner: with carping accent.)_ Esthetics and cosmetics are
for the boudoir. I am out for truth. Plain truth for a plain man.
Tanderagee wants the facts and means to get them.

_(In the cone of the searchlight behind the coalscuttle, ollave,
holyeyed, the bearded figure of Mananaun MacLir broods, chin on knees.
He rises slowly. A cold seawind blows from his druid mouth. About his
head writhe eels and elvers. He is encrusted with weeds and shells. His
right hand holds a bicycle pump. His left hand grasps a huge crayfish
by its two talons.)_

MANANAUN MACLIR: _(With a voice of waves.)_ Aum! Hek! Wal! Ak! Lub!
Mor! Ma! White yoghin of the gods. Occult pimander of Hermes
Trismegistos. _(With a voice of whistling seawind.)_ Punarjanam
patsypunjaub! I won’t have my leg pulled. It has been said by one:
beware the left, the cult of Shakti. _(With a cry of stormbirds.)_
Shakti Shiva, darkhidden Father! _(He smites with his bicycle pump the
crayfish in his left hand. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve
signs of the zodiac. He wails with the vehemence of the ocean.)_ Aum!
Baum! Pyjaum! I am the light of the homestead! I am the dreamery
creamery butter.

_(A skeleton judashand strangles the light. The green light wanes to
mauve. The gasjet wails whistling.)_

THE GASJET: Pooah! Pfuiiiiiii!

_(Zoe runs to the chandelier and, crooking her leg, adjusts the
mantle.)_

ZOE: Who has a fag as I’m here?

LYNCH: _(Tossing a cigarette on to the table.)_ Here.

ZOE: _(Her head perched aside in mock pride.)_ Is that the way to hand
the _pot_ to a lady? _(She stretches up to light the cigarette over the
flame, twirling it slowly, showing the brown tufts of her armpits.
Lynch with his poker lifts boldly a side of her slip. Bare from her
garters up her flesh appears under the sapphire a nixie’s green. She
puffs calmly at her cigarette.)_ Can you see the beautyspot of my
behind?

LYNCH: I’m not looking

ZOE: _(Makes sheep’s eyes.)_ No? You wouldn’t do a less thing. Would
you suck a lemon?

_(Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom,
then twists round towards him, pulling her slip free of the poker. Blue
fluid again flows over her flesh. Bloom stands, smiling desirously,
twirling his thumbs. Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her
spittle and, gazing in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Lipoti Virag,
basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the chimneyflue and
struts two steps to the left on gawky pink stilts. He is sausaged into
several overcoats and wears a brown macintosh under which he holds a
roll of parchment. In his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle
O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. On his head is perched an
Egyptian pshent. Two quills project over his ears.)_

VIRAG: _(Heels together, bows.)_ My name is Virag Lipoti, of
Szombathely. _(He coughs thoughtfully, drily.)_ Promiscuous nakedness
is much in evidence hereabouts, eh? Inadvertently her backview revealed
the fact that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of
which you are a particular devotee. The injection mark on the thigh I
hope you perceived? Good.

BLOOM: Granpapachi. But...

VIRAG: Number two on the other hand, she of the cherry rouge and
coiffeuse white, whose hair owes not a little to our tribal elixir of
gopherwood, is in walking costume and tightly staysed by her sit, I
should opine. Backbone in front, so to say. Correct me but I always
understood that the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses
of lingerie appealed to you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity.
In a word. Hippogriff. Am I right?

BLOOM: She is rather lean.

VIRAG: _(Not unpleasantly.)_ Absolutely! Well observed and those
pannier pockets of the skirt and slightly pegtop effect are devised to
suggest bunchiness of hip. A new purchase at some monster sale for
which a gull has been mulcted. Meretricious finery to deceive the eye.
Observe the attention to details of dustspecks. Never put on you
tomorrow what you can wear today. Parallax! _(With a nervous twitch of
his head.)_ Did you hear my brain go snap? Pollysyllabax!

BLOOM: _(An elbow resting in a hand, a forefinger against his cheek.)_
She seems sad.

VIRAG: _(Cynically, his weasel teeth bared yellow, draws down his left
eye with a finger and barks hoarsely.)_ Hoax! Beware of the flapper and
bogus mournful. Lily of the alley. All possess bachelor’s button
discovered by Rualdus Columbus. Tumble her. Columble her. Chameleon.
_(More genially.)_ Well then, permit me to draw your attention to item
number three. There is plenty of her visible to the naked eye. Observe
the mass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her skull. What ho, she
bumps! The ugly duckling of the party, longcasted and deep in keel.

BLOOM: _(Regretfully.)_ When you come out without your gun.

VIRAG: We can do you all brands, mild, medium and strong. Pay your
money, take your choice. How happy could you be with either...

BLOOM: With...?

VIRAG: _(His tongue upcurling.)_ Lyum! Look. Her beam is broad. She is
coated with quite a considerable layer of fat. Obviously mammal in
weight of bosom you remark that she has in front well to the fore two
protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the
noonday soupplate, while on her rere lower down are two additional
protuberances, suggestive of potent rectum and tumescent for palpation,
which leave nothing to be desired save compactness. Such fleshy parts
are the product of careful nurture. When coopfattened their livers
reach an elephantine size. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and
gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green tea endow them during
their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal
blubber. That suits your book, eh? Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker
after. Wallow in it. Lycopodium. _(His throat twitches.)_ Slapbang!
There he goes again.

BLOOM: The stye I dislike.

VIRAG: _(Arches his eyebrows.)_ Contact with a goldring, they say.
_Argumentum ad feminam_, as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece in
the consulship of Diplodocus and Ichthyosauros. For the rest Eve’s
sovereign remedy. Not for sale. Hire only. Huguenot. _(He twitches.)_
It is a funny sound. _(He coughs encouragingly.)_ But possibly it is
only a wart. I presume you shall have remembered what I will have
taught you on that head? Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg.

BLOOM: _(Reflecting.)_ Wheatenmeal with lycopodium and syllabax. This
searching ordeal. It has been an unusually fatiguing day, a chapter of
accidents. Wait. I mean, wartsblood spreads warts, you said...

VIRAG: _(Severely, his nose hardhumped, his side eye winking.)_ Stop
twirling your thumbs and have a good old thunk. See, you have
forgotten. Exercise your mnemotechnic. _La causa è santa_. Tara. Tara.
_(Aside.)_ He will surely remember.

BLOOM: Rosemary also did I understand you to say or willpower over
parasitic tissues. Then nay no I have an inkling. The touch of a
deadhand cures. Mnemo?

VIRAG: _(Excitedly.)_ I say so. I say so. E’en so. Technic. _(He taps
his parchmentroll energetically.)_ This book tells you how to act with
all descriptive particulars. Consult index for agitated fear of
aconite, melancholy of muriatic, priapic pulsatilla. Virag is going to
talk about amputation. Our old friend caustic. They must be starved.
Snip off with horsehair under the denned neck. But, to change the venue
to the Bulgar and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you
like or dislike women in male habiliments? _(With a dry snigger.)_ You
intended to devote an entire year to the study of the religious problem
and the summer months of 1886 to square the circle and win that
million. Pomegranate! From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.
Pyjamas, let us say? Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed? Or,
put we the case, those complicated combinations, camiknickers? _(He
crows derisively.)_ Keekeereekee!

_(Bloom surveys uncertainly the three whores then gazes at the veiled
mauve light, hearing the everflying moth.)_

BLOOM: I wanted then to have now concluded. Nightdress was never. Hence
this. But tomorrow is a new day will be. Past was is today. What now is
will then morrow as now was be past yester.

VIRAG: _(Prompts in a pig’s whisper.)_ Insects of the day spend their
brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the smell of the
inferiorly pulchritudinous female possessing extendified pudendal nerve
in dorsal region. Pretty Poll! _(His yellow parrotbeak gabbles
nasally.)_ They had a proverb in the Carpathians in or about the year
five thousand five hundred and fifty of our era. One tablespoonful of
honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first
choice malt vinegar. Bear’s buzz bothers bees. But of this apart. At
another time we may resume. We were very pleased, we others. _(He
coughs and, bending his brow, rubs his nose thoughtfully with a
scooping hand.)_ You shall find that these night insects follow the
light. An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable eye. For all
these knotty points see the seventeenth book of my Fundamentals of
Sexology or the Love Passion which Doctor L. B. says is the book
sensation of the year. Some, to example, there are again whose
movements are automatic. Perceive. That is his appropriate sun.
Nightbird nightsun nighttown. Chase me, Charley! _(He blows into
Bloom’s ear.)_ Buzz!

BLOOM: Bee or bluebottle too other day butting shadow on wall dazed
self then me wandered dazed down shirt good job I...

VIRAG: _(His face impassive, laughs in a rich feminine key.)_ Splendid!
Spanish fly in his fly or mustard plaster on his dibble. _(He gobbles
gluttonously with turkey wattles.)_ Bubbly jock! Bubbly jock! Where are
we? Open Sesame! Cometh forth! _(He unrolls his parchment rapidly and
reads, his glowworm’s nose running backwards over the letters which he
claws.)_ Stay, good friend. I bring thee thy answer. Redbank oysters
will shortly be upon us. I’m the best o’cook. Those succulent bivalves
may help us and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged through
mister omnivorous porker, were unsurpassed in cases of nervous debility
or viragitis. Though they stink yet they sting. _(He wags his head with
cackling raillery.)_ Jocular. With my eyeglass in my ocular. _(He
sneezes.)_ Amen!

BLOOM: _(Absently.)_ Ocularly woman’s bivalve case is worse. Always
open sesame. The cloven sex. Why they fear vermin, creeping things. Yet
Eve and the serpent contradicts. Not a historical fact. Obvious analogy
to my idea. Serpents too are gluttons for woman’s milk. Wind their way
through miles of omnivorous forest to sucksucculent her breast dry.
Like those bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantuliasis.

VIRAG: _(His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes stonily forlornly
closed, psalms in outlandish monotone.)_ That the cows with their those
distended udders that they have been the the known...

BLOOM: I am going to scream. I beg your pardon. Ah? So. _(He repeats.)_
Spontaneously to seek out the saurian’s lair in order to entrust their
teats to his avid suction. Ant milks aphis. _(Profoundly.)_ Instinct
rules the world. In life. In death.

VIRAG: _(Head askew, arches his back and hunched wingshoulders, peers
at the moth out of blear bulged eyes, points a horning claw and
cries.)_ Who’s moth moth? Who’s dear Gerald? Dear Ger, that you? O
dear, he is Gerald. O, I much fear he shall be most badly burned. Will
some pleashe pershon not now impediment so catastrophics mit agitation
of firstclass tablenumpkin? _(He mews.)_ Puss puss puss puss! _(He
sighs, draws back and stares sideways down with dropping underjaw.)_
Well, well. He doth rest anon. (He snaps his jaws suddenly on the air.)

THE MOTH:

     I’m a tiny tiny thing
     Ever flying in the spring
     Round and round a ringaring.
     Long ago I was a king
     Now I do this kind of thing
     On the wing, on the wing!
     Bing!

_(He rushes against the mauve shade, flapping noisily.)_ Pretty pretty
pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats.

_(From left upper entrance with two gliding steps Henry Flower comes
forward to left front centre. He wears a dark mantle and drooping
plumed sombrero. He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a
longstemmed bamboo Jacob’s pipe, its clay bowl fashioned as a female
head. He wears dark velvet hose and silverbuckled pumps. He has the
romantic Saviour’s face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache.
His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the tenor Mario, prince
of Candia. He settles down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips
with a passage of his amorous tongue.)_

HENRY: _(In a low dulcet voice, touching the strings of his guitar.)_
There is a flower that bloometh.

_(Virag truculent, his jowl set, stares at the lamp. Grave Bloom
regards Zoe’s neck. Henry gallant turns with pendant dewlap to the
piano.)_

STEPHEN: _(To himself.)_ Play with your eyes shut. Imitate pa. Filling
my belly with husks of swine. Too much of this. I will arise and go to
my. Expect this is the. Steve, thou art in a parlous way. Must visit
old Deasy or telegraph. Our interview of this morning has left on me a
deep impression. Though our ages. Will write fully tomorrow. I’m
partially drunk, by the way. _(He touches the keys again.)_ Minor chord
comes now. Yes. Not much however.

_(Almidano Artifoni holds out a batonroll of music with vigorous
moustachework.)_

ARTIFONI: _Ci rifletta. Lei rovina tutto._

FLORRY: Sing us something. Love’s old sweet song.

STEPHEN: No voice. I am a most finished artist. Lynch, did I show you
the letter about the lute?

FLORRY: _(Smirking.)_ The bird that can sing and won’t sing.

_(The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two Oxford dons
with lawnmowers, appear in the window embrasure. Both are masked with
Matthew Arnold’s face.)_

PHILIP SOBER: Take a fool’s advice. All is not well. Work it out with
the buttend of a pencil, like a good young idiot. Three pounds twelve
you got, two notes, one sovereign, two crowns, if youth but knew.
Mooney’s en ville, Mooney’s sur mer, the Moira, Larchet’s, Holles
street hospital, Burke’s. Eh? I am watching you.

PHILIP DRUNK: _(Impatiently.)_ Ah, bosh, man. Go to hell! I paid my
way. If I could only find out about octaves. Reduplication of
personality. Who was it told me his name? _(His lawnmower begins to
purr.)_ Aha, yes. _Zoe mou sas agapo_. Have a notion I was here before.
When was it not Atkinson his card I have somewhere. Mac Somebody.
Unmack I have it. He told me about, hold on, Swinburne, was it, no?

FLORRY: And the song?

STEPHEN: Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

FLORRY: Are you out of Maynooth? You’re like someone I knew once.

STEPHEN: Out of it now. _(To himself.)_ Clever.

PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: _(Their lawnmowers purring with a
rigadoon of grasshalms.)_ Clever ever. Out of it out of it. By the bye
have you the book, the thing, the ashplant? Yes, there it, yes.
Cleverever outofitnow. Keep in condition. Do like us.

ZOE: There was a priest down here two nights ago to do his bit of
business with his coat buttoned up. You needn’t try to hide, I says to
him. I know you’ve a Roman collar.

VIRAG: Perfectly logical from his standpoint. Fall of man. _(Harshly,
his pupils waxing.)_ To hell with the pope! Nothing new under the sun.
I am the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. Why
I left the church of Rome. Read the Priest, the Woman and the
Confessional. Penrose. Flipperty Jippert. _(He wriggles.)_ Woman,
undoing with sweet pudor her belt of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni
to man’s lingam. Short time after man presents woman with pieces of
jungle meat. Woman shows joy and covers herself with featherskins. Man
loves her yoni fiercely with big lingam, the stiff one. _(He cries.)
Coactus volui._ Then giddy woman will run about. Strong man grapses
woman’s wrist. Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Man, now fierce angry,
strikes woman’s fat yadgana. _(He chases his tail.)_ Piffpaff! Popo!
_(He stops, sneezes.)_ Pchp! _(He worries his butt.)_ Prrrrrht!

LYNCH: I hope you gave the good father a penance. Nine glorias for
shooting a bishop.

ZOE: _(Spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils.)_ He couldn’t get a
connection. Only, you know, sensation. A dry rush.

BLOOM: Poor man!

ZOE: _(Lightly.)_ Only for what happened him.

BLOOM: How?

VIRAG: _(A diabolic rictus of black luminosity contracting his visage,
cranes his scraggy neck forward. He lifts a mooncalf nozzle and howls.)
Verfluchte Goim!_ He had a father, forty fathers. He never existed. Pig
God! He had two left feet. He was Judas Iacchia, a Libyan eunuch, the
pope’s bastard. _(He leans out on tortured forepaws, elbows bent rigid,
his eye agonising in his flat skullneck and yelps over the mute
world.)_ A son of a whore. Apocalypse.

KITTY: And Mary Shortall that was in the lock with the pox she got from
Jimmy Pidgeon in the blue caps had a child off him that couldn’t
swallow and was smothered with the convulsions in the mattress and we
all subscribed for the funeral.

PHILIP DRUNK: _(Gravely.) Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position,
Philippe?_

PHILIP SOBER: _(Gaily.) C’était le sacré 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, fatpapped, stands
forth, his loins and genitals tightened into a pair of black bathing
bagslops.)_

BEN DOLLARD: _(Nakkering castanet bones in his huge padded paws, yodels
jovially in base barreltone.)_ When love absorbs my ardent soul.

_(The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the
ringkeepers and the ropes and mob him with open arms.)_

THE VIRGINS: _(Gushingly.)_ Big Ben! Ben my Chree!

A VOICE: Hold that fellow with the bad breeches.

BEN DOLLARD: _(Smites his thigh in abundant laughter.)_ Hold him now.

HENRY: _(Caressing on his breast a severed female head, murmurs.)_
Thine heart, mine love. _(He plucks his lutestrings.)_ When first I
saw...

VIRAG: _(Sloughing his skins, his multitudinous plumage moulting.)_
Rats! _(He yawns, showing a coalblack throat, and closes his jaws by an
upward push of his parchmentroll.)_ After having said which I took my
departure. Farewell. Fare thee well. _Dreck!_

_(Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a pocketcomb
and gives a cow’s lick to his hair. Steered by his rapier, he glides to
the door, his wild harp slung behind him. Virag reaches the door in two
ungainly stilthops, his tail cocked, and deftly claps sideways on the
wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with his head.)_

THE FLYBILL: K. 11. Post No Bills. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks.

HENRY: All is lost now.

_(Virag unscrews his head in a trice and holds it under his arm.)_

VIRAG’S HEAD: Quack!

_(Exeunt severally.)_

STEPHEN: _(Over his shoulder to Zoe.)_ You would have preferred the
fighting parson who founded the protestant error. But beware
Antisthenes, the dog sage, and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. The
agony in the closet.

LYNCH: All one and the same God to her.

STEPHEN: _(Devoutly.)_ And sovereign Lord of all things.

FLORRY: _(To Stephen.)_ I’m sure you’re a spoiled priest. Or a monk.

LYNCH: He is. A cardinal’s son.

STEPHEN: Cardinal sin. Monks of the screw.

_(His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland,
appears in the doorway, dressed in red soutane, sandals and socks.
Seven dwarf simian acolytes, also in red, cardinal sins, uphold his
train, peeping under it. He wears a battered silk hat sideways on his
head. His thumbs are stuck in his armpits and his palms outspread.
Round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his breast in a
corkscrew cross. Releasing his thumbs, he invokes grace from on high
with large wave gestures and proclaims with bloated pomp:)_

THE CARDINAL:

     Conservio lies captured
     He lies in the lowest dungeon
     With manacles and chains around his limbs
     Weighing upwards of three tons.

_(He looks at all for a moment, his right eye closed tight, his left
cheek puffed out. Then, unable to repress his merriment, he rocks to
and fro, arms akimbo, and sings with broad rollicking humour:)_

     O, the poor little fellow
     Hihihihihis legs they were yellow
     He was plump, fat and heavy and brisk as a snake
     But some bloody savage
     To graize his white cabbage
     He murdered Nell Flaherty’s duckloving drake.

_(A multitude of midges swarms white over his robe. He scratches
himself with crossed arms at his ribs, grimacing, and exclaims:)_

I’m suffering the agony of the damned. By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to
Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous. If they were they’d
walk me off the face of the bloody globe.

_(His head aslant he blesses curtly with fore and middle fingers,
imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying his
hat from side to side, shrinking quickly to the size of his
trainbearers. The dwarf acolytes, giggling, peeping, nudging, ogling,
Easterkissing, zigzag behind him. His voice is heard mellow from afar,
merciful male, melodious:)_

     Shall carry my heart to thee,
     Shall carry my heart to thee,
     And the breath of the balmy night
     Shall carry my heart to thee!

 _(The trick doorhandle turns.)_

THE DOORHANDLE: Theeee!

ZOE: The devil is in that door.

_(A male form passes down the creaking staircase and is heard taking
the waterproof and hat from the rack. Bloom starts forward
involuntarily and, half closing the door as he passes, takes the
chocolate from his pocket and offers it nervously to Zoe.)_

ZOE: _(Sniffs his hair briskly.)_ Hmmm! Thank your mother for the
rabbits. I’m very fond of what I like.

BLOOM: _(Hearing a male voice in talk with the whores on the doorstep,
pricks his ears.)_ If it were he? After? Or because not? Or the double
event?

ZOE: _(Tears open the silverfoil.)_ Fingers was made before forks.
_(She breaks off and nibbles a piece, gives a piece to Kitty Ricketts
and then turns kittenishly to Lynch.)_ No objection to French lozenges?
_(He nods. She taunts him.)_ Have it now or wait till you get it? _(He
opens his mouth, his head cocked. She whirls the prize in left circle.
His head follows. She whirls it back in right circle. He eyes her.)_
Catch!

_(She tosses a piece. With an adroit snap he catches it and bites it
through with a crack.)_

KITTY: _(Chewing.)_ The engineer I was with at the bazaar does have
lovely ones. Full of the best liqueurs. And the viceroy was there with
his lady. The gas we had on the Toft’s hobbyhorses. I’m giddy still.

BLOOM: _(In Svengali’s fur overcoat, with folded arms and Napoleonic
forelock, frowns in ventriloquial exorcism with piercing eagle glance
towards the door. Then rigid with left foot advanced he makes a swift
pass with impelling fingers and gives the sign of past master, drawing
his right arm downwards from his left shoulder.)_ Go, go, go, I conjure
you, whoever you are!

_(A male cough and tread are heard passing through the mist outside.
Bloom’s features relax. He places a hand in his waistcoat, posing
calmly. Zoe offers him chocolate.)_

BLOOM: _(Solemnly.)_ Thanks.

ZOE: Do as you’re bid. Here!

_(A firm heelclacking tread is heard on the stairs.)_

BLOOM: _(Takes the chocolate.)_ Aphrodisiac? Tansy and pennyroyal. But
I bought it. Vanilla calms or? Mnemo. Confused light confuses memory.
Red influences lupus. Colours affect women’s characters, any they have.
This black makes me sad. Eat and be merry for tomorrow. _(He eats.)_
Influence taste too, mauve. But it is so long since I. Seems new.
Aphro. That priest. Must come. Better late than never. Try truffles at
Andrews.

_(The door opens. Bella Cohen, a massive whoremistress, enters. She is
dressed in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the hem with
tasselled selvedge, and cools herself flirting a black horn fan like
Minnie Hauck in_ Carmen. _On her left hand are wedding and keeper
rings. Her eyes are deeply carboned. She has a sprouting moustache. Her
olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted
nostrils. She has large pendant beryl eardrops.)_

BELLA: My word! I’m all of a mucksweat.

_(She glances round her at the couples. Then her eyes rest on Bloom
with hard insistence. Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated
faceneck and embonpoint. Her falcon eyes glitter.)_

THE FAN: _(Flirting quickly, then slowly.)_ Married, I see.

BLOOM: Yes. Partly, I have mislaid...

THE FAN: _(Half opening, then closing.)_ And the missus is master.
Petticoat government.

BLOOM: _(Looks down with a sheepish grin.)_ That is so.

THE FAN: _(Folding together, rests against her left eardrop.)_ Have you
forgotten me?

BLOOM: 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 we?

_(Bella approaches, gently tapping with the fan.)_

BLOOM: _(Wincing.)_ Powerful being. In my eyes read that slumber which
women love.

THE FAN: _(Tapping.)_ We have met. You are mine. It is fate.

BLOOM: _(Cowed.)_ Exuberant female. Enormously I desiderate your
domination. I am exhausted, abandoned, no more young. I stand, so to
speak, with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before
the too late box of the general postoffice of human life. The door and
window open at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per
second according to the law of falling bodies. I have felt this instant
a twinge of sciatica in my left glutear muscle. It runs in our family.
Poor dear papa, a widower, was a regular barometer from it. He believed
in animal heat. A skin of tabby lined his winter waistcoat. Near the
end, remembering king David and the Sunamite, he shared his bed with
Athos, faithful after death. A dog’s spittle as you probably... _(He
winces.)_ Ah!

RICHIE GOULDING: _(Bagweighted, passes the door.)_ Mocking is catch.
Best value in Dub. Fit for a prince’s. Liver and kidney.

THE FAN: _(Tapping.)_ All things end. Be mine. Now.

BLOOM: _(Undecided.)_ All now? I should not have parted with my
talisman. Rain, exposure at dewfall on the searocks, a peccadillo at my
time of life. Every phenomenon has a natural cause.

THE FAN: _(Points downwards slowly.)_ You may.

BLOOM: _(Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace.)_ We
are observed.

THE FAN: _(Points downwards quickly.)_ You must.

BLOOM: _(With desire, with reluctance.)_ I can make a true black knot.
Learned when I served my time and worked the mail order line for
Kellett’s. Experienced hand. Every knot says a lot. Let me. In
courtesy. I knelt once before today. Ah!

_(Bella raises her gown slightly and, steadying her pose, lifts to the
edge of a chair a plump buskined hoof and a full pastern, silksocked.
Bloom, stifflegged, aging, bends over her hoof and with gentle fingers
draws out and in her laces.)_

BLOOM: _(Murmurs lovingly.)_ To be a shoefitter in Manfield’s was my
love’s young dream, the darling joys of sweet buttonhooking, to lace up
crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so
incredibly impossibly small, of Clyde Road ladies. Even their wax model
Raymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick of rhubarb
toe, as worn in Paris.

THE HOOF: Smell my hot goathide. Feel my royal weight.

BLOOM: _(Crosslacing.)_ Too tight?

THE HOOF: If you bungle, Handy Andy, I’ll kick your football for you.

BLOOM: Not to lace the wrong eyelet as I did the night of the bazaar
dance. Bad luck. Hook in wrong tache of her... person you mentioned.
That night she met... Now!

_(He knots the lace. Bella places her foot on the floor. Bloom raises
his head. Her heavy face, her eyes strike him in midbrow. His eyes grow
dull, darker and pouched, his nose thickens.)_

BLOOM: _(Mumbles.)_ Awaiting your further orders we remain,
gentlemen,...

BELLO: _(With a hard basilisk stare, in a baritone voice.)_ Hound of
dishonour!

BLOOM: _(Infatuated.)_ Empress!

BELLO: _(His heavy cheekchops sagging.)_ Adorer of the adulterous rump!

BLOOM: _(Plaintively.)_ Hugeness!

BELLO: Dungdevourer!

BLOOM: _(With sinews semiflexed.)_ Magmagnificence!

BELLO: Down! _(He taps her on the shoulder with his fan.)_ Incline feet
forward! Slide left foot one pace back! You will fall. You are falling.
On the hands down!

BLOOM: _(Her eyes upturned in the sign of admiration, closing, yaps.)_
Truffles!

_(With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting,
snuffling, rooting at his feet: then lies, shamming dead, with eyes
shut tight, trembling eyelids, bowed upon the ground in the attitude of
most excellent master.)_

BELLO: _(With bobbed hair, purple gills, fat moustache rings round his
shaven mouth, in mountaineer’s puttees, green silverbuttoned coat,
sport skirt and alpine hat with moorcock’s feather, his hands stuck
deep in his breeches pockets, places his heel on her neck and grinds it
in.)_ Footstool! Feel my entire weight. Bow, bondslave, before the
throne of your despot’s glorious heels so glistening in their proud
erectness.

BLOOM: _(Enthralled, bleats.)_ I promise never to disobey.

BELLO: _(Laughs loudly.)_ Holy smoke! You little know what’s in store
for you. I’m the Tartar to settle your little lot and break you in!
I’ll bet Kentucky cocktails all round I shame it out of you, old son.
Cheek me, I dare you. If you do tremble in anticipation of heel
discipline to be inflicted in gym costume.

_(Bloom creeps under the sofa and peers out through the fringe.)_

ZOE: _(Widening her slip to screen her.)_ She’s not here.

BLOOM: _(Closing her eyes.)_ She’s not here.

FLORRY: _(Hiding her with her gown.)_ She didn’t mean it, Mr Bello.
She’ll be good, sir.

KITTY: Don’t be too hard on her, Mr Bello. Sure you won’t, ma’amsir.

BELLO: _(Coaxingly.)_ Come, ducky dear, I want a word with you,
darling, just to administer correction. Just a little heart to heart
talk, sweety. _(Bloom puts out her timid head.)_ There’s a good girly
now. _(Bello grabs her hair violently and drags her forward.)_ I only
want to correct you for your own good on a soft safe spot. How’s that
tender behind? O, ever so gently, pet. Begin to get ready.

BLOOM: _(Fainting.)_ Don’t tear my...

BELLO: _(Savagely.)_ The nosering, the pliers, the bastinado, the
hanging hook, the knout I’ll make you kiss while the flutes play like
the Nubian slave of old. You’re in for it this time! I’ll make you
remember me for the balance of your natural life. _(His forehead veins
swollen, his face congested.)_ I shall sit on your ottoman saddleback
every morning after my thumping good breakfast of Matterson’s fat
hamrashers and a bottle of Guinness’s porter. _(He belches.)_ And suck
my thumping good Stock Exchange cigar while I read the _Licensed
Victualler’s Gazette_. Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and
skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling
from the baking tin basted and baked like sucking pig with rice and
lemon or currant sauce. It will hurt you. _(He twists her arm. Bloom
squeals, turning turtle.)_

BLOOM: Don’t be cruel, nurse! Don’t!

BELLO: _(Twisting.)_ Another!

BLOOM: _(Screams.)_ O, it’s hell itself! Every nerve in my body aches
like mad!

BELLO: _(Shouts.)_ Good, by the rumping jumping general! That’s the
best bit of news I heard these six weeks. Here, don’t keep me waiting,
damn you! _(He slaps her face.)_

BLOOM: _(Whimpers.)_ You’re after hitting me. I’ll tell...

BELLO: Hold him down, girls, till I squat on him.

ZOE: Yes. Walk on him! I will.

FLORRY: I will. Don’t be greedy.

KITTY: No, me. Lend him to me.

_(The brothel cook, Mrs Keogh, wrinkled, greybearded, in a greasy bib,
men’s grey and green socks and brogues, floursmeared, a rollingpin
stuck with raw pastry in her bare red arm and hand, appears at the
door.)_

MRS KEOGH: _(Ferociously.)_ Can I help? _(They hold and pinion Bloom.)_

BELLO: _(Squats with a grunt on Bloom’s upturned face, puffing
cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg.)_ I see Keating Clay is elected
vicechairman of the Richmond asylum and by the by Guinness’s preference
shares are at sixteen three quarters. Curse me for a fool that didn’t
buy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about. Just my infernal luck,
curse it. And that Goddamned outsider _Throwaway_ at twenty to one.
_(He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom’s ear.)_ Where’s that
Goddamned cursed ashtray?

BLOOM: _(Goaded, buttocksmothered.)_ O! O! Monsters! Cruel one!

BELLO: Ask for that every ten minutes. Beg. Pray for it as you never
prayed before. _(He thrusts out a figged fist and foul cigar.)_ Here,
kiss that. Both. Kiss. _(He throws a leg astride and, pressing with
horseman’s knees, calls in a hard voice.)_ Gee up! A cockhorse to
Banbury cross. I’ll ride him for the Eclipse stakes. _(He bends
sideways and squeezes his mount’s testicles roughly, shouting.)_ Ho!
Off we pop! I’ll nurse you in proper fashion. _(He horserides
cockhorse, leaping in the, in the saddle.)_ The lady goes a pace a pace
and the coachman goes a trot a trot and the gentleman goes a gallop a
gallop a gallop a gallop.

FLORRY: _(Pulls at Bello.)_ Let me on him now. You had enough. I asked
before you.

ZOE: _(Pulling at Florry.)_ Me. Me. Are you not finished with him yet,
suckeress?

BLOOM: _(Stifling.)_ Can’t.

BELLO: Well, I’m not. Wait. _(He holds in his breath.)_ Curse it. Here.
This bung’s about burst. _(He uncorks himself behind: then, contorting
his features, farts loudly.)_ Take that! _(He recorks himself.)_ Yes,
by Jingo, sixteen three quarters.

BLOOM: _(A sweat breaking out over him.)_ Not man. _(He sniffs.)_
Woman.

BELLO: _(Stands up.)_ No more blow hot and cold. What you longed for
has come to pass. Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a
thing under the yoke. Now for your punishment frock. You will shed your
male garments, you understand, Ruby Cohen? and don the shot silk
luxuriously rustling over head and shoulders. And quickly too!

BLOOM: _(Shrinks.)_ Silk, mistress said! O crinkly! scrapy! Must I
tiptouch it with my nails?

BELLO: _(Points to his whores.)_ As they are now so will you be,
wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with smoothshaven
armpits. Tape measurements will be taken next your skin. You will be
laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with
whalebone busk to the diamondtrimmed pelvis, the absolute outside edge,
while your figure, plumper than when at large, will be restrained in
nettight frocks, pretty two ounce petticoats and fringes and things
stamped, of course, with my houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie for
Alice and nice scent for Alice. Alice will feel the pullpull. Martha
and Mary will be a little chilly at first in such delicate thighcasing
but the frilly flimsiness of lace round your bare knees will remind
you...

BLOOM: _(A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, mustard hair and large
male hands and nose, leering mouth.)_ I tried her things on only twice,
a small prank, in Holles street. When we were hard up I washed them to
save the laundry bill. My own shirts I turned. It was the purest
thrift.

BELLO: _(Jeers.)_ Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh? And showed
off coquettishly in your domino at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds
your unskirted thighs and hegoat’s udders in various poses of
surrender, eh? Ho! ho! I have to laugh! That secondhand black operatop
shift and short trunkleg naughties all split up the stitches at her
last rape that Mrs Miriam Dandrade sold you from the Shelbourne hotel,
eh?

BLOOM: Miriam. Black. Demimondaine.

BELLO: _(Guffaws.)_ Christ Almighty it’s too tickling, this! You were a
nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgate hairs and lay
swooning in the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about to be
violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Philip Augustus Blockwell M.
P., signor Laci Daremo, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the liftboy,
Henri Fleury of Gordon Bennett fame, Sheridan, the quadroon Croesus,
the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid
Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton. _(He guffaws
again.)_ Christ, wouldn’t it make a Siamese cat laugh?

BLOOM: _(Her hands and features working.)_ It was Gerald converted me
to be a true corsetlover when I was female impersonator in the High
School play _Vice Versa_. It was dear Gerald. He got that kink,
fascinated by sister’s stays. Now dearest Gerald uses pinky greasepaint
and gilds his eyelids. Cult of the beautiful.

BELLO: _(With wicked glee.)_ Beautiful! Give us a breather! When you
took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on
the smoothworn throne.

BLOOM: Science. To compare the various joys we each enjoy.
_(Earnestly.)_ And really it’s better the position... because often I
used to wet...

BELLO: _(Sternly.)_ No insubordination! The sawdust is there in the
corner for you. I gave you strict instructions, didn’t I? Do it
standing, sir! I’ll teach you to behave like a jinkleman! If I catch a
trace on your swaddles. Aha! By the ass of the Dorans you’ll find I’m a
martinet. The sins of your past are rising against you. Many. Hundreds.

THE SINS OF THE PAST: _(In a medley of voices.)_ He went through a form
of clandestine marriage with at least one woman in the shadow of the
Black church. Unspeakable messages he telephoned mentally to Miss Dunn
at an address in D’Olier street while he presented himself indecently
to the instrument in the callbox. By word and deed he frankly
encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an
unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises. In five public
conveniences he wrote pencilled messages offering his nuptial partner
to all strongmembered males. And by the offensively smelling vitriol
works did he not pass night after night by loving courting couples to
see if and what and how much he could see? Did he not lie in bed, the
gross boar, gloating over a nauseous fragment of wellused toilet paper
presented to him by a nasty harlot, stimulated by gingerbread and a
postal order?

BELLO: _(Whistles loudly.)_ Say! What was the most revolting piece of
obscenity in all your career of crime? Go the whole hog. Puke it out!
Be candid for once.

_(Mute inhuman faces throng forward, leering, vanishing, gibbering,
Booloohoom. Poldy Kock, Bootlaces a penny, Cassidy’s hag, blind
stripling, Larry Rhinoceros, the girl, the woman, the whore, the other,
the...)_

BLOOM: Don’t ask me! Our mutual faith. Pleasants street. I only thought
the half of the... I swear on my sacred oath...

BELLO: _(Peremptorily.)_ Answer. Repugnant wretch! I insist on knowing.
Tell me something to amuse me, smut or a bloody good ghoststory or a
line of poetry, quick, quick, quick! Where? How? What time? With how
many? I give you just three seconds. One! Two! Thr...

BLOOM: _(Docile, gurgles.)_ I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant...

BELLO: _(Imperiously.)_ O, get out, you skunk! Hold your tongue! Speak
when you’re spoken to.

BLOOM: _(Bows.)_ Master! Mistress! Mantamer!

_(He lifts his arms. His bangle bracelets fall.)_

BELLO: _(Satirically.)_ By day you will souse and bat our smelling
underclothes also when we ladies are unwell, and swab out our latrines
with dress pinned up and a dishclout tied to your tail. Won’t that be
nice? _(He places a ruby ring on her finger.)_ And there now! With this
ring I thee own. Say, thank you, mistress.

BLOOM: Thank you, mistress.

BELLO: You will make the beds, get my tub ready, empty the pisspots in
the different rooms, including old Mrs Keogh’s the cook’s, a sandy one.
Ay, and rinse the seven of them well, mind, or lap it up like
champagne. Drink me piping hot. Hop! You will dance attendance or I’ll
lecture you on your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and spank your bare bot right
well, miss, with the hairbrush. You’ll be taught the error of your
ways. At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear
fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately
scented fingertips. For such favours knights of old laid down their
lives. _(He chuckles.)_ My boys will be no end charmed to see you so
ladylike, the colonel, above all, when they come here the night before
the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. First I’ll
have a go at you myself. A man I know on the turf named Charles Alberta
Marsh (I was in bed with him just now and another gentleman out of the
Hanaper and Petty Bag office) is on the lookout for a maid of all work
at a short knock. Swell the bust. Smile. Droop shoulders. What offers?
_(He points.)_ For that lot. Trained by owner to fetch and carry,
basket in mouth. _(He bares his arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom’s
vulva.)_ There’s fine depth for you! What, boys? That give you a
hardon? _(He shoves his arm in a bidder’s face.)_ Here wet the deck and
wipe it round!

A BIDDER: A florin.

_(Dillon’s lacquey rings his handbell.)_

THE LACQUEY: Barang!

A VOICE: One and eightpence too much.

CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: Must be virgin. Good breath. Clean.

BELLO: _(Gives a rap with his gavel.)_ Two bar. Rockbottom figure and
cheap at the price. Fourteen hands high. Touch and examine 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: _(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 _blasé_ man about town. Learn the smooth mincing walk
on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the Grecian bend with provoking croup,
the thighs fluescent, knees modestly kissing. Bring all your powers of
fascination to bear on them. Pander to their Gomorrahan vices.

BLOOM: _(Bends his blushing face into his armpit and simpers with
forefinger in mouth.)_ O, I know what you’re hinting at now!

BELLO: What else are you good for, an impotent thing like you? _(He
stoops and, peering, pokes with his fan rudely under the fat suet folds
of Bloom’s haunches.)_ Up! Up! Manx cat! What have we here? Where’s
your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, cockyolly? Sing,
birdy, sing. It’s as limp as a boy of six’s doing his pooly behind a
cart. Buy a bucket or sell your pump. _(Loudly.)_ Can you do a man’s
job?

BLOOM: Eccles street...

BELLO: _(Sarcastically.)_ I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for the world
but there’s a man of brawn in possession there. The tables are turned,
my gay young fellow! He is something like a fullgrown outdoor man. Well
for you, you muff, if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and
warts all over it. He shot his bolt, I can tell you! Foot to foot, knee
to knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! He’s no eunuch. A shock of red
hair he has sticking out of him behind like a furzebush! Wait for nine
months, my lad! Holy ginger, it’s kicking and coughing up and down in
her guts already! That makes you wild, don’t it? Touches the spot? _(He
spits in contempt.)_ Spittoon!

BLOOM: I was indecently treated, I... Inform the police. Hundred
pounds. Unmentionable. I...

BELLO: Would if you could, lame duck. A downpour we want not your
drizzle.

BLOOM: To drive me mad! Moll! I forgot! Forgive! Moll... We... Still...

BELLO: _(Ruthlessly.)_ No, Leopold Bloom, all is changed by woman’s
will since you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow your night of twenty
years. Return and see.

_(Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the wold.)_

SLEEPY HOLLOW: Rip van Wink! Rip van Winkle!

BLOOM: _(In tattered mocassins with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing,
fingertipping, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the
diamond panes, cries out.)_ I see her! It’s she! The first night at Mat
Dillon’s! But that dress, the green! And her hair is dyed gold and
he...

BELLO: _(Laughs mockingly.)_ That’s your daughter, you owl, with a
Mullingar student.

_(Milly Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, her blue scarf
in the seawind simply swirling, breaks from the arms of her lover and
calls, her young eyes wonderwide.)_

MILLY: My! It’s Papli! But, O Papli, how old you’ve grown!

BELLO: Changed, eh? Our whatnot, our writingtable where we never wrote,
aunt Hegarty’s armchair, our classic reprints of old masters. A man and
his menfriends are living there in clover. The _Cuckoos’ Rest!_ Why
not? How many women had you, eh, following them up dark streets,
flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you male
prostitute? Blameless dames with parcels of groceries. Turn about.
Sauce for the goose, my gander O.

BLOOM: They... I...

BELLO: _(Cuttingly.)_ Their heelmarks will stamp the Brusselette carpet
you bought at Wren’s auction. In their horseplay with Moll the romp to
find the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue
you carried home in the rain for art for art’s sake. They will violate
the secrets of your bottom drawer. Pages will be torn from your
handbook of astronomy to make them pipespills. And they will spit in
your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom’s.

BLOOM: Ten and six. The act of low scoundrels. Let me go. I will
return. I will prove...

A VOICE: Swear!

_(Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, a bowieknife between his
teeth.)_

BELLO: As a paying guest or a kept man? Too late. You have made your
secondbest bed and others must lie in it. Your epitaph is written. You
are down and out and don’t you forget it, old bean.

BLOOM: Justice! All Ireland versus one! Has nobody...? _(He bites his
thumb.)_

BELLO: Die and be damned to you if you have any sense of decency or
grace about you. I can give you a rare old wine that’ll send you
skipping to hell and back. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have!
If you have none see you damn well get it, steal it, rob it! We’ll bury
you in our shrubbery jakes where you’ll be dead and dirty with old Cuck
Cohen, my stepnephew I married, the bloody old gouty procurator and
sodomite with a crick in his neck, and my other ten or eleven husbands,
whatever the buggers’ names were, suffocated in the one cesspool. _(He
explodes in a loud phlegmy laugh.)_ We’ll manure you, Mr Flower! _(He
pipes scoffingly.)_ Byby, Poldy! Byby, Papli!

BLOOM: _(Clasps his head.)_ My willpower! Memory! I have sinned! I have
suff...

_(He weeps tearlessly.)_

BELLO: _(Sneers.)_ Crybabby! Crocodile tears!

_(Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the sacrifice, sobs, his face to
the earth. The passing bell is heard. Darkshawled figures of the
circumcised, in sackcloth and ashes, stand by the wailing wall. M.
Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M.
Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Reverend Leopold
Abramovitz, Chazen. With swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the
recreant Bloom.)_

THE CIRCUMCISED: _(In dark guttural chant as they cast dead sea fruit
upon him, no flowers.) Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad._

VOICES: _(Sighing.)_ So he’s gone. Ah yes. Yes, indeed. Bloom? Never
heard of him. No? Queer kind of chap. There’s the widow. That so? Ah,
yes.

_(From the suttee pyre the flame of gum camphire ascends. The pall of
incense smoke screens and disperses. Out of her oakframe a nymph with
hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from her
grotto and passing under interlacing yews stands over Bloom.)_

THE YEWS: _(Their leaves whispering.)_ Sister. Our sister. Ssh!

THE NYMPH: _(Softly.)_ Mortal! _(Kindly.)_ Nay, dost not weepest!

BLOOM: _(Crawls jellily forward under the boughs, streaked by sunlight,
with dignity.)_ This position. I felt it was expected of me. Force of
habit.

THE NYMPH: Mortal! You found me in evil company, highkickers, coster
picnicmakers, pugilists, popular generals, immoral panto boys in
fleshtights and the nifty shimmy dancers, La Aurora and Karini, musical
act, the hit of the century. I was hidden in cheap pink paper that
smelt of rock oil. I was surrounded by the stale smut of clubmen,
stories to disturb callow youth, ads for transparencies, truedup dice
and bustpads, proprietary articles and why wear a truss with
testimonial from ruptured gentleman. Useful hints to the married.

BLOOM: _(Lifts a turtle head towards her lap.)_ We have met before. On
another star.

THE NYMPH: _(Sadly.)_ Rubber goods. Neverrip brand as supplied to the
aristocracy. Corsets for men. I cure fits or money refunded.
Unsolicited testimonials for Professor Waldmann’s wonderful chest
exuber. My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus
Rublin with photo.

BLOOM: You mean _Photo Bits?_

THE NYMPH: I do. You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me
above your marriage couch. Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in
four places. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosom and my
shame.

BLOOM: _(Humbly kisses her long hair.)_ Your classic curves, beautiful
immortal, I was glad to look on you, to praise you, a thing of beauty,
almost to pray.

THE NYMPH: During dark nights I heard your praise.

BLOOM: _(Quickly.)_ Yes, yes. You mean that I... Sleep reveals the
worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. I know I fell out of
bed or rather was pushed. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. For the
rest there is that English invention, pamphlet of which I received some
days ago, incorrectly addressed. It claims to afford a noiseless,
inoffensive vent. _(He sighs.)_ ’Twas ever thus. Frailty, thy name is
marriage.

THE NYMPH: _(Her fingers in her ears.)_ And words. They are not in my
dictionary.

BLOOM: You understood them?

THE YEWS: Ssh!

THE NYMPH: _(Covers her face with her hands.)_ What have I not seen in
that chamber? What must my eyes look down on?

BLOOM: _(Apologetically.)_ I know. Soiled personal linen, wrong side up
with care. The quoits are loose. From Gibraltar by long sea long ago.

THE NYMPH: _(Bends her head.)_ Worse, worse!

BLOOM: _(Reflects precautiously.)_ That antiquated commode. It wasn’t
her weight. She scaled just eleven stone nine. She put on nine pounds
after weaning. It was a crack and want of glue. Eh? And that absurd
orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle.

_(The sound of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade.)_

THE WATERFALL:

     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.

THE YEWS: _(Mingling their boughs.)_ Listen. Whisper. She is right, our
sister. We grew by Poulaphouca waterfall. We gave shade on languorous
summer days.

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: _(In the background, in Irish National Forester’s
uniform, doffs his plumed hat.)_ Prosper! Give shade on languorous
days, trees of Ireland!

THE YEWS: _(Murmuring.)_ Who came to Poulaphouca with the High School
excursion? Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade?

BLOOM: _(Scared.)_ High School of Poula? Mnemo? Not in full possession
of faculties. Concussion. Run over by tram.

THE ECHO: Sham!

BLOOM: _(Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in nondescript
juvenile grey and black striped suit, too small for him, white tennis
shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a red schoolcap with
badge.)_ I was in my teens, a growing boy. A little then sufficed, a
jolting car, the mingling odours of the ladies’ cloakroom and lavatory,
the throng penned tight on the old Royal stairs (for they love crushes,
instinct of the herd, and the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice),
even a pricelist of their hosiery. And then the heat. There were
sunspots that summer. End of school. And tipsycake. Halcyon days.

_(Halcyon days, high school boys in blue and white football jerseys and
shorts, Master Donald Turnbull, Master Abraham Chatterton, Master Owen
Goldberg, Master Jack Meredith, Master Percy Apjohn, stand in a
clearing of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)_

THE HALCYON DAYS: Mackerel! Live us again. Hurray! _(They cheer.)_

BLOOM: _(Hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered, starred with spent
snowballs, struggles to rise.)_ Again! I feel sixteen! What a lark!
Let’s ring all the bells in Montague street. _(He cheers feebly.)_
Hurray for the High School!

THE ECHO: Fool!

THE YEWS: _(Rustling.)_ She is right, our sister. Whisper. _(Whispered
kisses are heard in all the wood. Faces of hamadryads peep out from the
boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.)_ Who
profaned our silent shade?

THE NYMPH: _(Coyly, through parting fingers.)_ There? In the open air?

THE YEWS: _(Sweeping downward.)_ Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward.

THE WATERFALL:

     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
     Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.

THE NYMPH: _(With wide fingers.)_ O, infamy!

BLOOM: I was precocious. Youth. The fauna. I sacrificed to the god of
the forest. The flowers that bloom in the spring. It was pairing time.
Capillary attraction is a natural phenomenon. Lotty Clarke,
flaxenhaired, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains
with poor papa’s operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. She rolled
downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits.
She climbed their crooked tree and I... A saint couldn’t resist it. The
demon possessed me. Besides, who saw?

_(Staggering Bob, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with
humid nostrils through the foliage.)_

STAGGERING BOB: (_Large teardrops rolling from his prominent eyes,
snivels._) Me. Me see.

BLOOM: Simply satisfying a need I... _(With pathos.)_ No girl would
when I went girling. Too ugly. They wouldn’t play...

_(High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes,
plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants.)_

THE NANNYGOAT: _(Bleats.)_ Megeggaggegg! Nannannanny!

BLOOM: _(Hatless, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and
gorsespine.)_ Regularly engaged. Circumstances alter cases. _(He gazes
intently downwards on the water.)_ Thirtytwo head over heels per
second. Press nightmare. Giddy Elijah. Fall from cliff. Sad end of
government printer’s clerk. _(Through silversilent summer air the dummy
of Bloom, rolled in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the Lion’s Head
cliff into the purple waiting waters.)_

THE DUMMYMUMMY: Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg!

_(Far out in the bay between Bailey and Kish lights the_ Erin’s King
_sails, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her funnel towards
the land.)_

COUNCILLOR NANNETTI: _(Alone on deck, in dark alpaca, yellowkitefaced,
his hand in his waistcoat opening, declaims.)_ When my country takes
her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let
my epitaph be written. I have...

BLOOM: Done. Prff!

THE NYMPH: _(Loftily.)_ We immortals, as you saw today, have not such a
place and no hair there either. We are stonecold and pure. We eat
electric light. _(She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing
her forefinger in her mouth.)_ Spoke to me. Heard from behind. How then
could you...?

BLOOM: _(Pawing the heather abjectly.)_ O, I have been a perfect pig.
Enemas too I have administered. One third of a pint of quassia to which
add a tablespoonful of rocksalt. Up the fundament. With Hamilton Long’s
syringe, the ladies’ friend.

THE NYMPH: In my presence. The powderpuff. _(She blushes and makes a
knee.)_ And the rest!

BLOOM: _(Dejected.)_ Yes. _Peccavi!_ I have paid homage on that living
altar where the back changes name. _(With sudden fervour.)_ For why
should the dainty scented jewelled hand, the hand that rules...?

_(Figures wind serpenting in slow woodland pattern around the
treestems, cooeeing.)_

THE VOICE OF KITTY: _(In the thicket.)_ Show us one of them cushions.

THE VOICE OF FLORRY: Here.

_(A grouse wings clumsily through the underwood.)_

THE VOICE OF LYNCH: _(In the thicket.)_ Whew! Piping hot!

THE VOICE OF ZOE: _(From the thicket.)_ Came from a hot place.

THE VOICE OF VIRAG: _(A birdchief, bluestreaked and feathered in war
panoply with his assegai, striding through a crackling canebrake over
beechmast and acorns.)_ Hot! Hot! Ware Sitting Bull!

BLOOM: It overpowers me. The warm impress of her warm form. Even to sit
where a woman has sat, especially with divaricated thighs, as though to
grant the last favours, most especially with previously well uplifted
white sateen coatpans. So womanly, full. It fills me full.

THE WATERFALL:

     Phillaphulla Poulaphouca
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.

THE YEWS: Ssh! Sister, speak!

THE NYMPH: _(Eyeless, in nun’s white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple,
softly, with remote eyes.)_ Tranquilla convent. Sister Agatha. Mount
Carmel. The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. No more desire. _(She
reclines her head, sighing.)_ Only the ethereal. Where dreamy creamy
gull waves o’er the waters dull.

_(Bloom half rises. His back trouserbutton snaps.)_

THE BUTTON: Bip!

_(Two sluts of the Coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly.)_

THE SLUTS:

     O, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers
     He didn’t know what to do,
     To keep it up,
     To keep it up.

BLOOM: _(Coldly.)_ You have broken the spell. The last straw. If there
were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? Shy
but willing like an ass pissing.

THE YEWS: _(Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their skinny arms
aging and swaying.)_ Deciduously!

THE NYMPH: _(Her features hardening, gropes in the folds of her
habit.)_ Sacrilege! To attempt my virtue! _(A large moist stain appears
on her robe.)_ Sully my innocence! You are not fit to touch the garment
of a pure woman. _(She clutches again in her robe.)_ Wait. Satan,
you’ll sing no more lovesongs. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. _(She draws a
poniard and, clad in the sheathmail of an elected knight of nine,
strikes at his loins.)_ Nekum!

BLOOM: _(Starts up, seizes her hand.)_ Hoy! Nebrakada! Cat o’ nine
lives! Fair play, madam. No pruningknife. The fox and the grapes, is
it? What do you lack with your barbed wire? Crucifix not thick enough?
_(He clutches her veil.)_ A holy abbot you want or Brophy, the lame
gardener, or the spoutless statue of the watercarrier, or good mother
Alphonsus, eh Reynard?

THE NYMPH: _(With a cry flees from him unveiled, her plaster cast
cracking, a cloud of stench escaping from the cracks.)_ Poli...!

BLOOM: _(Calls after her.)_ As if you didn’t get it on the double
yourselves. No jerks and multiple mucosities all over you. I tried it.
Your strength our weakness. What’s our studfee? What will you pay on
the nail? You fee mendancers on the Riviera, I read. _(The fleeing
nymph raises a keen.)_ Eh? I have sixteen years of black slave labour
behind me. And would a jury give me five shillings alimony tomorrow,
eh? Fool someone else, not me. _(He sniffs.)_ Rut. Onions. Stale.
Sulphur. Grease.

_(The figure of Bella Cohen stands before him.)_

BELLA: You’ll know me the next time.

BLOOM: _(Composed, regards her.) Passée._ Mutton dressed as lamb. Long
in the tooth and superfluous hair. A raw onion the last thing at night
would benefit your complexion. And take some double chin drill. Your
eyes are as vapid as the glasseyes of your stuffed fox. They have the
dimensions of your other features, that’s all. I’m not a triple screw
propeller.

BELLA: _(Contemptuously.)_ You’re not game, in fact. _(Her sowcunt
barks.)_ Fbhracht!

BLOOM: _(Contemptuously.)_ Clean your nailless middle finger first,
your bully’s cold spunk is dripping from your cockscomb. Take a handful
of hay and wipe yourself.

BELLA: I know you, canvasser! Dead cod!

BLOOM: I saw him, kipkeeper! Pox and gleet vendor!

BELLA: _(Turns to the piano.)_ Which of you was playing the dead march
from _Saul?_

ZOE: Me. Mind your cornflowers. _(She darts to the piano and bangs
chords on it with crossed arms.)_ The cat’s ramble through the slag.
_(She glances back.)_ Eh? Who’s making love to my sweeties? _(She darts
back to the table.)_ What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is my own.

_(Kitty, disconcerted, coats her teeth with the silver paper. Bloom
approaches Zoe.)_

BLOOM: _(Gently.)_ Give me back that potato, will you?

ZOE: Forfeits, a fine thing and a superfine thing.

BLOOM: _(With feeling.)_ It is nothing, but still, a relic of poor
mamma.

ZOE:

     Give a thing and take it back
     God’ll ask you where is that
     You’ll say you don’t know
     God’ll send you down below.

BLOOM: There is a memory attached to it. I should like to have it.

STEPHEN: To have or not to have that is the question.

ZOE: Here. _(She hauls up a reef of her slip, revealing her bare thigh,
and unrolls the potato from the top of her stocking.)_ Those that hides
knows where to find.

BELLA: _(Frowns.)_ Here. This isn’t a musical peepshow. And don’t you
smash that piano. Who’s paying here?

_(She goes to the pianola. Stephen fumbles in his pocket and, taking
out a banknote by its corner, hands it to her.)_

STEPHEN: _(With exaggerated politeness.)_ This silken purse I made out
of the sow’s ear of the public. Madam, excuse me. If you allow me. _(He
indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom.)_ We are all in the same sweepstake,
Kinch and Lynch. _Dans ce bordel où tenons nostre état_.

LYNCH: _(Calls from the hearth.)_ Dedalus! Give her your blessing for
me.

STEPHEN: _(Hands Bella a coin.)_ Gold. She has it.

BELLA: _(Looks at the money, then at Stephen, then at Zoe, Florry and
Kitty.)_ Do you want three girls? It’s ten shillings here.

STEPHEN: _(Delightedly.)_ A hundred thousand apologies. _(He fumbles
again and takes out and hands her two crowns.)_ Permit, _brevi manu_,
my sight is somewhat troubled.

_(Bella goes to the table to count the money while Stephen talks to
himself in monosyllables. Zoe bends over the table. Kitty leans over
Zoe’s neck. Lynch gets up, rights his cap and, clasping Kitty’s waist,
adds his head to the group.)_

FLORRY: _(Strives heavily to rise.)_ Ow! My foot’s asleep. _(She limps
over to the table. Bloom approaches.)_

BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: _(Chattering and squabbling.)_ The
gentleman... ten shillings... paying for the three... allow me a
moment... this gentleman pays separate... who’s touching it?... ow! ...
mind who you’re pinching... are you staying the night or a short
time?... who did?... you’re a liar, excuse me... the gentleman paid
down like a gentleman... drink... it’s long after eleven.

STEPHEN: _(At the pianola, making a gesture of abhorrence.)_ No
bottles! What, eleven? A riddle!

ZOE: _(Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the
top of her stocking.)_ Hard earned on the flat of my back.

LYNCH: _(Lifting Kitty from the table.)_ Come!

KITTY: Wait. _(She clutches the two crowns.)_

FLORRY: And me?

LYNCH: Hoopla!

_(He lifts her, carries her and bumps her down on the sofa.)_

STEPHEN:

     The fox crew, the cocks flew,
     The bells in heaven
     Were striking eleven.
     ’Tis time for her poor soul
     To get out of heaven.

BLOOM: _(Quietly lays a half sovereign on the table between Bella and
Florry.)_ So. Allow me. _(He takes up the poundnote.)_ Three times ten.
We’re square.

BELLA: _(Admiringly.)_ You’re such a slyboots, old cocky. I could kiss
you.

ZOE: _(Points.)_ Him? Deep as a drawwell. _(Lynch bends Kitty back over
the sofa and kisses her. Bloom goes with the poundnote to Stephen.)_

BLOOM: This is yours.

STEPHEN: How is that? _Le distrait_ or absentminded beggar. _(He
fumbles again in his pocket and draws out a handful of coins. An object
falls.)_ That fell.

BLOOM: _(Stooping, picks up and hands a box of matches.)_ This.

STEPHEN: Lucifer. Thanks.

BLOOM: _(Quietly.)_ You had better hand over that cash to me to take
care of. Why pay more?

STEPHEN: _(Hands him all his coins.)_ Be just before you are generous.

BLOOM: I will but is it wise? _(He counts.)_ One, seven, eleven, and
five. Six. Eleven. I don’t answer for what you may have lost.

STEPHEN: Why striking eleven? Proparoxyton. Moment before the next
Lessing says. Thirsty fox. _(He laughs loudly.)_ Burying his
grandmother. Probably he killed her.

BLOOM: That is one pound six and eleven. One pound seven, say.

STEPHEN: Doesn’t matter a rambling damn.

BLOOM: No, but...

STEPHEN: _(Comes to the table.)_ Cigarette, please. _(Lynch tosses a
cigarette from the sofa to the table.)_ And so Georgina Johnson is dead
and married. _(A cigarette appears on the table. Stephen looks at it.)_
Wonder. Parlour magic. Married. Hm. _(He strikes a match and proceeds
to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy.)_

LYNCH: _(Watching him.)_ You would have a better chance of lighting it
if you held the match nearer.

STEPHEN: _(Brings the match near his eye.)_ Lynx eye. Must get glasses.
Broke them yesterday. Sixteen years ago. Distance. The eye sees all
flat. _(He draws the match away. It goes out.)_ Brain thinks. Near:
far. Ineluctable modality of the visible. _(He frowns mysteriously.)_
Hm. Sphinx. The beast that has 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
up.)_

FATHER DOLAN: Any boy want flogging? Broke his glasses? Lazy idle
little schemer. See it in your eye.

_(Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the head of Don John Conmee rises
from the pianola coffin.)_

DON JOHN CONMEE: Now, Father Dolan! Now. I’m sure that Stephen is a
very good little boy!

ZOE: _(Examining Stephen’s palm.)_ Woman’s hand.

STEPHEN: _(Murmurs.)_ Continue. Lie. Hold me. Caress. I never could
read His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on the haddock.

ZOE: What day were you born?

STEPHEN: Thursday. Today.

ZOE: Thursday’s child has far to go. _(She traces lines on his hand.)_
Line of fate. Influential friends.

FLORRY: _(Pointing.)_ Imagination.

ZOE: Mount of the moon. You’ll meet with a... _(She peers at his hands
abruptly.)_ I won’t tell you what’s not good for you. Or do you want to
know?

BLOOM: _(Detaches her fingers and offers his palm.)_ More harm than
good. Here. Read mine.

BELLA: Show. _(She turns up Bloom’s hand.)_ I thought so. Knobby
knuckles for the women.

ZOE: _(Peering at Bloom’s palm.)_ Gridiron. Travels beyond the sea and
marry money.

BLOOM: Wrong.

ZOE: _(Quickly.)_ O, I see. Short little finger. Henpecked husband.
That wrong?

_(Black Liz, a huge rooster hatching in a chalked circle, rises,
stretches her wings and clucks.)_

BLACK LIZ: Gara. Klook. Klook. Klook.

_(She sidles from her newlaid egg and waddles off.)_

BLOOM: _(Points to his hand.)_ That weal there is an accident. Fell and
cut it twentytwo years ago. I was sixteen.

ZOE: I see, says the blind man. Tell us news.

STEPHEN: See? Moves to one great goal. I am twentytwo. Sixteen years
ago he was twentytwo too. Sixteen years ago I twentytwo tumbled.
Twentytwo years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse. _(He winces.)_
Hurt my hand somewhere. Must see a dentist. Money?

_(Zoe whispers to Florry. They giggle. Bloom releases his hand and
writes idly on the table in backhand, pencilling slow curves.)_

FLORRY: What?

_(A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with a
gallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony Avenue,
Donnybrook, trots past. Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the
sideseats. The Ormond boots crouches behind on the axle. Sadly over the
crossblind Lydia Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze.)_

THE BOOTS: _(Jogging, mocks them with thumb and wriggling
wormfingers.)_ Haw haw have you the horn?

_(Bronze by gold they whisper.)_

ZOE: _(To Florry.)_ Whisper.

_(They whisper again.)_

_(Over the well of the car Blazes Boylan leans, his boater straw set
sideways, a red flower in his mouth. Lenehan in yachtsman’s cap and
white shoes officiously detaches a long hair from Blazes Boylan’s coat
shoulder.)_

LENEHAN: Ho! What do I here behold? Were you brushing the cobwebs off a
few quims?

BOYLAN: _(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.)_

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!
Godblazeqrukbrukarchkrasht!

MARION’S VOICE: _(Hoarsely, sweetly, rising to her throat.)_ O!
Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck?

BLOOM: _(His eyes wildly dilated, clasps himself.)_ Show! Hide! Show!
Plough her! More! Shoot!

BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: Ho ho! Ha ha! Hee hee!

LYNCH: _(Points.)_ The mirror up to nature. _(He laughs.)_ Hu hu hu hu
hu!

_(Stephen and Bloom gaze in the mirror. The face of William
Shakespeare, beardless, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis,
crowned by the reflection of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the
hall.)_

SHAKESPEARE: _(In dignified ventriloquy.)_ ’Tis the loud laugh bespeaks
the vacant mind. _(To Bloom.)_ Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest
invisible. Gaze. _(He crows with a black capon’s laugh.)_ Iagogo! How
my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun. Iagogogo!

BLOOM: _(Smiles yellowly at the three whores.)_ When will I hear the
joke?

ZOE: Before you’re twice married and once a widower.

BLOOM: Lapses are condoned. Even the great Napoleon when measurements
were taken next the skin after his death...

_(Mrs Dignam, widow woman, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with
deathtalk, tears and Tunney’s tawny sherry, hurries by in her weeds,
her bonnet awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, lips and nose, a pen
chivvying her brood of cygnets. Beneath her skirt appear her late
husband’s everyday trousers and turnedup boots, large eights. She holds
a Scottish widow’s insurance policy and a large marquee umbrella under
which her brood run with her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his
collar loose, a hank of porksteaks dangling, Freddy whimpering, Susy
with a crying cod’s mouth, Alice struggling with the baby. She cuffs
them on, her streamers flaunting aloft.)_

FREDDY: Ah, ma, you’re dragging me along!

SUSY: Mamma, the beeftea is fizzing over!

SHAKESPEARE: _(With paralytic rage.)_ Weda seca whokilla farst.

_(The face of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare’s
beardless face. The marquee umbrella sways drunkenly, the children run
aside. Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and
kimono gown. She glides sidling and bowing, twirling japanesily.)_

MRS CUNNINGHAM: _(Sings.)_

     And they call me the jewel of Asia!


MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: _(Gazes on her, impassive.)_ Immense! Most bloody
awful demirep!

STEPHEN: _Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti._ Queens lay with prize bulls.
Remember Pasiphae for whose lust my grandoldgrossfather made the first
confessionbox. Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions
of the house of Lambert. And Noah was drunk with wine. And his ark was
open.

BELLA: None of that here. Come to the wrong shop.

LYNCH: Let him alone. He’s back from Paris.

ZOE: _(Runs to stephen and links him.)_ O go on! Give us some
parleyvoo.

_(Stephen claps hat on head and leaps over to the fireplace where he
stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a painted smile
on his face.)_

LYNCH: _(Pommelling on the sofa.)_ Rmm Rmm Rmm Rrrrrrmmmmm.

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,
là là! Ce pif qu’il a!_

LYNCH: _Vive le vampire!_

THE WHORES: Bravo! Parleyvoo!

STEPHEN: _(Grimacing with head back, laughs loudly, clapping himself.)_
Great success of laughing. Angels much prostitutes like and holy
apostles big damn ruffians. _Demimondaines_ nicely handsome sparkling
of diamonds very amiable costumed. Or do you are fond better what
belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans? _(He points about
him with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the whores reply to.)_
Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins
nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Enter, gentleman, to see
in mirror every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also
if desire act awfully bestial butcher’s boy pollutes in warm veal liver
or omlet on the belly _pièce de Shakespeare._

BELLA: _(Clapping her belly sinks back on the sofa, with a shout of
laughter.)_ An omelette on the... Ho! ho! ho! ho!... omelette on the...

STEPHEN: _(Mincingly.)_ I love you, sir darling. Speak you englishman
tongue for _double entente cordiale._ O yes, _mon loup_. How much cost?
Waterloo. Watercloset. _(He ceases suddenly and holds up a
forefinger.)_

BELLA: _(Laughing.)_ Omelette...

THE WHORES: _(Laughing.)_ Encore! Encore!

STEPHEN: Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon.

ZOE: Go abroad and love a foreign lady.

LYNCH: Across the world for a wife.

FLORRY: Dreams goes by contraries.

STEPHEN: _(Extends his arms.)_ It was here. Street of harlots. In
Serpentine avenue Beelzebub showed me her, a fubsy widow. Where’s the
red carpet spread?

BLOOM: _(Approaching Stephen.)_ Look...

STEPHEN: No, I flew. My foes beneath me. And ever shall be. World
without end. _(He cries.) Pater!_ Free!

BLOOM: I say, look...

STEPHEN: Break my spirit, will he? _O merde alors! (He cries, his
vulture talons sharpened.)_ Hola! Hillyho!

_(Simon Dedalus’ voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready.)_

SIMON: That’s all right. _(He swoops uncertainly through the air,
wheeling, uttering cries of heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard
wings.)_ Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with
those halfcastes. Wouldn’t let them within the bawl of an ass. Head up!
Keep our flag flying! An eagle gules volant in a field argent
displayed. Ulster king at arms! Haihoop! _(He makes the beagle’s call,
giving tongue.)_ Bulbul! Burblblburblbl! Hai, boy!

_(The fronds and spaces of the wallpaper file rapidly across country. A
stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his
grandmother, runs swift for the open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth,
under the leaves. The pack of staghounds follows, nose to the ground,
sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying, burblbrbling to be blooded. Ward
Union huntsmen and huntswomen live with them, hot for a kill. From Six
Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with
knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with
stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, grey
negroes waving torches. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and anchor
players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in
high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.)_

THE CROWD:

     Card of the races. Racing card!
     Ten to one the field!
     Tommy on the clay here! Tommy on the clay!
     Ten to one bar one! Ten to one bar one!
     Try your luck on Spinning Jenny!
     Ten to one bar one!
     Sell the monkey, boys! Sell the monkey!
     I’ll give ten to one!
     Ten to one bar one!

_(A dark horse, riderless, bolts like a phantom past the winningpost,
his mane moonfoaming, his eyeballs stars. The field follows, a bunch of
bucking mounts. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second,
Zinfandel, the Duke of Westminster’s Shotover, Repulse, the Duke of
Beaufort’s Ceylon, prix de Paris. Dwarfs ride them, rustyarmoured,
leaping, leaping in their, in their saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain
on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, Cock of the North, the favourite, honey
cap, green jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, gripping the
reins, a hockeystick at the ready. His nag on spavined whitegaitered
feet jogs along the rocky road.)_

THE ORANGE LODGES: _(Jeering.)_ Get down and push, mister. Last lap!
You’ll be home the night!

GARRETT DEASY: _(Bolt upright, his nailscraped face plastered with
postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his blue eyes flashing in
the prism of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling
gallop.)_

_Per vias rectas!_

_(A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag a torrent
of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips,
potatoes.)_

THE GREEN LODGES: Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!

_(Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey pass beneath the
windows, singing in discord.)_

STEPHEN: Hark! Our friend noise in the street.

ZOE: _(Holds up her hand.)_ Stop!

PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY:

     Yet I’ve a sort 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.

_(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 falling 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! Révérence! Tout le monde en place!_

_(The prelude ceases. Professor Goodwin, beating vague arms shrivels,
sinks, his live cape falling about the stool. The air in firmer waltz
time sounds. Stephen and Zoe circle freely. The lights change, glow,
fade 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.) Carré! Avant deux!_ Breathe
evenly! _Balance!_

_(The morning and noon hours waltz in their places, turning, advancing
to each other, shaping their curves, bowing visavis. Cavaliers behind
them arch and suspend their arms, with hands descending to, touching,
rising from their shoulders.)_

HOURS: You may touch my.

CAVALIERS: May I touch your?

HOURS: O, but lightly!

CAVALIERS: O, so lightly!

THE PIANOLA:

     My little shy little lass has a waist.

_(Zoe and Stephen turn boldly with looser swing. The twilight hours
advance from long landshadows, dispersed, lagging, languideyed, their
cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. They are in grey
gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the land breeze.)_

MAGINNI: _Avant huit! Traversé! Salut! Cours de mains! Croisé!_

_(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! Chaîne de dames! La corbeille! Dos à 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: _Boulangère! Les ronds! Les ponts! Chevaux de bois!
Escargots!_

_(Twining, receding, with interchanging hands the night hours link each
each with arching arms in a mosaic of movements. Stephen and Florry
turn cumbrously.)_

MAGINNI: _Dansez avec vos dames! Changez de dames! Donnez le petit
bouquet à votre dame! Remerciez!_

THE PIANOLA:

     Best, best of all,
     Baraabum!

KITTY: _(Jumps up.)_ O, they played that on the hobbyhorses at the
_Mirus_ bazaar!

_(She runs to Stephen. He leaves Florry brusquely and seizes Kitty. A
screaming bittern’s harsh high whistle shrieks. Groangrousegurgling
Toft’s cumbersome whirligig turns slowly the room right roundabout the
room.)_

THE PIANOLA:

     My girl’s a Yorkshire girl.

ZOE:

Yorkshire through and through. Come on all!

_(She seizes Florry and waltzes her.)_

STEPHEN: _Pas seul!_

_(He wheels Kitty into Lynch’s arms, snatches up his ashplant from the
table and takes the floor. All wheel whirl waltz twirl. Bloombella
Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women. Stephen with hat ashplant frogsplits
in middle highkicks with skykicking mouth shut hand clasp part under
thigh. With clang tinkle boomhammer tallyho hornblower blue green
yellow flashes Toft’s cumbersome turns with hobbyhorse riders from
gilded snakes dangled, bowels fandango leaping spurn soil foot and fall
again.)_

THE PIANOLA:

     Though she’s a factory lass
     And wears no fancy clothes.

_(Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they
scootlootshoot lumbering by. Baraabum!)_

TUTTI: Encore! Bis! Bravo! Encore!

SIMON: Think of your mother’s people!

STEPHEN: Dance of death.

_(Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey’s bell, horse, nag, steer,
piglings, Conmee on Christass, lame crutch and leg sailor in cockboat
armfolded ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe through and through.
Baraabum! On nags hogs bellhorses Gadarene swine Corny in coffin steel
shark stone onehandled Nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained
from pram falling bawling. Gum he’s a champion. Fuseblue peer from
barrel rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled
bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes. Then in last switchback
lumbering up and down bump mashtub sort of viceroy and reine relish for
tublumber bumpshire rose. Baraabum!)_

_(The couples fall aside. Stephen whirls giddily. Room whirls back.
Eyes closed he totters. Red rails fly spacewards. Stars all around suns
turn roundabout. Bright midges dance on walls. He stops dead.)_

STEPHEN: Ho!

_(Stephen’s mother, emaciated, rises stark through the floor, in leper
grey with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a torn bridal veil, her
face worn and noseless, green with gravemould. Her hair is scant and
lank. She fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and opens
her toothless mouth uttering a silent word. A choir of virgins and
confessors sing voicelessly.)_

THE CHOIR:

     Liliata rutilantium te confessorum...
     Iubilantium te virginum...

_(From the top of a tower Buck Mulligan, in particoloured jester’s
dress of puce and yellow and clown’s cap with curling bell, stands
gaping at her, a smoking buttered split scone in his hand.)_

BUCK MULLIGAN: She’s beastly dead. The pity of it! Mulligan meets the
afflicted mother. _(He upturns his eyes.)_ Mercurial Malachi!

THE MOTHER: _(With the subtle smile of death’s madness.)_ I was once
the beautiful May Goulding. I am dead.

STEPHEN: _(Horrorstruck.)_ Lemur, who are you? No. What bogeyman’s
trick is this?

BUCK MULLIGAN: _(Shakes his curling capbell.)_ The mockery of it! Kinch
dogsbody killed her bitchbody. She kicked the bucket. _(Tears of molten
butter fall from his eyes on to the scone.)_ Our great sweet mother!
_Epi oinopa ponton._

THE MOTHER: _(Comes nearer, breathing upon him softly her breath of
wetted ashes.)_ All must go through it, Stephen. More women than men in
the world. You too. Time will come.

STEPHEN: _(Choking with fright, remorse and horror.)_ They say I killed
you, mother. He offended your memory. Cancer did it, not I. Destiny.

THE MOTHER: _(A green rill of bile trickling from a side of her
mouth.)_ You sang that song to me. _Love’s bitter mystery._

STEPHEN: _(Eagerly.)_ Tell me the word, mother, if you know now. The
word known to all men.

THE MOTHER: Who saved you the night you jumped into the train at Dalkey
with Paddy Lee? Who had pity for you when you were sad among the
strangers? Prayer is allpowerful. Prayer for the suffering souls in the
Ursuline manual and forty days’ indulgence. Repent, Stephen.

STEPHEN: The ghoul! Hyena!

THE MOTHER: I pray for you in my other world. Get Dilly to make you
that boiled rice every night after your brainwork. Years and years I
loved you, O, my son, my firstborn, when you lay in my womb.

ZOE: _(Fanning herself with the grate fan.)_ I’m melting!

FLORRY: _(Points to Stephen.)_ Look! He’s white.

BLOOM: _(Goes to the window to open it more.)_ Giddy.

THE MOTHER: _(With smouldering eyes.)_ Repent! O, the fire of hell!

STEPHEN: _(Panting.)_ His noncorrosive sublimate! The corpsechewer! Raw
head and bloody bones.

THE MOTHER: _(Her face drawing near and nearer, sending out an ashen
breath.)_ Beware! _(She raises her blackened withered right arm slowly
towards Stephen’s breast with outstretched finger.)_ Beware God’s hand!
_(A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws
in Stephen’s heart.)_

STEPHEN: _(Strangled with rage.)_ Shite! _(His features grow drawn and
grey and old.)_

BLOOM: _(At the window.)_ What?

STEPHEN: _Ah non, par exemple!_ The intellectual imagination! With me
all or not at all. _Non serviam!_

FLORRY: Give him some cold water. Wait. _(She rushes out.)_

THE MOTHER: _(Wrings her hands slowly, moaning desperately.)_ O Sacred
Heart of Jesus, have mercy on him! Save him from hell, O Divine Sacred
Heart!

STEPHEN: No! No! No! Break my spirit, all of you, if you can! I’ll
bring you all to heel!

THE MOTHER: _(In the agony of her deathrattle.)_ Have mercy on Stephen,
Lord, for my sake! Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with
love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary.

STEPHEN: _Nothung!_

_(He lifts his ashplant high with both hands and smashes the
chandelier. Time’s livid final flame leaps and, in the following
darkness, ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.)_

THE GASJET: Pwfungg!

BLOOM: Stop!

LYNCH: _(Rushes forward and seizes Stephen’s hand.)_ Here! Hold on!
Don’t run amok!

BELLA: Police!

_(Stephen, abandoning his ashplant, his head and arms thrown back
stark, beats the ground and flies from the room, past the whores at the
door.)_

BELLA: _(Screams.)_ After him!

_(The two whores rush to the halldoor. Lynch and Kitty and Zoe stampede
from the room. They talk excitedly. Bloom follows, returns.)_

THE WHORES: _(Jammed in the doorway, pointing.)_ Down there.

ZOE: _(Pointing.)_ There. There’s something up.

BELLA: Who pays for the lamp? _(She seizes Bloom’s coattail.)_ Here,
you were with him. The lamp’s broken.

BLOOM: _(Rushes to the hall, rushes back.)_ What lamp, woman?

A WHORE: He tore his coat.

BELLA: _(Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points.)_ Who’s to pay
for that? Ten shillings. You’re a witness.

BLOOM: _(Snatches up Stephen’s ashplant.)_ Me? Ten shillings? Haven’t
you lifted enough off him? Didn’t he...?

BELLA: _(Loudly.)_ Here, none of your tall talk. This isn’t a brothel.
A ten shilling house.

BLOOM: _(His head under the lamp, pulls the chain. Pulling, the gasjet
lights up a crushed mauve purple shade. He raises the ashplant.)_ Only
the chimney’s broken. Here is all he...

BELLA: _(Shrinks back and screams.)_ Jesus! Don’t!

BLOOM: _(Warding off a blow.)_ To show you how he hit the paper.
There’s not sixpenceworth of damage done. Ten shillings!

FLORRY: _(With a glass of water, enters.)_ Where is he?

BELLA: Do you want me to call the police?

BLOOM: O, I know. Bulldog on the premises. But he’s a Trinity student.
Patrons of your establishment. Gentlemen that pay the rent. _(He makes
a masonic sign.)_ Know what I mean? Nephew of the 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, follows from far, picking
up the scent, nearer, baying, panting, at fault, breaking away,
throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping at his tail. He
walks, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back. He is pelted with
gravel, cabbagestumps, biscuitboxes, eggs, potatoes, dead codfish,
woman’s slipperslappers. After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag
gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, 66 C, night watch,
John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V. B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti,
Alexander Keyes, Larry O’Rourke, Joe Cuffe, Mrs O’Dowd, Pisser Burke,
The Nameless One, Mrs Riordan, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim,
Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris
Callinan, sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bartell
d’Arcy, Joe Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T. M. Healy, Mr Justice
Fitzgibbon, John Howard Parnell, the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor
Joly, Mrs Breen, Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, the
Westland Row postmistress, C. P. M’Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan,
maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed driver,
rich protestant lady, Davy Byrne, Mrs Ellen M’Guinness, Mrs Joe
Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy,
Father Cowley, Crofton out of the Collector-general’s, Dan Dawson,
dental surgeon Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Bob Doran, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs
Wyse Nolan, John Wyse Nolan,
handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwidebehindinClonskea tram, the
bookseller of_ Sweets of Sin, _Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames
Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the managing clerk of
Drimmie’s, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Aaron
Figatner, Moses Herzog, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs
Galbraith, the constable off Eccles street corner, old doctor Brady
with stethoscope, the mystery man on the beach, a retriever, Mrs Miriam
Dandrade and all her lovers.)_

THE HUE AND CRY: _(Helterskelterpelterwelter.)_ He’s Bloom! Stop Bloom!
Stopabloom! Stopperrobber! Hi! Hi! Stophim on the corner!

_(At the corner of Beaver street beneath the scaffolding Bloom panting
stops on the fringe of the noisy quarrelling knot, a lot not knowing a
jot what hi! hi! row and wrangle round the whowhat brawlaltogether.)_

STEPHEN: _(With elaborate gestures, breathing deeply and slowly.)_ You
are my guests. Uninvited. By virtue of the fifth of George and seventh
of Edward. History to blame. Fabled by mothers of memory.

PRIVATE CARR: _(To Cissy Caffrey.)_ Was he insulting you?

STEPHEN: Addressed her in vocative feminine. Probably neuter.
Ungenitive.

VOICES: No, he didn’t. I seen him. The girl there. He was in Mrs
Cohen’s. What’s up? Soldier and civilian.

CISSY CAFFREY: I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to
do—you know, and the young man run up behind me. But I’m faithful to
the man that’s treating me though I’m only a shilling whore.

STEPHEN: _(Catches sight of Lynch’s and Kitty’s heads.)_ Hail,
Sisyphus. _(He points to himself and the others.)_ Poetic. Uropoetic.

VOICES: Shes faithfultheman.

CISSY CAFFREY: Yes, to go with him. And me with a soldier friend.

PRIVATE COMPTON: He doesn’t half want a thick ear, the blighter. Biff
him one, Harry.

PRIVATE CARR: _(To Cissy.)_ Was he insulting you while me and him was
having a piss?

LORD TENNYSON: _(Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket
flannels, bareheaded, flowingbearded.)_ Theirs not to reason why.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Biff him, Harry.

STEPHEN: _(To Private Compton.)_ I don’t know your name but you are
quite right. Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in
their shirts. Shirt is synechdoche. Part for the whole.

CISSY CAFFREY: _(To the crowd.)_ No, I was with the privates.

STEPHEN: _(Amiably.)_ Why not? The bold soldier boy. In my opinion
every lady for example...

PRIVATE CARR: _(His cap awry, advances to Stephen.)_ Say, how would it
be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw?

STEPHEN: _(Looks up to the sky.)_ How? Very unpleasant. Noble art of
selfpretence. Personally, I detest action. _(He waves his hand.)_ Hand
hurts me slightly. _Enfin ce sont vos oignons._ _(To Cissy Caffrey.)_
Some trouble is on here. What is it precisely?

DOLLY GRAY: _(From her balcony waves her handkerchief, giving the sign
of the heroine of Jericho.)_ Rahab. Cook’s son, goodbye. Safe home to
Dolly. Dream of the girl you left behind and she will dream of you.

_(The soldiers turn their swimming eyes.)_

BLOOM: _(Elbowing through the crowd, plucks Stephen’s sleeve
vigorously.)_ Come now, professor, that carman is waiting.

STEPHEN: _(Turns.)_ Eh? _(He disengages himself.)_ Why should I not
speak to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate
orange? _(He points his finger.)_ I’m not afraid of what I can talk to
if I see his eye. Retaining the perpendicular.

_(He staggers a pace back.)_

BLOOM: _(Propping him.)_ Retain your own.

STEPHEN: _(Laughs emptily.)_ My centre of gravity is displaced. I have
forgotten the trick. Let us sit down somewhere and discuss. Struggle
for life is the law of existence but but human philirenists, notably
the tsar and the king of England, have invented arbitration. _(He taps
his brow.)_ But in here it is I must kill the priest and the king.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Did you hear what the professor said? He’s a professor
out of the college.

CUNTY KATE: I did. I heard that.

BIDDY THE CLAP: He expresses himself with such marked refinement of
phraseology.

CUNTY KATE: Indeed, yes. And at the same time with such apposite
trenchancy.

PRIVATE CARR: _(Pulls himself free and comes forward.)_ What’s that
you’re saying about my king?

_(Edward the Seventh appears in an archway. He wears 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_ Défense d’uriner. _A roar of welcome greets
him.)_

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: _(Slowly, solemnly but indistinctly.)_ Peace,
perfect peace. For identification, bucket in my hand. Cheerio, boys.
_(He turns to his subjects.)_ We have come here to witness a clean
straight fight and we heartily wish both men the best of good luck.
Mahak makar a bak.

_(He shakes hands with Private Carr, Private Compton, Stephen, Bloom
and Lynch. General applause. Edward the Seventh lifts his bucket
graciously in acknowledgment.)_

PRIVATE CARR: _(To Stephen.)_ Say it again.

STEPHEN: _(Nervous, friendly, pulls himself up.)_ I understand your
point of view though I have no king myself for the moment. This is the
age of patent medicines. A discussion is difficult down here. But this
is the point. You die for your country. Suppose. _(He places his arm on
Private Carr’s sleeve.)_ Not that I wish it for you. But I say: Let my
country die for me. Up to the present it has done so. I didn’t want it
to die. Damn death. Long live life!

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: _(Levitates over heaps of slain, in the garb and
with the halo of Joking Jesus, a white jujube in his phosphorescent
face.)_

     My methods are new and are causing surprise.
     To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes.

STEPHEN: Kings and unicorns! _(He falls back a pace.)_ Come somewhere
and we’ll... What was that girl saying?...

PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry, give him a kick in the knackers. Stick one
into Jerry.

BLOOM: _(To the privates, softly.)_ He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
Taken a little more than is good for him. Absinthe. Greeneyed monster.
I know him. He’s a gentleman, a poet. It’s all right.

STEPHEN: _(Nods, smiling and laughing.)_ Gentleman, patriot, scholar
and judge of impostors.

PRIVATE CARR: I don’t give a bugger who he is.

PRIVATE COMPTON: We don’t give a bugger who he is.

STEPHEN: I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull.

_(Kevin Egan of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and peep-o’-day
boy’s hat signs to Stephen.)_

KEVIN EGAN: H’lo! _Bonjour!_ The _vieille ogresse_ with the _dents
jaunes_.

_(Patrice Egan peeps from behind, his rabbitface nibbling a quince
leaf.)_

PATRICE: _Socialiste!_

DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: _(In medieval hauberk,
two wild geese volant on his helm, with noble indignation points a
mailed hand against the privates.)_ Werf those eykes to footboden, big
grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy!

BLOOM: _(To Stephen.)_ Come home. You’ll get into trouble.

STEPHEN: _(Swaying.)_ I don’t avoid it. He provokes my intelligence.

BIDDY THE CLAP: One immediately observes that he is of patrician
lineage.

THE VIRAGO: Green above the red, says he. Wolfe Tone.

THE BAWD: The red’s as good as the green. And better. Up the soldiers!
Up King Edward!

A ROUGH: _(Laughs.)_ Ay! Hands up to De Wet.

THE CITIZEN: _(With a huge emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls.)_

     May the God above
     Send down a dove
     With teeth as sharp as razors
     To slit the throats
     Of the English dogs
     That hanged our Irish leaders.

THE CROPPY BOY: _(The ropenoose round his neck, gripes in his issuing
bowels with both hands.)_

     I bear no hate to a living thing,
     But I love my country beyond the king.

RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: _(Accompanied by two blackmasked assistants,
advances with gladstone bag which he opens.)_ Ladies and gents, cleaver
purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. Knife with which Voisin
dismembered the wife of a compatriot and hid remains in a sheet in the
cellar, the unfortunate female’s throat being cut from ear to ear.
Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent
Seddon to the gallows.

_(He jerks the rope. The assistants leap at the victim’s legs and drag
him downward, grunting: the croppy boy’s tongue protrudes violently.)_

THE CROPPY BOY:

     Horhot ho hray hor hother’s hest.

_(He gives up the ghost. A violent erection of the hanged sends gouts
of sperm spouting through his deathclothes on to the cobblestones. Mrs
Bellingham, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys
rush forward with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.)_

RUMBOLD: I’m near it myself. _(He undoes the noose.)_ Rope which hanged
the awful rebel. Ten shillings a time. As applied to Her Royal
Highness. _(He plunges his head into the gaping belly of the hanged and
draws out his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails.)_ My
painful duty has now been done. God save the king!

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: _(Dances slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket, and
sings with soft contentment.)_

     On coronation day, on coronation day,
     O, won’t we have a merry time,
     Drinking whisky, beer and wine!

PRIVATE CARR: Here. What are you saying about my king?

STEPHEN: _(Throws up his hands.)_ O, this is too monotonous! Nothing.
He wants my money and my life, though want must be his master, for some
brutish empire of his. Money I haven’t. _(He searches his pockets
vaguely.)_ Gave it to someone.

PRIVATE CARR: Who wants your bleeding money?

STEPHEN: _(Tries to move off.)_ Will someone tell me where I am least
likely to meet these necessary evils? _Ça se voit aussi à Paris._ Not
that I... But, by Saint Patrick...!

_(The women’s heads coalesce. Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears
seated on a toadstool, the deathflower of the potato blight on her
breast.)_

STEPHEN: Aha! I know you, gammer! Hamlet, revenge! The old sow that
eats her farrow!

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: _(Rocking to and fro.)_ Ireland’s sweetheart, the
king of Spain’s daughter, alanna. Strangers in my house, bad manners to
them! _(She keens with banshee woe.)_ Ochone! Ochone! Silk of the kine!
_(She wails.)_ You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand?

STEPHEN: How do I stand you? The hat trick! Where’s the third person of
the Blessed Trinity? Soggarth Aroon? The reverend Carrion Crow.

CISSY CAFFREY: _(Shrill.)_ Stop them from fighting!

A ROUGH: Our men retreated.

PRIVATE CARR: _(Tugging at his belt.)_ I’ll wring the neck of any
fucker says a word against my fucking king.

BLOOM: _(Terrified.)_ He said nothing. Not a word. A pure
misunderstanding.

THE CITIZEN: _Erin go bragh!_

_(Major Tweedy and the Citizen exhibit to each other medals,
decorations, trophies of war, wounds. Both salute with fierce
hostility.)_

PRIVATE COMPTON: Go it, Harry. Do him one in the eye. He’s a proboer.

STEPHEN: Did I? When?

BLOOM: _(To the redcoats.)_ We fought for you in South Africa, Irish
missile troops. Isn’t that history? Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Honoured by
our monarch.

THE NAVVY: _(Staggering past.)_ O, yes! O God, yes! O, make the kwawr a
krowawr! O! Bo!

_(Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted
spearpoints. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible, in
bearskin cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with epaulettes, gilt
chevrons and sabretaches, his breast bright with medals, toes the line.
He gives the pilgrim warrior’s sign of the knights templars.)_

MAJOR TWEEDY: _(Growls gruffly.)_ Rorke’s Drift! Up, guards, and at
them! Mahar shalal hashbaz.

PRIVATE CARR: I’ll do him in.

PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Waves the crowd back.)_ Fair play, here. Make a
bleeding butcher’s shop of the bugger.

_(Massed bands blare_ Garryowen _and_ God save the King.)

CISSY CAFFREY: They’re going to fight. For me!

CUNTY KATE: The brave and the fair.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the best.

CUNTY KATE: _(Blushing deeply.)_ Nay, madam. The gules doublet and
merry saint George for me!

STEPHEN:

     The harlot’s cry from street to street
     Shall weave Old Ireland’s windingsheet.

PRIVATE CARR: _(Loosening his belt, shouts.)_ I’ll wring the neck of
any fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.

BLOOM: _(Shakes Cissy Caffrey’s shoulders.)_ Speak, you! Are you struck
dumb? You are the link between nations and generations. Speak, woman,
sacred lifegiver!

CISSY CAFFREY: _(Alarmed, seizes Private Carr’s sleeve.)_ Amn’t I with
you? Amn’t I your girl? Cissy’s your girl. _(She cries.)_ Police!

STEPHEN: _(Ecstatically, to Cissy Caffrey.)_

     White thy fambles, red thy gan
     And thy quarrons dainty is.

VOICES: Police!

DISTANT VOICES: Dublin’s burning! Dublin’s burning! On fire, on fire!

_(Brimstone fires spring up. Dense clouds roll past. Heavy Gatling guns
boom. Pandemonium. Troops deploy. Gallop of hoofs. Artillery. Hoarse
commands. Bells clang. Backers shout. Drunkards bawl. Whores screech.
Foghorns hoot. Cries of valour. Shrieks of dying. Pikes clash on
cuirasses. Thieves rob the slain. Birds of prey, winging from the sea,
rising from marshlands, swooping from eyries, hover screaming, gannets,
cormorants, vultures, goshawks, climbing woodcocks, peregrines,
merlins, blackgrouse, sea eagles, gulls, albatrosses, barnacle geese.
The midnight sun is darkened. The earth trembles. The dead of Dublin
from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white sheepskin overcoats and black
goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. A chasm opens with a
noiseless yawn. Tom Rochford, winner, in athlete’s singlet and
breeches, arrives at the head of the national hurdle handicap and leaps
into the void. He is followed by a race of runners and leapers. In wild
attitudes they spring from the brink. Their bodies plunge. Factory
lasses with fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. Society
ladies lift their skirts above their heads to protect themselves.
Laughing witches in red cutty sarks ride through the air on
broomsticks. Quakerlyster plasters blisters. It rains dragons’ teeth.
Armed heroes spring up from furrows. They exchange in amity the pass of
knights of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe
Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O’Brien against Daniel O’Connell,
Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M’Carthy against Parnell,
Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John O’Leary against Lear
O’Johnny, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The
O’Donoghue of the Glens against The Glens of The O’Donoghue. On an
eminence, the centre of the earth, rises the fieldaltar of Saint
Barbara. Black candles rise from its gospel and epistle horns. From the
high barbacans of the tower two shafts of light fall on the smokepalled
altarstone. On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason,
lies, naked, fettered, a chalice resting on her swollen belly. Father
Malachi O’Flynn in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his two left
feet back to the front, celebrates camp mass. The Reverend Mr Hugh C
Haines Love M. A. in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his head and
collar back to the front, holds over the celebrant’s head an open
umbrella.)_

FATHER MALACHI O’FLYNN: _Introibo ad altare diaboli._

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: To the devil which hath made glad my young
days.

FATHER MALACHI O’FLYNN: _(Takes from the chalice and elevates a
blooddripping host.) Corpus meum._

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: _(Raises high behind the celebrant’s
petticoat, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a
carrot is stuck.)_ My body.

THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: Htengier Tnetopinmo Dog Drol eht rof,
Aiulella!

_(From on high the voice of Adonai calls.)_

ADONAI: Dooooooooooog!

THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: Alleluia, for the Lord God Omnipotent
reigneth!

_(From on high the voice of Adonai calls.)_

ADONAI: Goooooooooood!

_(In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green
factions sing_ Kick the Pope _and_ Daily, daily sing to Mary.)

PRIVATE CARR: _(With ferocious articulation.)_ I’ll do him in, so help
me fucking Christ! I’ll wring the bastard fucker’s bleeding blasted
fucking windpipe!

_(The retriever, nosing on the fringe of the crowd, barks noisily.)_

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!

BLOOM: _(Runs to Lynch.)_ Can’t you get him away?

LYNCH: He likes dialectic, the universal language. Kitty! _(To Bloom.)_
Get him away, you. He won’t listen to me.

_(He drags Kitty away.)_

STEPHEN: _(Points.) Exit Judas. Et laqueo se suspendit._

BLOOM: _(Runs to Stephen.)_ Come along with me now before worse
happens. Here’s your stick.

STEPHEN: Stick, no. Reason. This feast of pure reason.

CISSY CAFFREY: _(Pulling Private Carr.)_ Come on, you’re boosed. He
insulted me but I forgive him. _(Shouting in his ear.)_ I forgive him
for insulting me.

BLOOM: _(Over Stephen’s shoulder.)_ Yes, go. You see he’s incapable.

PRIVATE CARR: _(Breaks loose.)_ I’ll insult him.

_(He rushes towards Stephen, fist outstretched, and strikes him in the
face. Stephen totters, collapses, falls, stunned. He lies prone, his
face to the sky, his hat rolling to the wall. Bloom follows and picks
it up.)_

MAJOR TWEEDY: _(Loudly.)_ Carbine in bucket! Cease fire! Salute!

THE RETRIEVER: _(Barking furiously.)_ Ute ute ute ute ute ute ute ute.

THE CROWD: Let him up! Don’t strike him when he’s down! Air! Who? The
soldier hit him. He’s a professor. Is he hurted? Don’t manhandle him!
He’s fainted!

A HAG: What call had the redcoat to strike the gentleman and he under
the influence. Let them go and fight the Boers!

THE BAWD: Listen to who’s talking! Hasn’t the soldier a right to go
with his girl? He gave him the coward’s blow.

_(They grab at each other’s hair, claw at each other and spit.)_

THE RETRIEVER: _(Barking.)_ Wow wow wow.

BLOOM: _(Shoves them back, loudly.)_ Get back, stand back!

PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Tugging his comrade.)_ Here. Bugger off, Harry.
Here’s the cops! _(Two raincaped watch, tall, stand in the group.)_

FIRST WATCH: What’s wrong here?

PRIVATE COMPTON: We were with this lady. And he insulted us. And
assaulted my chum. _(The retriever barks.)_ Who owns the bleeding tyke?

CISSY CAFFREY: _(With expectation.)_ Is he bleeding!

A MAN: _(Rising from his knees.)_ No. Gone off. He’ll come to all
right.

BLOOM: _(Glances sharply at the man.)_ Leave him to me. I can easily...

SECOND WATCH: Who are you? Do you know him?

PRIVATE CARR: _(Lurches towards the watch.)_ He insulted my lady
friend.

BLOOM: _(Angrily.)_ You hit him without provocation. I’m a witness.
Constable, take his regimental number.

SECOND WATCH: I don’t want your instructions in the discharge of my
duty.

PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Pulling his comrade.)_ Here, bugger off Harry. Or
Bennett’ll shove you in the lockup.

PRIVATE CARR: _(Staggering as he is pulled away.)_ God fuck old
Bennett. He’s a whitearsed bugger. I don’t give a shit for him.

FIRST WATCH: _(Takes out his notebook.)_ What’s his name?

BLOOM: _(Peering over the crowd.)_ I just see a car there. If you give
me a hand a second, sergeant...

FIRST WATCH: Name and address.

_(Corny Kelleher, weepers round his hat, a death wreath in his hand,
appears among the bystanders.)_

BLOOM: _(Quickly.)_ O, the very man! _(He whispers.)_ Simon Dedalus’
son. A bit sprung. Get those policemen to move those loafers back.

SECOND WATCH: Night, Mr Kelleher.

CORNY KELLEHER: _(To the watch, with drawling eye.)_ That’s all right.
I know him. Won a bit on the races. Gold cup. Throwaway. _(He laughs.)_
Twenty to one. Do you follow me?

FIRST WATCH: _(Turns to the crowd.)_ Here, what are you all gaping at?
Move on out of that.

_(The crowd disperses slowly, muttering, down the lane.)_

CORNY KELLEHER: Leave it to me, sergeant. That’ll be all right. _(He
laughs, shaking his head.)_ We were often as bad ourselves, ay or
worse. What? Eh, what?

FIRST WATCH: _(Laughs.)_ I suppose so.

CORNY KELLEHER: _(Nudges the second watch.)_ Come and wipe your name
off the slate. _(He lilts, wagging his head.)_ With my tooraloom
tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom. What, eh, do you follow me?

SECOND WATCH: _(Genially.)_ Ah, sure we were too.

CORNY KELLEHER: _(Winking.)_ Boys will be boys. I’ve a car round there.

SECOND WATCH: All right, Mr Kelleher. Good night.

CORNY KELLEHER: I’ll see to that.

BLOOM: _(Shakes hands with both of the watch in turn.)_ Thank you very
much, gentlemen. Thank you. _(He mumbles confidentially.)_ We don’t
want any scandal, you understand. Father is a wellknown highly
respected citizen. Just a little wild oats, you understand.

FIRST WATCH: O. I understand, sir.

SECOND WATCH: That’s all right, sir.

FIRST WATCH: It was only in case of corporal injuries I’d have to
report it at the station.

BLOOM: _(Nods rapidly.)_ Naturally. Quite right. Only your bounden
duty.

SECOND WATCH: It’s our duty.

CORNY KELLEHER: Good night, men.

THE WATCH: _(Saluting together.)_ Night, gentlemen. _(They move off
with slow heavy tread.)_

BLOOM: _(Blows.)_ Providential you came on the scene. You have a
car?...

CORNY KELLEHER: _(Laughs, pointing his thumb over his right shoulder to
the car brought up against the scaffolding.)_ Two commercials that were
standing fizz in Jammet’s. Like princes, faith. One of them lost two
quid on the race. Drowning his grief. And were on for a go with the
jolly girls. So I landed them up on Behan’s car and down to nighttown.

BLOOM: I was just going home by Gardiner street when I happened to...

CORNY KELLEHER: _(Laughs.)_ Sure they wanted me to join in with the
mots. No, by God, says I. Not for old stagers like myself and yourself.
_(He laughs again and leers with lacklustre eye.)_ Thanks be to God we
have it in the house, what, eh, do you follow me? Hah, hah, hah!

BLOOM: _(Tries to laugh.)_ He, he, he! Yes. Matter of fact I was just
visiting an old friend of mine there, Virag, you don’t know him (poor
fellow, he’s laid up for the past week) and we had a liquor together
and I was just making my way home...

_(The horse neighs.)_

THE HORSE: Hohohohohohoh! Hohohohome!

CORNY KELLEHER: Sure it was Behan our jarvey there that told me after
we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen’s and I told him to pull up
and got off to see. _(He laughs.)_ Sober hearsedrivers a speciality.
Will I give him a lift home? Where does he hang out? Somewhere in
Cabra, what?

BLOOM: No, in Sandycove, I believe, from what he let drop.

_(Stephen, prone, breathes to the stars. Corny Kelleher, asquint,
drawls at the horse. Bloom, in gloom, looms down.)_

CORNY KELLEHER: _(Scratches his nape.)_ Sandycove! _(He bends down and
calls to Stephen.)_ Eh! _(He calls again.)_ Eh! He’s covered with
shavings anyhow. Take care they didn’t lift anything off him.

BLOOM: No, no, no. I have his money and his hat here and stick.

CORNY KELLEHER: Ah, well, he’ll get over it. No bones broken. Well,
I’ll shove along. _(He laughs.)_ I’ve a rendezvous in the morning.
Burying the dead. Safe home!

THE HORSE: _(Neighs.)_ Hohohohohome.

BLOOM: Good night. I’ll just wait and take him along in a few...

_(Corny Kelleher returns to the outside car and mounts it. The horse
harness jingles.)_

CORNY KELLEHER: _(From the car, standing.)_ Night.

BLOOM: Night.

_(The jarvey chucks the reins and raises his whip encouragingly. The
car and horse back slowly, awkwardly, and turn. Corny Kelleher on the
sideseat sways his head to and fro in sign of mirth at Bloom’s plight.
The jarvey joins in the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the
farther seat. Bloom shakes his head in mute mirthful reply. With thumb
and palm Corny Kelleher reassures that the two bobbies will allow the
sleep to continue for what else is to be done. With a slow nod Bloom
conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs. The car
jingles tooraloom round the corner of the tooraloom lane. Corny
Kelleher again reassuralooms with his hand. Bloom with his hand
assuralooms Corny Kelleher that he is reassuraloomtay. The tinkling
hoofs and jingling harness grow fainter with their tooralooloo looloo
lay. Bloom, holding in his hand Stephen’s hat, festooned with shavings,
and ashplant, stands irresolute. Then he bends to him and shakes him by
the shoulder.)_

BLOOM: Eh! Ho! _(There is no answer; he bends again.)_ Mr Dedalus!
_(There is no answer.)_ The name if you call. Somnambulist. _(He bends
again and, hesitating, brings his mouth near the face of the prostrate
form.)_ Stephen! _(There is no answer. He calls again.)_ Stephen!

STEPHEN: _(Groans.)_ Who? Black panther. Vampire. _(He sighs and
stretches himself, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.)_

     Who... drive... Fergus now
     And pierce... wood’s woven shade?...

_(He turns on his left side, sighing, doubling himself together.)_

BLOOM: Poetry. Well educated. Pity. _(He bends again and undoes the
buttons of Stephen’s waistcoat.)_ To breathe. _(He brushes the
woodshavings from Stephen’s clothes with light hand and fingers.)_ One
pound seven. Not hurt anyhow. _(He listens.)_ What?

STEPHEN: _(Murmurs.)_

     ... shadows... the woods
     ... white breast... dim sea.

_(He stretches out his arms, sighs again and curls his body. Bloom,
holding the hat and ashplant, stands erect. A dog barks in the
distance. Bloom tightens and loosens his grip on the ashplant. He looks
down on Stephen’s face and form.)_

BLOOM: _(Communes with the night.)_ Face reminds me of his poor mother.
In the shady wood. The deep white breast. Ferguson, I think I caught. A
girl. Some girl. Best thing could happen him. _(He murmurs.)_... swear
that I will always hail, ever conceal, never reveal, any part or parts,
art or arts... _(He murmurs.)_... in the rough sands of the sea... a
cabletow’s length from the shore... where the tide ebbs... and flows
...

_(Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands on guard, his fingers at his lips
in the attitude of secret master. Against the dark wall a figure
appears slowly, a fairy boy of eleven, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed
in an Eton suit with glass shoes and a little bronze helmet, holding a
book in his hand. He reads from right to left inaudibly, smiling,
kissing the page.)_

BLOOM: _(Wonderstruck, calls inaudibly.)_ Rudy!

RUDY: _(Gazes, unseeing, into Bloom’s eyes and goes on reading,
kissing, smiling. He has a delicate mauve face. On his suit he has
diamond and ruby buttons. In his free left hand he holds a slim ivory
cane with a violet bowknot. A white lambkin peeps out of his waistcoat
pocket.)_




— III —


[ 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 _à propos_ of the incident his own truly miraculous escape of
some little while back. They passed the main entrance of the Great
Northern railway station, the starting point for Belfast, where of
course all traffic was suspended at that late hour and passing the
backdoor of the morgue (a not very enticing locality, not to say
gruesome to a degree, more especially at night) ultimately gained the
Dock Tavern and in due course turned into Store street, famous for its
C division police station. Between this point and the high at present
unlit warehouses of Beresford place Stephen thought to think of Ibsen,
associated with Baird’s the stonecutter’s in his mind somehow in Talbot
place, first turning on the right, while the other who was acting as
his _fidus Achates_ inhaled with internal satisfaction the smell of
James Rourke’s city bakery, situated quite close to where they were,
the very palatable odour indeed of our daily bread, of all commodities
of the public the primary and most indispensable. Bread, the staff of
life, earn your bread, O tell me where is fancy bread, at Rourke’s the
baker’s it is said.

_En route_ to his taciturn and, not to put too fine a point on it, not
yet perfectly sober companion Mr Bloom who at all events was in
complete possession of his faculties, never more so, in fact
disgustingly sober, spoke a word of caution _re_ the dangers of
nighttown, women of ill fame and swell mobsmen, which, barely
permissible once in a while though not as a habitual practice, was of
the nature of a regular deathtrap for young fellows of his age
particularly if they had acquired drinking habits under the influence
of liquor unless you knew a little jiujitsu for every contingency as
even a fellow on the broad of his back could administer a nasty kick if
you didn’t look out. Highly providential was the appearance on the
scene of Corny Kelleher when Stephen was blissfully unconscious but for
that man in the gap turning up at the eleventh hour the finis might
have been that he might have been a candidate for the accident ward or,
failing that, the bridewell and an appearance in the court next day
before Mr Tobias or, he being the solicitor rather, old Wall, he meant
to say, or Mahony which simply spelt ruin for a chap when it got
bruited about. The reason he mentioned the fact was that a lot of those
policemen, whom he cordially disliked, were admittedly unscrupulous in
the service of the Crown and, as Mr Bloom put it, recalling a case or
two in the A division in Clanbrassil street, prepared to swear a hole
through a ten gallon pot. Never on the spot when wanted but in quiet
parts of the city, Pembroke road for example, the guardians of the law
were well in evidence, the obvious reason being they were paid to
protect the upper classes. Another thing he commented on was equipping
soldiers with firearms or sidearms of any description liable to go off
at any time which was tantamount to inciting them against civilians
should by any chance they fall out over anything. You frittered away
your time, he very sensibly maintained, and health and also character
besides which, the squandermania of the thing, fast women of the
_demimonde_ ran away with a lot of £. s. d. into the bargain and the
greatest danger of all was who you got drunk with though, touching the
much vexed question of stimulants, he relished a glass of choice old
wine in season as both nourishing and bloodmaking and possessing
aperient virtues (notably a good burgundy which he was a staunch
believer in) still never beyond a certain point where he invariably
drew the line as it simply led to trouble all round to say nothing of
your being at the tender mercy of others practically. Most of all he
commented adversely on the desertion of Stephen by all his pubhunting
_confrères_ but one, a most glaring piece of ratting on the part of his
brother medicos under all the circs.

—And that one was Judas, Stephen said, who up to then had said nothing
whatsoever of any kind.

Discussing these and kindred topics they made a beeline across the back
of the Customhouse and passed under the Loop Line bridge where a
brazier of coke burning in front of a sentrybox or something like one
attracted their rather lagging footsteps. Stephen of his own accord
stopped for no special reason to look at the heap of barren
cobblestones and by the light emanating from the brazier he could just
make out the darker figure of the corporation watchman inside the gloom
of the sentrybox. He began to remember that this had happened or had
been mentioned as having happened before but it cost him no small
effort before he remembered that he recognised in the sentry a
_quondam_ friend of his father’s, Gumley. To avoid a meeting he drew
nearer to the pillars of the railway bridge.

—Someone saluted you, Mr Bloom said.

A figure of middle height on the prowl evidently under the arches
saluted again, calling:

—Night!

Stephen of course started rather dizzily and stopped to return the
compliment. Mr Bloom actuated by motives of inherent delicacy inasmuch
as he always believed in minding his own business moved off but
nevertheless remained on the _qui vive_ with just a shade of anxiety
though not funkyish in the least. Though unusual in the Dublin area he
knew that it was not by any means unknown for desperadoes who had next
to nothing to live on to be abroad waylaying and generally terrorising
peaceable pedestrians by placing a pistol at their head in some
secluded spot outside the city proper, famished loiterers of the Thames
embankment category they might be hanging about there or simply
marauders ready to decamp with whatever boodle they could in one fell
swoop at a moment’s notice, your money or your life, leaving you there
to point a moral, gagged and garrotted.

Stephen, that is when the accosting figure came to close quarters,
though he was not in an over sober state himself recognised Corley’s
breath redolent of rotten cornjuice. Lord John Corley some called him
and his genealogy came about in this wise. He was the eldest son of
inspector Corley of the G division, lately deceased, who had married a
certain Katherine Brophy, the daughter of a Louth farmer. His
grandfather Patrick Michael Corley of New Ross had married the widow of
a publican there whose maiden name had been Katherine (also) Talbot.
Rumour had it (though not proved) that she descended from the house of
the lords Talbot de Malahide in whose mansion, really an unquestionably
fine residence of its kind and well worth seeing, her mother or aunt or
some relative, a woman, as the tale went, of extreme beauty, had
enjoyed the distinction of being in service in the washkitchen. This
therefore was the reason why the still comparatively young though
dissolute man who now addressed Stephen was spoken of by some with
facetious proclivities as Lord John Corley.

Taking Stephen on one side he had the customary doleful ditty to tell.
Not as much as a farthing to purchase a night’s lodgings. His friends
had all deserted him. Furthermore he had a row with Lenehan and called
him to Stephen a mean bloody swab with a sprinkling of a number of
other uncalledfor expressions. He was out of a job and implored of
Stephen to tell him where on God’s earth he could get something,
anything at all, to do. No, it was the daughter of the mother in the
washkitchen that was fostersister to the heir of the house or else they
were connected through the mother in some way, both occurrences
happening at the same time if the whole thing wasn’t a complete
fabrication from start to finish. Anyhow he was all in.

—I wouldn’t ask you only, pursued he, on my solemn oath and God knows
I’m on the rocks.

—There’ll be a job tomorrow or next day, Stephen told him, in a boys’
school at Dalkey for a gentleman usher. Mr Garrett Deasy. Try it. You
may mention my name.

—Ah, God, Corley replied, sure I couldn’t teach in a school, man. I was
never one of your bright ones, he added with a half laugh. I got stuck
twice in the junior at the christian brothers.

—I have no place to sleep myself, Stephen informed him.

Corley at the first go-off was inclined to suspect it was something to
do with Stephen being fired out of his digs for bringing in a bloody
tart off the street. There was a dosshouse in Marlborough street, Mrs
Maloney’s, but it was only a tanner touch and full of undesirables but
M’Conachie told him you got a decent enough do in the Brazen Head over
in Winetavern street (which was distantly suggestive to the person
addressed of friar Bacon) for a bob. He was starving too though he
hadn’t said a word about it.

Though this sort of thing went on every other night or very near it
still Stephen’s feelings got the better of him in a sense though he
knew that Corley’s brandnew rigmarole on a par with the others was
hardly deserving of much credence. However _haud ignarus malorum
miseris succurrere disco etcetera_ as the Latin poet remarks especially
as luck would have it he got paid his screw after every middle of the
month on the sixteenth which was the date of the month as a matter of
fact though a good bit of the wherewithal was demolished. But the cream
of the joke was nothing would get it out of Corley’s head that he was
living in affluence and hadn’t a thing to do but hand out the needful.
Whereas. He put his hand in a pocket anyhow not with the idea of
finding any food there but thinking he might lend him anything up to a
bob or so in lieu so that he might endeavour at all events and get
sufficient to eat but the result was in the negative for, to his
chagrin, he found his cash missing. A few broken biscuits were all the
result of his investigation. He tried his hardest to recollect for the
moment whether he had lost as well he might have or left because in
that contingency it was not a pleasant lookout, very much the reverse
in fact. He was altogether too fagged out to institute a thorough
search though he tried to recollect. About biscuits he dimly
remembered. Who now exactly gave them he wondered or where was or did
he buy. However in another pocket he came across what he surmised in
the dark were pennies, erroneously however, as it turned out.

—Those are halfcrowns, man, Corley corrected him.

And so in point of fact they turned out to be. Stephen anyhow lent him
one of them.

—Thanks, Corley answered, you’re a gentleman. I’ll pay you back one
time. Who’s that with you? I saw him a few times in the Bleeding Horse
in Camden street with Boylan, the billsticker. You might put in a good
word for us to get me taken on there. I’d carry a sandwichboard only
the girl in the office told me they’re full up for the next three
weeks, man. God, you’ve to book ahead, man, you’d think it was for the
Carl Rosa. I don’t give a shite anyway so long as I get a job, even as
a crossing sweeper.

Subsequently being not quite so down in the mouth after the two and six
he got he informed Stephen about a fellow by the name of Bags Comisky
that he said Stephen knew well out of Fullam’s, the shipchandler’s,
bookkeeper there that used to be often round in Nagle’s back with
O’Mara and a little chap with a stutter the name of Tighe. Anyhow he
was lagged the night before last and fined ten bob for a drunk and
disorderly and refusing to go with the constable.

Mr Bloom in the meanwhile kept dodging about in the vicinity of the
cobblestones near the brazier of coke in front of the corporation
watchman’s sentrybox who evidently a glutton for work, it struck him,
was having a quiet forty winks for all intents and purposes on his own
private account while Dublin slept. He threw an odd eye at the same
time now and then at Stephen’s anything but immaculately attired
interlocutor as if he had seen that nobleman somewhere or other though
where he was not in a position to truthfully state nor had he the
remotest idea when. Being a levelheaded individual who could give
points to not a few in point of shrewd observation he also remarked on
his very dilapidated hat and slouchy wearing apparel generally
testifying to a chronic impecuniosity. Palpably he was one of his
hangerson but for the matter of that it was merely a question of one
preying on his nextdoor neighbour all round, in every deep, so to put
it, a deeper depth and for the matter of that if the man in the street
chanced to be in the dock himself penal servitude with or without the
option of a fine would be a very _rara avis_ altogether. In any case he
had a consummate amount of cool assurance intercepting people at that
hour of the night or morning. Pretty thick that was certainly.

The pair parted company and Stephen rejoined Mr Bloom who, with his
practised eye, was not without perceiving that he had succumbed to the
blandiloquence of the other parasite. Alluding to the encounter he
said, laughingly, Stephen, that is:

—He is down on his luck. He asked me to ask you to ask somebody named
Boylan, a billsticker, to give him a job as a sandwichman.

At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr
Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the
direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana,
moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair,
whereupon he observed evasively:

—Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say. Now you mention it
his face was familiar to me. But, leaving that for the moment, how much
did you part with, he queried, if I am not too inquisitive?

—Half a crown, Stephen responded. I daresay he needs it to sleep
somewhere.

—Needs! Mr Bloom ejaculated, professing not the least surprise at the
intelligence, I can quite credit the assertion and I guarantee he
invariably does. Everyone according to his needs or everyone according
to his deeds. But, talking about things in general, where, added he
with a smile, will you sleep yourself? Walking to Sandycove is out of
the question. And even supposing you did you won’t get in after what
occurred at Westland Row station. Simply fag out there for nothing. I
don’t mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest degree but why
did you leave your father’s house?

—To seek misfortune, was Stephen’s answer.

—I met your respected father on a recent occasion, Mr Bloom
diplomatically returned, today in fact, or to be strictly accurate, on
yesterday. Where does he live at present? I gathered in the course of
conversation that he had moved.

—I believe he is in Dublin somewhere, Stephen answered unconcernedly.
Why?

—A gifted man, Mr Bloom said of Mr Dedalus senior, in more respects
than one and a born _raconteur_ if ever there was one. He takes great
pride, quite legitimate, out of you. You could go back perhaps, he
hasarded, still thinking of the very unpleasant scene at Westland Row
terminus when it was perfectly evident that the other two, Mulligan,
that is, and that English tourist friend of his, who eventually euchred
their third companion, were patently trying as if the whole bally
station belonged to them to give Stephen the slip in the confusion,
which they did.

There was no response forthcoming to the suggestion however, such as it
was, Stephen’s mind’s eye being too busily engaged in repicturing his
family hearth the last time he saw it with his sister Dilly sitting by
the ingle, her hair hanging down, waiting for some weak Trinidad shell
cocoa that was in the sootcoated kettle to be done so that she and he
could drink it with the oatmealwater for milk after the Friday herrings
they had eaten at two a penny with an egg apiece for Maggy, Boody and
Katey, the cat meanwhile under the mangle devouring a mess of eggshells
and charred fish heads and bones on a square of brown paper, in
accordance with the third precept of the church to fast and abstain on
the days commanded, it being quarter tense or if not, ember days or
something like that.

—No, Mr Bloom repeated again, I wouldn’t personally repose much trust
in that boon companion of yours who contributes the humorous element,
Dr Mulligan, as a guide, philosopher and friend if I were in your
shoes. He knows which side his bread is buttered on though in all
probability he never realised what it is to be without regular meals.
Of course you didn’t notice as much as I did. But it wouldn’t occasion
me the least surprise to learn that a pinch of tobacco or some narcotic
was put in your drink for some ulterior object.

He understood however from all he heard that Dr Mulligan was a
versatile allround man, by no means confined to medicine only, who was
rapidly coming to the fore in his line and, if the report was verified,
bade fair to enjoy a flourishing practice in the not too distant future
as a tony medical practitioner drawing a handsome fee for his services
in addition to which professional status his rescue of that man from
certain drowning by artificial respiration and what they call first aid
at Skerries, or Malahide was it?, was, he was bound to admit, an
exceedingly plucky deed which he could not too highly praise, so that
frankly he was utterly at a loss to fathom what earthly reason could be
at the back of it except he put it down to sheer cussedness or
jealousy, pure and simple.

—Except it simply amounts to one thing and he is what they call picking
your brains, he ventured to throw out.

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 più..._

_—Dice lui, però!_

_—Mezzo._

_—Farabutto! Mortacci sui!_

_—Ma ascolta! Cinque la testa più..._

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
_protégé_ in an audible tone of voice _à propos_ of the battle royal in
the street which was still raging fast and furious:

—A beautiful language. I mean for singing purposes. Why do you not
write your poetry in that language? _Bella Poetria_! It is so melodious
and full. _Belladonna. Voglio._

Stephen, who was trying his dead best to yawn if he could, suffering
from lassitude generally, replied:

—To fill the ear of a cow elephant. They were haggling over money.

—Is that so? Mr Bloom asked. Of course, he subjoined pensively, at the
inward reflection of there being more languages to start with than were
absolutely necessary, it may be only the southern glamour that
surrounds it.

The keeper of the shelter in the middle of this _tête-à-tête_ put a
boiling swimming cup of a choice concoction labelled coffee on the
table and a rather antediluvian specimen of a bun, or so it seemed.
After which he beat a retreat to his counter, Mr Bloom determining to
have a good square look at him later on so as not to appear to. For
which reason he encouraged Stephen to proceed with his eyes while he
did the honours by surreptitiously pushing the cup of what was
temporarily supposed to be called coffee gradually nearer him.

—Sounds are impostures, Stephen said after a pause of some little time,
like names. Cicero, Podmore, Napoleon, Mr Goodbody. Jesus, Mr Doyle.
Shakespeares were as common as Murphies. What’s in a name?

—Yes, to be sure, Mr Bloom unaffectedly concurred. Of course. Our name
was changed too, he added, pushing the socalled roll across.

The redbearded sailor who had his weather eye on the newcomers boarded
Stephen, whom he had singled out for attention in particular, squarely
by asking:

—And what might your name be?

Just in the nick of time Mr Bloom touched his companion’s boot but
Stephen, apparently disregarding the warm pressure from an unexpected
quarter, answered:

—Dedalus.

The sailor stared at him heavily from a pair of drowsy baggy eyes,
rather bunged up from excessive use of boose, preferably good old
Hollands and water.

—You know Simon Dedalus? he asked at length.

—I’ve heard of him, Stephen said.

Mr Bloom was all at sea for a moment, seeing the others evidently
eavesdropping too.

—He’s Irish, the seaman bold affirmed, staring still in much the same
way and nodding. All Irish.

—All too Irish, Stephen rejoined.

As for Mr Bloom he could neither make head or tail of the whole
business and he was just asking himself what possible connection when
the sailor of his own accord turned to the other occupants of the
shelter with the remark:

—I seen him shoot two eggs off two bottles at fifty yards over his
shoulder. The lefthand dead shot.

Though he was slightly hampered by an occasional stammer and his
gestures being also clumsy as it was still he did his best to explain.

—Bottles out there, say. Fifty yards measured. Eggs on the bottles.
Cocks his gun over his shoulder. Aims.

He turned his body half round, shut up his right eye completely. Then
he screwed his features up someway sideways and glared out into the
night with an unprepossessing cast of countenance.

—Pom! he then shouted once.

The entire audience waited, anticipating an additional detonation,
there being still a further egg.

—Pom! he shouted twice.

Egg two evidently demolished, he nodded and winked, adding
bloodthirstily:

_—Buffalo Bill shoots to kill,

Never missed nor he never will._

A silence ensued till Mr Bloom for agreeableness’ sake just felt like
asking him whether it was for a marksmanship competition like the
Bisley.

—Beg pardon, the sailor said.

—Long ago? Mr Bloom pursued without flinching a hairsbreadth.

—Why, the sailor replied, relaxing to a certain extent under the magic
influence of diamond cut diamond, it might be a matter of ten years. He
toured the wide world with Hengler’s Royal Circus. I seen him do that
in Stockholm.

—Curious coincidence, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen unobtrusively.

—Murphy’s my name, the sailor continued. D. B. Murphy of Carrigaloe.
Know where that is?

—Queenstown harbour, Stephen replied.

—That’s right, the sailor said. Fort Camden and Fort Carlisle. That’s
where I hails from. I belongs there. That’s where I hails from. My
little woman’s down there. She’s waiting for me, I know. _For England,
home and beauty_. She’s my own true wife I haven’t seen for seven years
now, sailing about.

Mr Bloom could easily picture his advent on this scene, the homecoming
to the mariner’s roadside shieling after having diddled Davy Jones, a
rainy night with a blind moon. Across the world for a wife. Quite a
number of stories there were on that particular Alice Ben Bolt topic,
Enoch Arden and Rip van Winkle and does anybody hereabouts remember
Caoc O’Leary, a favourite and most trying declamation piece by the way
of poor John Casey and a bit of perfect poetry in its own small way.
Never about the runaway wife coming back, however much devoted to the
absentee. The face at the window! Judge of his astonishment when he
finally did breast the tape and the awful truth dawned upon him anent
his better half, wrecked in his affections. You little expected me but
I’ve come to stay and make a fresh start. There she sits, a grasswidow,
at the selfsame fireside. Believes me dead, rocked in the cradle of the
deep. And there sits uncle Chubb or Tomkin, as the case might be, the
publican of the Crown and Anchor, in shirtsleeves, eating rumpsteak and
onions. No chair for father. Broo! The wind! Her brandnew arrival is on
her knee, _post mortem_ child. With a high ro! and a randy ro! and my
galloping tearing tandy, O! Bow to the inevitable. Grin and bear it. I
remain with much love your brokenhearted husband W. B. Murphy.

The sailor, who scarcely seemed to be a Dublin resident, turned to one
of the jarvies with the request:

—You don’t happen to have such a thing as a spare chaw about you?

The jarvey addressed as it happened had not but the keeper took a die
of plug from his good jacket hanging on a nail and the desired object
was passed from hand to hand.

—Thank you, the sailor said.

He deposited the quid in his gob and, chewing and with some slow
stammers, proceeded:

—We come up this morning eleven o’clock. The threemaster _Rosevean_
from Bridgwater with bricks. I shipped to get over. Paid off this
afternoon. There’s my discharge. See? D. B. Murphy. A. B. S.

In confirmation of which statement he extricated from an inside pocket
and handed to his neighbour a not very cleanlooking folded document.

—You must have seen a fair share of the world, the keeper remarked,
leaning on the counter.

—Why, the sailor answered upon reflection upon it, I’ve circumnavigated
a bit since I first joined on. I was in the Red Sea. I was in China and
North America and South America. We was chased by pirates one voyage. I
seen icebergs plenty, growlers. I was in Stockholm and the Black Sea,
the Dardanelles under Captain Dalton, the best bloody man that ever
scuttled a ship. I seen Russia. _Gospodi pomilyou_. That’s how the
Russians prays.

—You seen queer sights, don’t be talking, put in a jarvey.

—Why, the sailor said, shifting his partially chewed plug. I seen queer
things too, ups and downs. I seen a crocodile bite the fluke of an
anchor same as I chew that quid.

He took out of his mouth the pulpy quid and, lodging it between his
teeth, bit ferociously:

—Khaan! Like that. And I seen maneaters in Peru that eats corpses and
the livers of horses. Look here. Here they are. A friend of mine sent
me.

He fumbled out a picture postcard from his inside pocket which seemed
to be in its way a species of repository and pushed it along the table.
The printed matter on it stated: _Choza de Indios. Beni, Bolivia._

All focussed their attention at the scene exhibited, a group of savage
women in striped loincloths, squatted, blinking, suckling, frowning,
sleeping amid a swarm of infants (there must have been quite a score of
them) outside some primitive shanties of osier.

—Chews coca all day, the communicative tarpaulin added. Stomachs like
breadgraters. Cuts off their diddies when they can’t bear no more
children.

See them sitting there stark ballocknaked eating a dead horse’s liver
raw.

His postcard proved a centre of attraction for Messrs the greenhorns
for several minutes if not more.

—Know how to keep them off? he inquired generally.

Nobody volunteering a statement he winked, saying:

—Glass. That boggles ’em. Glass.

Mr Bloom, without evincing surprise, unostentatiously turned over the
card to peruse the partially obliterated address and postmark. It ran
as follows: _Tarjeta Postal, Señor A Boudin, Galeria Becche, Santiago,
Chile._ There was no message evidently, as he took particular notice.
Though not an implicit believer in the lurid story narrated (or the
eggsniping transaction for that matter despite William Tell and the
Lazarillo-Don Cesar de Bazan incident depicted in _Maritana_ on which
occasion the former’s ball passed through the latter’s hat) having
detected a discrepancy between his name (assuming he was the person he
represented himself to be and not sailing under false colours after
having boxed the compass on the strict q.t. somewhere) and the
fictitious addressee of the missive which made him nourish some
suspicions of our friend’s _bona fides_ nevertheless it reminded him in
a way of a longcherished plan he meant to one day realise some
Wednesday or Saturday of travelling to London _via_ long sea not to say
that he had ever travelled extensively to any great extent but he was
at heart a born adventurer though by a trick of fate he had
consistently remained a landlubber except you call going to Holyhead
which was his longest. Martin Cunningham frequently said he would work
a pass through Egan but some deuced hitch or other eternally cropped up
with the net result that the scheme fell through. But even suppose it
did come to planking down the needful and breaking Boyd’s heart it was
not so dear, purse permitting, a few guineas at the outside considering
the fare to Mullingar where he figured on going was five and six, there
and back. The trip would benefit health on account of the bracing ozone
and be in every way thoroughly pleasurable, especially for a chap whose
liver was out of order, seeing the different places along the route,
Plymouth, Falmouth, Southampton and so on culminating in an instructive
tour of the sights of the great metropolis, the spectacle of our modern
Babylon where doubtless he would see the greatest improvement, tower,
abbey, wealth of Park lane to renew acquaintance with. Another thing
just struck him as a by no means bad notion was he might have a gaze
around on the spot to see about trying to make arrangements about a
concert tour of summer music embracing the most prominent pleasure
resorts, Margate with mixed bathing and firstrate hydros and spas,
Eastbourne, Scarborough, Margate and so on, beautiful Bournemouth, the
Channel islands and similar bijou spots, which might prove highly
remunerative. Not, of course, with a hole and corner scratch company or
local ladies on the job, witness Mrs C P M’Coy type lend me your valise
and I’ll post you the ticket. No, something top notch, an all star
Irish caste, the Tweedy-Flower grand opera company with his own legal
consort as leading lady as a sort of counterblast to the Elster Grimes
and Moody-Manners, perfectly simple matter and he was quite sanguine of
success, providing puffs in the local papers could be managed by some
fellow with a bit of bounce who could pull the indispensable wires and
thus combine business with pleasure. But who? That was the rub.

Also, without being actually positive, it struck him a great field was
to be opened up in the line of opening up new routes to keep pace with
the times _apropos_ of the Fishguard-Rosslare route which, it was
mooted, was once more on the _tapis_ in the circumlocution departments
with the usual quantity of red tape and dillydallying of effete
fogeydom and dunderheads generally. A great opportunity there certainly
was for push and enterprise to meet the travelling needs of the public
at large, the average man, i.e. Brown, Robinson and Co.

It was a subject of regret and absurd as well on the face of it and no
small blame to our vaunted society that the man in the street, when the
system really needed toning up, for the matter of a couple of paltry
pounds was debarred from seeing more of the world they lived in instead
of being always and ever cooped up since my old stick-in-the-mud took
me for a wife. After all, hang it, they had their eleven and more
humdrum months of it and merited a radical change of _venue_ after the
grind of city life in the summertime for choice when dame Nature is at
her spectacular best constituting nothing short of a new lease of life.
There were equally excellent opportunities for vacationists in the home
island, delightful sylvan spots for rejuvenation, offering a plethora
of attractions as well as a bracing tonic for the system in and around
Dublin and its picturesque environs even, Poulaphouca to which there
was a steamtram, but also farther away from the madding crowd in
Wicklow, rightly termed the garden of Ireland, an ideal neighbourhood
for elderly wheelmen so long as it didn’t come down, and in the wilds
of Donegal where if report spoke true the _coup d’œil_ was exceedingly
grand though the lastnamed locality was not easily getatable so that
the influx of visitors was not as yet all that it might be considering
the signal benefits to be derived from it while Howth with its historic
associations and otherwise, Silken Thomas, Grace O’Malley, George IV,
rhododendrons several hundred feet above sealevel was a favourite haunt
with all sorts and conditions of men especially in the spring when
young men’s fancy, though it had its own toll of deaths by falling off
the cliffs by design or accidentally, usually, by the way, on their
left leg, it being only about three quarters of an hour’s run from the
pillar. Because of course uptodate tourist travelling was as yet merely
in its infancy, so to speak, and the accommodation left much to be
desired. Interesting to fathom it seemed to him from a motive of
curiosity, pure and simple, was whether it was the traffic that created
the route or viceversa or the two sides in fact. He turned back the
other side of the card, picture, and passed it along to Stephen.

—I seen a Chinese one time, related the doughty narrator, that had
little pills like putty and he put them in the water and they opened
and every pill was something different. One was a ship, another was a
house, another was a flower. Cooks rats in your soup, he appetisingly
added, the chinks does.

Possibly perceiving an expression of dubiosity on their faces the
globetrotter went on, adhering to his adventures.

—And I seen a man killed in Trieste by an Italian chap. Knife in his
back. Knife like that.

Whilst speaking he produced a dangerouslooking claspknife quite in
keeping with his character and held it in the striking position.

—In a knockingshop it was count of a tryon between two smugglers.
Fellow hid behind a door, come up behind him. Like that. _Prepare to
meet your God_, says he. Chuk! It went into his back up to the butt.

His heavy glance drowsily roaming about kind of defied their further
questions even should they by any chance want to.

—That’s a good bit of steel, repeated he, examining his formidable
_stiletto_.

After which harrowing _dénouement_ sufficient to appal the stoutest he
snapped the blade to and stowed the weapon in question away as before
in his chamber of horrors, otherwise pocket.

—They’re great for the cold steel, somebody who was evidently quite in
the dark said for the benefit of them all. That was why they thought
the park murders of the invincibles was done by foreigners on account
of them using knives.

At this remark passed obviously in the spirit of _where ignorance is
bliss_ Mr B. and Stephen, each in his own particular way, both
instinctively exchanged meaning glances, in a religious silence of the
strictly _entre nous_ variety however, towards where Skin-the-Goat,
_alias_ the keeper, not turning a hair, was drawing spurts of liquid
from his boiler affair. His inscrutable face which was really a work of
art, a perfect study in itself, beggaring description, conveyed the
impression that he didn’t understand one jot of what was going on.
Funny, very!

There ensued a somewhat lengthy pause. One man was reading in fits and
starts a stained by coffee evening journal, another the card with the
natives _choza de_, another the seaman’s discharge. Mr Bloom, so far as
he was personally concerned, was just pondering in pensive mood. He
vividly recollected when the occurrence alluded to took place as well
as yesterday, roughly some score of years previously in the days of the
land troubles, when it took the civilised world by storm, figuratively
speaking, early in the eighties, eightyone to be correct, when he was
just turned fifteen.

—Ay, boss, the sailor broke in. Give us back them papers.

The request being complied with he clawed them up with a scrape.

—Have you seen the rock of Gibraltar? Mr Bloom inquired.

The sailor grimaced, chewing, in a way that might be read as yes, ay or
no.

—Ah, you’ve touched there too, Mr Bloom said, Europa point, thinking he
had, in the hope that the rover might possibly by some reminiscences
but he failed to do so, simply letting spirt a jet of spew into the
sawdust, and shook his head with a sort of lazy scorn.

—What year would that be about? Mr B interrogated. Can you recall the
boats?

Our _soi-disant_ sailor munched heavily awhile hungrily before
answering:

—I’m tired of all them rocks in the sea, he said, and boats and ships.
Salt junk all the time.

Tired seemingly, he ceased. His questioner perceiving that he was not
likely to get a great deal of change out of such a wily old customer,
fell to woolgathering on the enormous dimensions of the water about the
globe, suffice it to say that, as a casual glance at the map revealed,
it covered fully three fourths of it and he fully realised accordingly
what it meant to rule the waves. On more than one occasion, a dozen at
the lowest, near the North Bull at Dollymount he had remarked a
superannuated old salt, evidently derelict, seated habitually near the
not particularly redolent sea on the wall, staring quite obliviously at
it and it at him, dreaming of fresh woods and pastures new as someone
somewhere sings. And it left him wondering why. Possibly he had tried
to find out the secret for himself, floundering up and down the
antipodes and all that sort of thing and over and under, well, not
exactly under, tempting the fates. And the odds were twenty to nil
there was really no secret about it at all. Nevertheless, without going
into the _minutiae_ of the business, the eloquent fact remained that
the sea was there in all its glory and in the natural course of things
somebody or other had to sail on it and fly in the face of providence
though it merely went to show how people usually contrived to load that
sort of onus on to the other fellow like the hell idea and the lottery
and insurance which were run on identically the same lines so that for
that very reason if no other lifeboat Sunday was a highly laudable
institution to which the public at large, no matter where living inland
or seaside, as the case might be, having it brought home to them like
that should extend its gratitude also to the harbourmasters and
coastguard service who had to man the rigging and push off and out amid
the elements whatever the season when duty called _Ireland expects that
every man_ and so on and sometimes had a terrible time of it in the
wintertime not forgetting the Irish lights, Kish and others, liable to
capsize at any moment, rounding which he once with his daughter had
experienced some remarkably choppy, not to say stormy, weather.

—There was a fellow sailed with me in the _Rover_, the old seadog,
himself a rover, proceeded, went ashore and took up a soft job as
gentleman’s valet at six quid a month. Them are his trousers I’ve on me
and he gave me an oilskin and that jackknife. I’m game for that job,
shaving and brushup. I hate roaming about. There’s my son now, Danny,
run off to sea and his mother got him took in a draper’s in Cork where
he could be drawing easy money.

—What age is he? queried one hearer who, by the way, seen from the
side, bore a distant resemblance to Henry Campbell, the townclerk, away
from the carking cares of office, unwashed of course and in a seedy
getup and a strong suspicion of nosepaint about the nasal appendage.

—Why, the sailor answered with a slow puzzled utterance, my son, Danny?
He’d be about eighteen now, way I figure it.

The Skibbereen father hereupon tore open his grey or unclean anyhow
shirt with his two hands and scratched away at his chest on which was
to be seen an image tattooed in blue Chinese ink intended to represent
an anchor.

—There was lice in that bunk in Bridgwater, he remarked, sure as nuts.
I must get a wash tomorrow or next day. It’s them black lads I objects
to. I hate those buggers. Suck your blood dry, they does.

Seeing they were all looking at his chest he accommodatingly dragged
his shirt more open so that on top of the timehonoured symbol of the
mariner’s hope and rest they had a full view of the figure 16 and a
young man’s sideface looking frowningly rather.

—Tattoo, the exhibitor explained. That was done when we were lying
becalmed off Odessa in the Black Sea under Captain Dalton. Fellow, the
name of Antonio, done that. There he is himself, a Greek.

—Did it hurt much doing it? one asked the sailor.

That worthy, however, was busily engaged in collecting round the.
Someway in his. Squeezing or.

—See here, he said, showing Antonio. There he is cursing the mate. And
there he is now, he added, the same fellow, pulling the skin with his
fingers, some special knack evidently, and he laughing at a yarn.

And in point of fact the young man named Antonio’s livid face did
actually look like forced smiling and the curious effect excited the
unreserved admiration of everybody including Skin-the-Goat, who this
time stretched over.

—Ay, ay, sighed the sailor, looking down on his manly chest. He’s gone
too. Ate by sharks after. Ay, ay.

He let go of the skin so that the profile resumed the normal expression
of before.

—Neat bit of work, one longshoreman said.

—And what’s the number for? loafer number two queried.

—Eaten alive? a third asked the sailor.

—Ay, ay, sighed again the latter personage, more cheerily this time
with some sort of a half smile for a brief duration only in the
direction of the questioner about the number. Ate. A Greek he was.

And then he added with rather gallowsbird humour considering his
alleged end:

     —As bad as old Antonio,
     For he left me on my ownio.

The face of a streetwalker glazed and haggard under a black straw hat
peered askew round the door of the shelter palpably reconnoitring on
her own with the object of bringing more grist to her mill. Mr Bloom,
scarcely knowing which way to look, turned away on the moment
flusterfied but outwardly calm, and, picking up from the table the pink
sheet of the Abbey street organ which the jarvey, if such he was, had
laid aside, he picked it up and looked at the pink of the paper though
why pink. His reason for so doing was he recognised on the moment round
the door the same face he had caught a fleeting glimpse of that
afternoon on Ormond quay, the partially idiotic female, namely, of the
lane who knew the lady in the brown costume does be with you (Mrs B.)
and begged the chance of his washing. Also why washing which seemed
rather vague than not, your washing. Still candour compelled him to
admit he had washed his wife’s undergarments when soiled in Holles
street and women would and did too a man’s similar garments initialled
with Bewley and Draper’s marking ink (hers were, that is) if they
really loved him, that is to say, love me, love my dirty shirt. Still
just then, being on tenterhooks, he desired the female’s room more than
her company so it came as a genuine relief when the keeper made her a
rude sign to take herself off. Round the side of the _Evening
Telegraph_ he just caught a fleeting glimpse of her face round the side
of the door with a kind of demented glassy grin showing that she was
not exactly all there, viewing with evident amusement the group of
gazers round skipper Murphy’s nautical chest and then there was no more
of her.

—The gunboat, the keeper said.

—It beats me, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen, medically I am speaking,
how a wretched creature like that from the Lock hospital reeking with
disease can be barefaced enough to solicit or how any man in his sober
senses, if he values his health in the least. Unfortunate creature! Of
course I suppose some man is ultimately responsible for her condition.
Still no matter what the cause is from...

Stephen had not noticed her and shrugged his shoulders, merely
remarking:

—In this country people sell much more than she ever had and do a
roaring trade. Fear not them that sell the body but have not power to
buy the soul. She is a bad merchant. She buys dear and sells cheap.

The elder man, though not by any manner of means an old maid or a
prude, said it was nothing short of a crying scandal that ought to be
put a stop to _instanter_ to say that women of that stamp (quite apart
from any oldmaidish squeamishness on the subject), a necessary evil,
were 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 Röntgen did or the telescope like Edison,
though I believe it was before his time Galileo was the man, I mean,
and the same applies to the laws, for example, of a farreaching natural
phenomenon such as electricity but it’s a horse of quite another colour
to say you believe in the existence of a supernatural God.

—O that, Stephen expostulated, has been proved conclusively by several
of the bestknown passages in Holy Writ, apart from circumstantial
evidence.

On this knotty point however the views of the pair, poles apart as they
were both in schooling and everything else with the marked difference
in their respective ages, clashed.

—Has been? the more experienced of the two objected, sticking to his
original point with a smile of unbelief. I’m not so sure about that.
That’s a matter for everyman’s opinion and, without dragging in the
sectarian side of the business, I beg to differ with you _in toto_
there. My belief is, to tell you the candid truth, that those bits were
genuine forgeries all of them put in by monks most probably or it’s the
big question of our national poet over again, who precisely wrote them
like _Hamlet_ and Bacon, as, you who know your Shakespeare infinitely
better than I, of course I needn’t tell you. Can’t you drink that
coffee, by the way? Let me stir it. And take a piece of that bun. It’s
like one of our skipper’s bricks disguised. Still no-one can give what
he hasn’t got. Try a bit.

—Couldn’t, Stephen contrived to get out, his mental organs for the
moment refusing to dictate further.

Faultfinding being a proverbially bad hat Mr Bloom thought well to stir
or try to the clotted sugar from the bottom and reflected with
something approaching acrimony on the Coffee Palace and its temperance
(and lucrative) work. To be sure it was a legitimate object and beyond
yea or nay did a world of good, shelters such as the present one they
were in run on teetotal lines for vagrants at night, concerts, dramatic
evenings and useful lectures (admittance free) by qualified men for the
lower orders. On the other hand he had a distinct and painful
recollection they paid his wife, Madam Marion Tweedy who had been
prominently associated with it at one time, a very modest remuneration
indeed for her pianoplaying. The idea, he was strongly inclined to
believe, was to do good and net a profit, there being no competition to
speak of. Sulphate of copper poison SO4 or something in some dried peas
he remembered reading of in a cheap eatinghouse somewhere but he
couldn’t remember when it was or where. Anyhow inspection, medical
inspection, of all eatables seemed to him more than ever necessary
which possibly accounted for the vogue of Dr Tibble’s Vi-Cocoa on
account of the medical analysis involved.

—Have a shot at it now, he ventured to say of the coffee after being
stirred.

Thus prevailed on to at any rate taste it Stephen lifted the heavy mug
from the brown puddle it clopped out of when taken up by the handle and
took a sip of the offending beverage.

—Still it’s solid food, his good genius urged, I’m a stickler for solid
food, his one and only reason being not gormandising in the least but
regular meals as the _sine qua non_ for any kind of proper work, mental
or manual. You ought to eat more solid food. You would feel a different
man.

—Liquids I can eat, Stephen said. But O, oblige me by taking away that
knife. I can’t look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history.

Mr Bloom promptly did as suggested and removed the incriminated
article, a blunt hornhandled ordinary knife with nothing particularly
Roman or antique about it to the lay eye, observing that the point was
the least conspicuous point about it.

—Our mutual friend’s stories are like himself, Mr Bloom _apropos_ of
knives remarked to his _confidante sotto voce_. Do you think they are
genuine? He could spin those yarns for hours on end all night long and
lie like old boots. Look at him.

Yet still though his eyes were thick with sleep and sea air life was
full of a host of things and coincidences of a terrible nature and it
was quite within the bounds of possibility that it was not an entire
fabrication though at first blush there was not much inherent
probability in all the spoof he got off his chest being strictly
accurate gospel.

He had been meantime taking stock of the individual in front of him and
Sherlockholmesing him up ever since he clapped eyes on him. Though a
wellpreserved man of no little stamina, if a trifle prone to baldness,
there was something spurious in the cut of his jib that suggested a
jail delivery and it required no violent stretch of imagination to
associate such a weirdlooking specimen with the oakum and treadmill
fraternity. He might even have done for his man supposing it was his
own case he told, as people often did about others, namely, that he
killed him himself and had served his four or five goodlooking years in
durance vile to say nothing of the Antonio personage (no relation to
the dramatic personage of identical name who sprang from the pen of our
national poet) who expiated his crimes in the melodramatic manner above
described. On the other hand he might be only bluffing, a pardonable
weakness because meeting unmistakable mugs, Dublin residents, like
those jarvies waiting news from abroad would tempt any ancient mariner
who sailed the ocean seas to draw the long bow about the schooner
_Hesperus_ and etcetera. And when all was said and done the lies a
fellow told about himself couldn’t probably hold a proverbial candle to
the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him.

—Mind you, I’m not saying that it’s all a pure invention, he resumed.
Analogous scenes are occasionally, if not often, met with. Giants,
though that is rather a far cry, you see once in a way, Marcella the
midget queen. In those waxworks in Henry street I myself saw some
Aztecs, as they are called, sitting bowlegged, they couldn’t straighten
their legs if you paid them because the muscles here, you see, he
proceeded, indicating on his companion the brief outline of the sinews
or whatever you like to call them behind the right knee, were utterly
powerless from sitting that way so long cramped up, being adored as
gods. There’s an example again of simple souls.

However reverting to friend Sinbad and his horrifying adventures (who
reminded him a bit of Ludwig, _alias_ Ledwidge, when he occupied the
boards of the Gaiety when Michael Gunn was identified with the
management in the _Flying Dutchman_, a stupendous success, and his host
of admirers came in large numbers, everyone simply flocking to hear him
though ships of any sort, phantom or the reverse, on the stage usually
fell a bit flat as also did trains) there was nothing intrinsically
incompatible about it, he conceded. On the contrary that stab in the
back touch was quite in keeping with those italianos though candidly he
was none the less free to admit those icecreamers and friers in the
fish way not to mention the chip potato variety and so forth over in
little Italy there near the Coombe were sober thrifty hardworking
fellows except perhaps a bit too given to pothunting the harmless
necessary animal of the feline persuasion of others at night so as to
have a good old succulent tuckin with garlic _de rigueur_ off him or
her next day on the quiet and, he added, on the cheap.

—Spaniards, for instance, he continued, passionate temperaments like
that, impetuous as Old Nick, are given to taking the law into their own
hands and give you your quietus doublequick with those poignards they
carry in the abdomen. It comes from the great heat, climate generally.
My wife is, so to speak, Spanish, half that is. Point of fact she could
actually claim Spanish nationality if she wanted, having been born in
(technically) Spain, i.e. Gibraltar. She has the Spanish type. Quite
dark, regular brunette, black. I for one certainly believe climate
accounts for character. That’s why I asked you if you wrote your poetry
in Italian.

—The temperaments at the door, Stephen interposed with, were very
passionate about ten shillings. _Roberto ruba roba sua_.

—Quite so, Mr Bloom dittoed.

—Then, Stephen said staring and rambling on to himself or some unknown
listener somewhere, we have the impetuosity of Dante and the isosceles
triangle miss Portinari he fell in love with and Leonardo and san
Tommaso Mastino.

—It’s in the blood, Mr Bloom acceded at once. All are washed in the
blood of the sun. Coincidence I just happened to be in the Kildare
street museum today, shortly prior to our meeting if I can so call it,
and I was just looking at those antique statues there. The splendid
proportions of hips, bosom. You simply don’t knock against those kind
of women here. An exception here and there. Handsome yes, pretty in a
way you find but what I’m talking about is the female form. Besides
they have so little taste in dress, most of them, which greatly
enhances a woman’s natural beauty, no matter what you say. Rumpled
stockings, it may be, possibly is, a foible of mine but still it’s a
thing I simply hate to see.

Interest, however, was starting to flag somewhat all round and then the
others got on to talking about accidents at sea, ships lost in a fog,
collisions with icebergs, all that sort of thing. Shipahoy of course
had his own say to say. He had doubled the cape a few odd times and
weathered a monsoon, a kind of wind, in the China seas and through all
those perils of the deep there was one thing, he declared, stood to him
or words to that effect, a pious medal he had that saved him.

So then after that they drifted on to the wreck off Daunt’s rock, wreck
of that illfated Norwegian barque nobody could think of her name for
the moment till the jarvey who had really quite a look of Henry
Campbell remembered it _Palme_ on Booterstown strand. That was the talk
of the town that year (Albert William Quill wrote a fine piece of
original verse of distinctive merit on the topic for the Irish
_Times_), breakers running over her and crowds and crowds on the shore
in commotion petrified with horror. Then someone said something about
the case of the s. s. _Lady Cairns_ of Swansea run into by the _Mona_
which was on an opposite tack in rather muggyish weather and lost with
all hands on deck. No aid was given. Her master, the _Mona_’s, said he
was afraid his collision bulkhead would give way. She had no water, it
appears, in her hold.

At this stage an incident happened. It having become necessary for him
to unfurl a reef the sailor vacated his seat.

—Let me cross your bows mate, he said to his neighbour who was just
gently dropping off into a peaceful doze.

He made tracks heavily, slowly with a dumpy sort of a gait to the door,
stepped heavily down the one step there was out of the shelter and bore
due left. While he was in the act of getting his bearings Mr Bloom who
noticed when he stood up that he had two flasks of presumably ship’s
rum sticking one out of each pocket for the private consumption of his
burning interior, saw him produce a bottle and uncork it or unscrew
and, applying its nozzle to his lips, take a good old delectable swig
out of it with a gurgling noise. The irrepressible Bloom, who also had
a shrewd suspicion that the old stager went out on a manœuvre after the
counterattraction in the shape of a female who however had disappeared
to all intents and purposes, could by straining just perceive him, when
duly refreshed by his rum puncheon exploit, gaping up at the piers and
girders of the Loop line rather out of his depth as of course it was
all radically altered since his last visit and greatly improved. Some
person or persons invisible directed him to the male urinal erected by
the cleansing committee all over the place for the purpose but after a
brief space of time during which silence reigned supreme the sailor,
evidently giving it a wide berth, eased himself closer at hand, the
noise of his bilgewater some little time subsequently splashing on the
ground where it apparently awoke a horse of the cabrank. A hoof scooped
anyway for new foothold after sleep and harness jingled. Slightly
disturbed in his sentrybox by the brazier of live coke the watcher of
the corporation stones who, though now broken down and fast breaking
up, was none other in stern reality than the Gumley aforesaid, now
practically on the parish rates, given the temporary job by Pat Tobin
in all human probability from dictates of humanity knowing him before
shifted about and shuffled in his box before composing his limbs again
in to the arms of Morpheus, a truly amazing piece of hard lines in its
most virulent form on a fellow most respectably connected and
familiarised with decent home comforts all his life who came in for a
cool £ 100 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
_soirée_, boisterously trolling, like a veritable son of a seacook:

     —The biscuits was as hard as brass
     And the beef as salt as Lot’s wife’s arse.
     O, Johnny Lever!
     Johnny Lever, O!

After which effusion the redoubtable specimen duly arrived on the scene
and regaining his seat he sank rather than sat heavily on the form
provided. Skin-the-Goat, assuming he was he, evidently with an axe to
grind, was airing his grievances in a forcible-feeble philippic anent
the natural resources of Ireland or something of that sort which he
described in his lengthy dissertation as the richest country bar none
on the face of God’s earth, far and away superior to England, with coal
in large quantities, six million pounds worth of pork exported every
year, ten millions between butter and eggs and all the riches drained
out of it by England levying taxes on the poor people that paid through
the nose always and gobbling up the best meat in the market and a lot
more surplus steam in the same vein. Their conversation accordingly
became general and all agreed that that was a fact. You could grow any
mortal thing in Irish soil, he stated, and there was that colonel
Everard down there in Navan growing tobacco. Where would you find
anywhere the like of Irish bacon? But a day of reckoning, he stated
_crescendo_ with no uncertain voice, thoroughly monopolising all the
conversation, was in store for mighty England, despite her power of
pelf on account of her crimes. There would be a fall and the greatest
fall in history. The Germans and the Japs were going to have their
little lookin, he affirmed. The Boers were the beginning of the end.
Brummagem England was toppling already and her downfall would be
Ireland, her Achilles heel, which he explained to them about the
vulnerable point of Achilles, the Greek hero, a point his auditors at
once seized as he completely gripped their attention by showing the
tendon referred to on his boot. His advice to every Irishman was: stay
in the land of your birth and work for Ireland and live for Ireland.
Ireland, Parnell said, could not spare a single one of her sons.

Silence all round marked the termination of his _finale_. The
impervious navigator heard these lurid tidings, undismayed.

—Take a bit of doing, boss, retaliated that rough diamond palpably a
bit peeved in response to the foregoing truism.

To which cold douche referring to downfall and so on the keeper
concurred but nevertheless held to his main view.

—Who’s the best troops in the army? the grizzled old veteran irately
interrogated. And the best jumpers and racers? And the best admirals
and generals we’ve got? Tell me that.

—The Irish, for choice, retorted the cabby like Campbell, facial
blemishes apart.

—That’s right, the old tarpaulin corroborated. The Irish catholic
peasant. He’s the backbone of our empire. You know Jem Mullins?

While allowing him his individual opinions as everyman the keeper added
he cared nothing for any empire, ours or his, and considered no
Irishman worthy of his salt that served it. Then they began to have a
few irascible words when it waxed hotter, both, needless to say,
appealing to the listeners who followed the passage of arms with
interest so long as they didn’t indulge in recriminations and come to
blows.

From inside information extending over a series of years Mr Bloom was
rather inclined to poohpooh the suggestion as egregious balderdash for,
pending that consummation devoutly to be or not to be wished for, he
was fully cognisant of the fact that their neighbours across the
channel, unless they were much bigger fools than he took them for,
rather concealed their strength than the opposite. It was quite on a
par with the quixotic idea in certain quarters that in a hundred
million years the coal seam of the sister island would be played out
and if, as time went on, that turned out to be how the cat jumped all
he could personally say on the matter was that as a host of
contingencies, equally relevant to the issue, might occur ere then it
was highly advisable in the interim to try to make the most of both
countries even though poles apart. Another little interesting point,
the amours of whores and chummies, to put it in common parlance,
reminded him Irish soldiers had as often fought for England as against
her, more so, in fact. And now, why? So the scene between the pair of
them, the licensee of the place rumoured to be or have been Fitzharris,
the famous invincible, and the other, obviously bogus, reminded him
forcibly as being on all fours with the confidence trick, supposing,
that is, it was prearranged as the lookeron, a student of the human
soul if anything, the others seeing least of the game. And as for the
lessee or keeper, who probably wasn’t the other person at all, he (B.)
couldn’t help feeling and most properly it was better to give people
like that the goby unless you were a blithering idiot altogether and
refuse to have anything to do with them as a golden rule in private
life and their felonsetting, there always being the offchance of a
Dannyman coming forward and turning queen’s evidence or king’s now like
Denis or Peter Carey, an idea he utterly repudiated. Quite apart from
that he disliked those careers of wrongdoing and crime on principle.
Yet, though such criminal propensities had never been an inmate of his
bosom in any shape or form, he certainly did feel and no denying it
(while inwardly remaining what he was) a certain kind of admiration for
a man who had actually brandished a knife, cold steel, with the courage
of his political convictions (though, personally, he would never be a
party to any such thing), off the same bat as those love vendettas of
the south, have her or swing for her, when the husband frequently,
after some words passed between the two concerning her relations with
the other lucky mortal (he having had the pair watched), inflicted
fatal injuries on his adored one as a result of an alternative
postnuptial _liaison_ by plunging his knife into her, until it just
struck him that Fitz, nicknamed Skin-the-Goat, merely drove the car for
the actual perpetrators of the outrage and so was not, if he was
reliably informed, actually party to the ambush which, in point of
fact, was the plea some legal luminary saved his skin on. In any case
that was very ancient history by now and as for our friend, the pseudo
Skin-the-etcetera, he had transparently outlived his welcome. He ought
to have either died naturally or on the scaffold high. Like actresses,
always farewell positively last performance then come up smiling again.
Generous to a fault of course, temperamental, no economising or any
idea of the sort, always snapping at the bone for the shadow. So
similarly he had a very shrewd suspicion that Mr Johnny Lever got rid
of some £. s. d. in the course of his perambulations round the docks in
the congenial atmosphere of the _Old Ireland_ tavern, come back to Erin
and so on. Then as for the other he had heard not so long before the
same identical lingo as he told Stephen how he simply but effectually
silenced the offender.

—He took umbrage at something or other, that muchinjured but on the
whole eventempered person declared, I let slip. He called me a jew and
in a heated fashion offensively. So I without deviating from plain
facts in the least told him his God, I mean Christ, was a jew too and
all his family like me though in reality I’m not. That was one for him.
A soft answer turns away wrath. He hadn’t a word to say for himself as
everyone saw. Am I not right?

He turned a long you are wrong gaze on Stephen of timorous dark pride
at the soft impeachment with a glance also of entreaty for he seemed to
glean in a kind of a way that it wasn’t all exactly.

—_Ex quibus_, Stephen mumbled in a noncommittal accent, their two or
four eyes conversing, _Christus_ or Bloom his name is or after all any
other, _secundum carnem_.

—Of course, Mr B. proceeded to stipulate, you must look at both sides
of the question. It is hard to lay down any hard and fast rules as to
right and wrong but room for improvement all round there certainly is
though every country, they say, our own distressful included, has the
government it deserves. But with a little goodwill all round. It’s all
very fine to boast of mutual superiority but what about mutual
equality. I resent violence and intolerance in any shape or form. It
never reaches anything or stops anything. A revolution must come on the
due instalments plan. It’s a patent absurdity on the face of it to hate
people because they live round the corner and speak another vernacular,
in the next house so to speak.

—Memorable bloody bridge battle and seven minutes’ war, Stephen
assented, between Skinner’s alley and Ormond market.

Yes, Mr Bloom thoroughly agreed, entirely endorsing the remark, that
was overwhelmingly right. And the whole world was full of that sort of
thing.

—You just took the words out of my mouth, he said. A hocuspocus of
conflicting evidence that candidly you couldn’t remotely...

All those wretched quarrels, in his humble opinion, stirring up bad
blood, from some bump of combativeness or gland of some kind,
erroneously supposed to be about a punctilio of honour and a flag, were
very largely a question of the money question which was at the back of
everything, greed and jealousy, people never knowing when to stop.

—They accuse, remarked he audibly. He turned away from the others, who
probably… and spoke nearer to, so as the others… in case they…

—Jews, he softly imparted in an aside in Stephen’s ear, are accused of
ruining. Not a vestige of truth in it, I can safely say. History, would
you be surprised to learn, proves up to the hilt Spain decayed when the
inquisition hounded the jews out and England prospered when Cromwell,
an uncommonly able ruffian who in other respects has much to answer
for, imported them. Why? Because they are imbued with the proper
spirit. They are practical and are proved to be so. I don’t want to
indulge in any because you know the standard works on the subject and
then orthodox as you are. But in the economic, not touching religion,
domain the priest spells poverty. Spain again, you saw in the war,
compared with goahead America. Turks. It’s in the dogma. Because if
they didn’t believe they’d go straight to heaven when they die they’d
try to live better, at least so I think. That’s the juggle on which the
p.p.’s raise the wind on false pretences. I’m, he resumed with dramatic
force, as good an Irishman as that rude person I told you about at the
outset and I want to see everyone, concluded he, all creeds and classes
_pro rata_ having a comfortable tidysized income, in no niggard fashion
either, something in the neighbourhood of £ 300 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 important because I belong to the _faubourg Saint Patrice_ called
Ireland for short.

—I would go a step farther, Mr Bloom insinuated.

—But I suspect, Stephen interrupted, that Ireland must be important
because it belongs to me.

—What belongs, queried Mr Bloom bending, fancying he was perhaps under
some misapprehension. Excuse me. Unfortunately, I didn’t catch the
latter portion. What was it you...?

Stephen, patently crosstempered, repeated and shoved aside his mug of
coffee or whatever you like to call it none too politely, adding:

—We can’t change the country. Let us change the subject.

At this pertinent suggestion Mr Bloom, to change the subject, looked
down but in a quandary, as he couldn’t tell exactly what construction
to put on belongs to which sounded rather a far cry. The rebuke of some
kind was clearer than the other part. Needless to say the fumes of his
recent orgy spoke then with some asperity in a curious bitter way
foreign to his sober state. Probably the homelife to which Mr B
attached the utmost importance had not been all that was needful or he
hadn’t been familiarised with the right sort of people. With a touch of
fear for the young man beside him whom he furtively scrutinised with an
air of some consternation remembering he had just come back from Paris,
the eyes more especially reminding him forcibly of father and sister,
failing to throw much light on the subject, however, he brought to mind
instances of cultured fellows that promised so brilliantly nipped in
the bud of premature decay and nobody to blame but themselves. For
instance there was the case of O’Callaghan, for one, the halfcrazy
faddist, respectably connected though of inadequate means, with his mad
vagaries among whose other gay doings when rotto and making himself a
nuisance to everybody all round he was in the habit of ostentatiously
sporting in public a suit of brown paper (a fact). And then the usual
_dénouement_ after the fun had gone on fast and furious he got 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 subpœnaed 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.

—_This morning_ (Hynes put it in of course) _the remains of the late Mr
Patrick Dignam were removed from his residence, no 9 Newbridge Avenue,
Sandymount, for interment in Glasnevin. The deceased gentleman was a
most popular and genial personality in city life and his demise after a
brief illness came as a great shock to citizens of all classes by whom
he is deeply regretted. The obsequies, at which many friends of the
deceased were present, were carried out_ (certainly Hynes wrote it with
a nudge from Corny) _by Messrs H. J. O’Neill and Son, 164 North Strand
Road. The mourners included: Patk. Dignam (son), Bernard Corrigan
(brother-in-law), Jno. Henry Menton, solr, Martin Cunningham, John
Power, eatondph 1/8 ador dorador douradora_ (must be where he called
Monks the dayfather about Keyes’s ad) _Thomas Kernan, Simon Dedalus,
Stephen Dedalus B. A., Edw. J. Lambert, Cornelius T. Kelleher, Joseph
M’C Hynes, L. Boom, C P M’Coy,—M’Intosh 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) 2. Mr W. Bass’s _Sceptre_ 3. Betting 5
to 4 on _Zinfandel_, 20 to 1 _Throwaway_ (off). _Sceptre_ a shade
heavier. It was anybody’s race then the rank outsider drew to the fore,
got long lead, beating Lord Howard de Walden’s chestnut colt and Mr W.
Bass’s bay filly Sceptre on a 2 1/2 mile course. Winner trained by
Braime so that Lenehan’s version of the business was all pure buncombe.
Secured the verdict cleverly by a length. 1000 sovs with 3000 in
specie. Also ran: J de Bremond’s (French horse Bantam Lyons was
anxiously inquiring after not in yet but expected any minute) _Maximum
II_. Different ways of bringing off a coup. Lovemaking damages. Though
that halfbaked Lyons ran off at a tangent in his impetuosity to get
left. Of course gambling eminently lent itself to that sort of thing
though as the event turned out the poor fool hadn’t much reason to
congratulate himself on his pick, the forlorn hope. Guesswork it
reduced itself to eventually.

—There was every indication they would arrive at that, he, Bloom, said.

—Who? the other, whose hand by the way was hurt, said.

One morning you would open the paper, the cabman affirmed, and read:
_Return of Parnell_. He bet them what they liked. A Dublin fusilier was
in that shelter one night and said he saw him in South Africa. Pride it
was killed him. He ought to have done away with himself or lain low for
a time after committee room no 15 until he was his old self again with
no-one to point a finger at him. Then they would all to a man have gone
down on their marrowbones to him to come back when he had recovered his
senses. Dead he wasn’t. Simply absconded somewhere. The coffin they
brought over was full of stones. He changed his name to De Wet, the
Boer general. He made a mistake to fight the priests. And so forth and
so on.

All the same Bloom (properly so dubbed) was rather surprised at their
memories for in nine cases out of ten it was a case of tarbarrels and
not singly but in their thousands and then complete oblivion because it
was twenty odd years. Highly unlikely of course there was even a shadow
of truth in the stones and, even supposing, he thought a return highly
inadvisable, all things considered. Something evidently riled them in
his death. Either he petered out too tamely of acute pneumonia just
when his various different political arrangements were nearing
completion or whether it transpired he owed his death to his having
neglected to change his boots and clothes after a wetting when a cold
resulted and failing to consult a specialist he being confined to his
room till he eventually died of it amid widespread regret before a
fortnight was at an end or quite possibly they were distressed to find
the job was taken out of their hands. Of course nobody being acquainted
with his movements even before there was absolutely no clue as to his
whereabouts which were decidedly of the _Alice, where art thou_ order
even prior to his starting to go under several aliases such as Fox and
Stewart so the remark which emanated from friend cabby might be within
the bounds of possibility. Naturally then it would prey on his mind as
a born leader of men which undoubtedly he was and a commanding figure,
a sixfooter or at any rate five feet ten or eleven in his stockinged
feet, whereas Messrs So and So who, though they weren’t even a patch on
the former man, ruled the roost after their redeeming features were
very few and far between. It certainly pointed a moral, the idol with
feet of clay, and then seventytwo of his trusty henchmen rounding on
him with mutual mudslinging. And the identical same with murderers. You
had to come back. That haunting sense kind of drew you. To show the
understudy in the title _rôle_ how to. He saw him once on the
auspicious occasion when they broke up the type in the _Insuppressible_
or was it _United Ireland_, a privilege he keenly appreciated, and, in
point of fact, handed him his silk hat when it was knocked off and he
said _Thank you_, excited as he undoubtedly was under his frigid
exterior notwithstanding the little misadventure mentioned between the
cup and the lip: what’s bred in the bone. Still as regards return. You
were a lucky dog if they didn’t set the terrier at you directly you got
back. Then a lot of shillyshally usually followed, Tom for and Dick and
Harry against. And then, number one, you came up against the man in
possession and had to produce your credentials like the claimant in the
Tichborne case, Roger Charles Tichborne, _Bella_ was the boat’s name to
the best of his recollection he, the heir, went down in as the evidence
went to show and there was a tattoo mark too in Indian ink, lord Bellew
was it, as he might very easily have picked up the details from some
pal on board ship and then, when got up to tally with the description
given, introduce himself with: _Excuse me, my name is So and So_ or
some such commonplace remark. A more prudent course, as Bloom said to
the not over effusive, in fact like the distinguished personage under
discussion beside him, would have been to sound the lie of the land
first.

—That bitch, that English whore, did for him, the shebeen proprietor
commented. She put the first nail in his coffin.

—Fine lump of a woman all the same, the _soi-disant_ townclerk Henry
Campbell remarked, and plenty of her. She loosened many a man’s thighs.
I seen her picture in a barber’s. The husband was a captain or an
officer.

—Ay, Skin-the-Goat amusingly added, he was and a cottonball one.

This gratuitous contribution of a humorous character occasioned a fair
amount of laughter among his _entourage_. As regards Bloom he, without
the faintest suspicion of a smile, merely gazed in the direction of the
door and reflected upon the historic story which had aroused
extraordinary interest at the time when the facts, to make matters
worse, were made public with the usual affectionate letters that passed
between them full of sweet nothings. First it was strictly Platonic
till nature intervened and an attachment sprang up between them till
bit by bit matters came to a climax and the matter became the talk of
the town till the staggering blow came as a welcome intelligence to not
a few evildisposed, however, who were resolved upon encompassing his
downfall though the thing was public property all along though not to
anything like the sensational extent that it subsequently blossomed
into. Since their names were coupled, though, since he was her declared
favourite, where was the particular necessity to proclaim it to the
rank and file from the housetops, the fact, namely, that he had shared
her bedroom which came out in the witnessbox on oath when a thrill went
through the packed court literally electrifying everybody in the shape
of witnesses swearing to having witnessed him on such and such a
particular date in the act of scrambling out of an upstairs apartment
with the assistance of a ladder in night apparel, having gained
admittance in the same fashion, a fact the weeklies, addicted to the
lubric a little, simply coined shoals of money out of. Whereas the
simple fact of the case was it was simply a case of the husband not
being up to the scratch, with nothing in common between them beyond the
name, and then a real man arriving on the scene, strong to the verge of
weakness, falling a victim to her siren charms and forgetting home
ties, the usual sequel, to bask in the loved one’s smiles. The eternal
question of the life connubial, needless to say, cropped up. Can real
love, supposing there happens to be another chap in the case, exist
between married folk? Poser. Though it was no concern of theirs
absolutely if he regarded her with affection, carried away by a wave of
folly. A magnificent specimen of manhood he was truly augmented
obviously by gifts of a high order, as compared with the other military
supernumerary that is (who was just the usual everyday _farewell, my
gallant captain_ kind of an individual in the light dragoons, the 18th
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 Capel street library book out of date, he took out
his pocketbook and, turning over the various contents it contained
rapidly finally he.

—Do you consider, by the by, he said, thoughtfully selecting a faded
photo which he laid on the table, that a Spanish type?

Stephen, obviously addressed, looked down on the photo showing a large
sized lady with her fleshy charms on evidence in an open fashion as she
was in the full bloom of womanhood in evening dress cut ostentatiously
low for the occasion to give a liberal display of bosom, with more than
vision of breasts, her full lips parted and some perfect teeth,
standing near, ostensibly with gravity, a piano on the rest of which
was _In Old Madrid_, a ballad, pretty in its way, which was then all
the vogue. Her (the lady’s) eyes, dark, large, looked at Stephen, about
to smile about something to be admired, Lafayette of Westmoreland
street, Dublin’s premier photographic artist, being responsible for the
esthetic execution.

—Mrs Bloom, my wife the _prima donna_ Madam Marion Tweedy, Bloom
indicated. Taken a few years since. In or about ninety six. Very like
her then.

Beside the young man he looked also at the photo of the lady now his
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, perfectly developed as
works of art, in the National Museum. Marble could give the original,
shoulders, back, all the symmetry, all the rest. Yes, puritanisme, it
does though, Saint Joseph’s sovereign thievery alors (Bandez!) Figne
toi trop. Whereas no photo could because it simply wasn’t art in a
word.

The spirit moving him he would much have liked to follow Jack Tar’s
good example and leave the likeness there for a very few minutes to
speak for itself on the plea he so that the other could drink in the
beauty for himself, her stage presence being, frankly, a treat in
itself which the camera could not at all do justice to. But it was
scarcely professional etiquette so. Though it was a warm pleasant sort
of a night now yet wonderfully cool for the season considering, for
sunshine after storm. And he did feel a kind of need there and then to
follow suit like a kind of inward voice and satisfy a possible need by
moving a motion. Nevertheless he sat tight just viewing the slightly
soiled photo creased by opulent curves, none the worse for wear
however, and looked away thoughtfully with the intention of not further
increasing the other’s possible embarrassment while gauging her
symmetry of heaving _embonpoint_. In fact the slight soiling was only
an added charm like the case of linen slightly soiled, good as new,
much better in fact with the starch out. Suppose she was gone when he?
I looked for the lamp which she told me came into his mind but merely
as a passing fancy of his because he then recollected the morning
littered bed etcetera and the book about Ruby with met him pike hoses
(_sic_) in it which must have fell down sufficiently appropriately
beside the domestic chamberpot with apologies to Lindley Murray.

The vicinity of the young man he certainly relished, educated,
_distingué_ and impulsive into the bargain, far and away the pick of
the bunch though you wouldn’t think he had it in him yet you would.
Besides he said the picture was handsome which, say what you like, it
was though at the moment she was distinctly stouter. And why not? An
awful lot of makebelieve went on about that sort of thing involving a
lifelong slur with the usual splash page of gutterpress about the same
old matrimonial tangle alleging misconduct with professional golfer or
the newest stage favourite instead of being honest and aboveboard about
the whole business. How they were fated to meet and an attachment
sprang up between the two so that their names were coupled in the
public eye was told in court with letters containing the habitual mushy
and compromising expressions leaving no loophole to show that they
openly cohabited two or three times a week at some wellknown seaside
hotel and relations, when the thing ran its normal course, became in
due course intimate. Then the decree _nisi_ and the King’s proctor
tries to show cause why and, he failing to quash it, _nisi_ was made
absolute. But as for that the two misdemeanants, wrapped up as they
largely were in one another, could safely afford to ignore it as they
very largely did till the matter was put in the hands of a solicitor
who filed a petition for the party wronged in due course. He, B,
enjoyed the distinction of being close to Erin’s uncrowned king in the
flesh when the thing occurred on the historic _fracas_ when the fallen
leader’s, who notoriously stuck to his guns to the last drop even when
clothed in the mantle of adultery, (leader’s) trusty henchmen to the
number of ten or a dozen or possibly even more than that penetrated
into the printing works of the _Insuppressible_ or no it was _United
Ireland_ (a by no means by the by appropriate appellative) and broke up
the typecases with hammers or something like that all on account of
some scurrilous effusions from the facile pens of the O’Brienite
scribes at the usual mudslinging occupation reflecting on the erstwhile
tribune’s private morals. Though palpably a radically altered man he
was still a commanding figure though carelessly garbed as usual with
that look of settled purpose which went a long way with the
shillyshallyers till they discovered to their vast discomfiture that
their idol had feet of clay after placing him upon a pedestal which
she, however, was the first to perceive. As those were particularly hot
times in the general hullaballoo Bloom sustained a minor injury from a
nasty prod of some chap’s elbow in the crowd that of course congregated
lodging some place about the pit of the stomach, fortunately not of a
grave character. His hat (Parnell’s) a silk one was inadvertently
knocked off and, as a matter of strict history, Bloom was the man who
picked it up in the crush after witnessing the occurrence meaning to
return it to him (and return it to him he did with the utmost celerity)
who panting and hatless and whose thoughts were miles away from his hat
at the time all the same being a gentleman born with a stake in the
country he, as a matter of fact, having gone into it more for the kudos
of the thing than anything else, what’s bred in the bone instilled into
him in infancy at his mother’s knee in the shape of knowing what good
form was came out at once because he turned round to the donor and
thanked him with perfect _aplomb_, saying: _Thank you, sir_, though in
a very different tone of voice from the ornament of the legal
profession whose headgear Bloom also set to rights earlier in the
course of the day, history repeating itself with a difference, after
the burial of a mutual friend when they had left him alone in his glory
after the grim task of having committed his remains to the grave.

On the other hand what incensed him more inwardly was the blatant jokes
of the cabman and so on who passed it all off as a jest, laughing
immoderately, pretending to understand everything, the why and the
wherefore, and in reality not knowing their own minds, it being a case
for the two parties themselves unless it ensued that the legitimate
husband happened to be a party to it owing to some anonymous letter
from the usual boy Jones, who happened to come across them at the
crucial moment in a loving position locked in one another’s arms,
drawing attention to their illicit proceedings and leading up to a
domestic rumpus and the erring fair one begging forgiveness of her lord
and master upon her knees and promising to sever the connection and not
receive his visits any more if only the aggrieved husband would
overlook the matter and let bygones be bygones with tears in her eyes
though possibly with her tongue in her fair cheek at the same time as
quite possibly there were several others. He personally, being of a
sceptical bias, believed and didn’t make the smallest bones about
saying so either that man or men in the plural were always hanging
around on the waiting list about a lady, even supposing she was the
best wife in the world and they got on fairly well together for the
sake of argument, when, neglecting her duties, she chose to be tired of
wedded life and was on for a little flutter in polite debauchery to
press their attentions on her with improper intent, the upshot being
that her affections centred on another, the cause of many _liaisons_
between still attractive married women getting on for fair and forty
and younger men, no doubt as several famous cases of feminine
infatuation proved up to the hilt.

It was a thousand pities a young fellow, blessed with an allowance of
brains as his neighbour obviously was, should waste his valuable time
with profligate women who might present him with a nice dose to last
him his lifetime. In the nature of single blessedness he would one day
take unto himself a wife when Miss Right came on the scene but in the
interim ladies’ society was a _conditio sine qua non_ though he had the
gravest possible doubts, not that he wanted in the smallest to pump
Stephen about Miss Ferguson (who was very possibly the particular
lodestar who brought him down to Irishtown so early in the morning), as
to whether he would find much satisfaction basking in the boy and girl
courtship idea and the company of smirking misses without a penny to
their names bi or triweekly with the orthodox preliminary canter of
complimentplaying and walking out leading up to fond lovers’ ways and
flowers and chocs. To think of him house and homeless, rooked by some
landlady worse than any stepmother, was really too bad at his age. The
queer suddenly things he popped out with attracted the elder man who
was several years the other’s senior or like his father but something
substantial he certainly ought to eat even were it only an eggflip made
on unadulterated maternal nutriment or, failing that, the homely Humpty
Dumpty boiled.

—At what o’clock did you dine? he questioned of the slim form and tired
though unwrinkled face.

—Some time yesterday, Stephen said.

—Yesterday! exclaimed Bloom till he remembered it was already tomorrow
Friday. Ah, you mean it’s after twelve!

—The day before yesterday, Stephen said, improving on himself.

Literally astounded at this piece of intelligence Bloom reflected.
Though they didn’t see eye to eye in everything a certain analogy there
somehow was as if both their minds were travelling, so to speak, in the
one train of thought. At his age when dabbling in politics roughly some
score of years previously when he had been a _quasi_ aspirant to
parliamentary honours in the Buckshot Foster days he too recollected in
retrospect (which was a source of keen satisfaction in itself) he had a
sneaking regard for those same ultra ideas. For instance when the
evicted tenants question, then at its first inception, bulked largely
in people’s mind though, it goes without saying, not contributing a
copper or pinning his faith absolutely to its dictums, some of which
wouldn’t exactly hold water, he at the outset in principle at all
events was in thorough sympathy with peasant possession as voicing the
trend of modern opinion (a partiality, however, which, realising his
mistake, he was subsequently partially cured of) and even was twitted
with going a step farther than Michael Davitt in the striking views he
at one time inculcated as a backtothelander, which was one reason he
strongly resented the innuendo put upon him in so barefaced a fashion
by our friend at the gathering of the clans in Barney Kiernan’s so that
he, though often considerably misunderstood and the least pugnacious of
mortals, be it repeated, departed from his customary habit to give him
(metaphorically) one in the gizzard though, so far as politics
themselves were concerned, he was only too conscious of the casualties
invariably resulting from propaganda and displays of mutual animosity
and the misery and suffering it entailed as a foregone conclusion on
fine young fellows, chiefly, destruction of the fittest, in a word.

Anyhow upon weighing up the pros and cons, getting on for one, as it
was, it was high time to be retiring for the night. The crux was it was
a bit risky to bring him home as eventualities might possibly ensue
(somebody having a temper of her own sometimes) and spoil the hash
altogether as on the night he misguidedly brought home a dog (breed
unknown) with a lame paw (not that the cases were either identical or
the reverse though he had hurt his hand too) to Ontario Terrace as he
very distinctly remembered, having been there, so to speak. On the
other hand it was altogether far and away too late for the Sandymount
or Sandycove suggestion so that he was in some perplexity as to which
of the two alternatives. Everything pointed to the fact that it behoved
him to avail himself to the full of the opportunity, all things
considered. His initial impression was he was a shade standoffish or
not over effusive but it grew on him someway. For one thing he mightn’t
what you call jump at the idea, if approached, and what mostly worried
him was he didn’t know how to lead up to it or word it exactly,
supposing he did entertain the proposal, as it would afford him very
great personal pleasure if he would allow him to help to put coin in
his way or some wardrobe, if found suitable. At all events he wound up
by concluding, eschewing for the nonce hidebound precedent, a cup of
Epps’s cocoa and a shakedown for the night plus the use of a rug or two
and overcoat doubled into a pillow at least he would be in safe hands
and as warm as a toast on a trivet he failed to perceive any very vast
amount of harm in that always with the proviso no rumpus of any sort
was kicked up. A move had to be made because that merry old soul, the
grasswidower in question who appeared to be glued to the spot, didn’t
appear in any particular hurry to wend his way home to his dearly
beloved Queenstown and it was highly likely some sponger’s bawdyhouse
of retired beauties where age was no bar off Sheriff street lower would
be the best clue to that equivocal character’s whereabouts for a few
days to come, alternately racking their feelings (the mermaids’) with
sixchamber revolver anecdotes verging on the tropical calculated to
freeze the marrow of anybody’s bones and mauling their largesized
charms betweenwhiles with rough and tumble gusto to the accompaniment
of large potations of potheen and the usual blarney about himself for
as to who he in reality was let x equal my right name and address, as
Mr Algebra remarks _passim_. At the same time he inwardly chuckled over
his gentle repartee to the blood and ouns champion about his god being
a jew. People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what
properly riled them was a bite from a sheep. The most vulnerable point
too of tender Achilles. Your god was a jew. Because mostly they
appeared to imagine he came from Carrick-on-Shannon or somewhereabouts
in the county Sligo.

—I propose, our hero eventually suggested after mature reflection while
prudently pocketing her photo, as it’s rather stuffy here you just come
home with me and talk things over. My diggings are quite close in the
vicinity. You can’t drink that stuff. Do you like cocoa? Wait. I’ll
just pay this lot.

The best plan clearly being to clear out, the remainder being plain
sailing, he beckoned, while prudently pocketing the photo, to the
keeper of the shanty who didn’t seem to.

—Yes, that’s the best, he assured Stephen to whom for the matter of
that Brazen Head or him or anywhere else was all more or less.

All kinds of Utopian plans were flashing through his (B’s) busy brain,
education (the genuine article), literature, journalism, prize titbits,
up to date billing, concert tours in English watering resorts packed
with hydros and seaside theatres, turning money away, duets in Italian
with the accent perfectly true to nature and a quantity of other
things, no necessity, of course, to tell the world and his wife from
the housetops about it, and a slice of luck. An opening was all was
wanted. Because he more than suspected he had his father’s voice to
bank his hopes on which it was quite on the cards he had so it would be
just as well, by the way no harm, to trail the conversation in the
direction of that particular red herring just to.

The cabby read out of the paper he had got hold of that the former
viceroy, earl Cadogan, had presided at the cabdrivers’ association
dinner in London somewhere. Silence with a yawn or two accompanied this
thrilling announcement. Then the old specimen in the corner who
appeared to have some spark of vitality left read out that sir Anthony
MacDonnell had left Euston for the chief secretary’s lodge or words to
that effect. To which absorbing piece of intelligence echo answered
why.

—Give us a squint at that literature, grandfather, the ancient mariner
put in, manifesting some natural impatience.

—And welcome, answered the elderly party thus addressed.

The sailor lugged out from a case he had a pair of greenish goggles
which he very slowly hooked over his nose and both ears.

—Are you bad in the eyes? the sympathetic personage like the townclerk
queried.

—Why, answered the seafarer with the tartan beard, who seemingly was a
bit of a literary cove in his own small way, staring out of seagreen
portholes as you might well describe them as, I uses goggles reading.
Sand in the Red Sea done that. One time I could read a book in the
dark, manner of speaking. _The Arabian Nights Entertainment_ was my
favourite and _Red as a Rose is She._

Hereupon he pawed the journal open and pored upon Lord only knows what,
found drowned or the exploits of King Willow, Iremonger having made a
hundred and something second wicket not out for Notts, during which
time (completely regardless of Ire) the keeper was intensely occupied
loosening an apparently new or secondhand boot which manifestly pinched
him as he muttered against whoever it was sold it, all of them who were
sufficiently awake enough to be picked out by their facial expressions,
that is to say, either simply looking on glumly or passing a trivial
remark.

To cut a long story short Bloom, grasping the situation, was the first
to rise from his seat so as not to outstay their welcome having first
and foremost, being as good as his word that he would foot the bill for
the occasion, taken the wise precaution to unobtrusively motion to mine
host as a parting shot a scarcely perceptible sign when the others were
not looking to the effect that the amount due was forthcoming, making a
grand total of fourpence (the amount he deposited unobtrusively in four
coppers, literally the last of the Mohicans), he having previously
spotted on the printed pricelist for all who ran to read opposite him
in unmistakable figures, coffee 2d, confectionery do, and honestly well
worth twice the money once in a way, as Wetherup used to remark.

—Come, he counselled to close the _séance_.

Seeing that the ruse worked and the coast was clear they left the
shelter or shanty together and the _élite_ 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 cafés. 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 laurels and
putting the others totally in the shade, in the jesuit fathers’ church
in upper Gardiner street, the sacred edifice being thronged to the
doors to hear her with virtuosos, or _virtuosi_ rather. There was the
unanimous opinion that there was none to come up to her and suffice it
to say in a place of worship for music of a sacred character there was
a generally voiced desire for an encore. On the whole though favouring
preferably light opera of the _Don Giovanni_ description and _Martha_,
a gem in its line, he had a _penchant_, though with only a surface
knowledge, for the severe classical school such as Mendelssohn. And
talking of that, taking it for granted he knew all about the old
favourites, he mentioned _par excellence_ Lionel’s air in _Martha,
M’appari_, which, curiously enough, he had heard or overheard, to be
more accurate, on yesterday, a privilege he keenly appreciated, from
the lips of Stephen’s respected father, sung to perfection, a study of
the number, in fact, which made all the others take a back seat.
Stephen, in reply to a politely put query, said he didn’t sing it but
launched out into praises of Shakespeare’s songs, at least of in or
about that period, the lutenist Dowland who lived in Fetter lane near
Gerard the herbalist, who _anno ludendo hausi, Doulandus_, an
instrument he was contemplating purchasing from Mr Arnold Dolmetsch,
whom B. did not quite recall though the name certainly sounded
familiar, for sixtyfive guineas and Farnaby and son with their _dux_
and _comes_ conceits and Byrd (William) who played the virginals, he
said, in the Queen’s chapel or anywhere else he found them and one
Tomkins who made toys or airs and John Bull.

On the roadway which they were approaching whilst still speaking beyond
the swingchains a horse, dragging a sweeper, paced on the paven ground,
brushing a long swathe of mire up so that with the noise Bloom was not
perfectly certain whether he had caught aright the allusion to
sixtyfive guineas and John Bull. He inquired if it was John Bull the
political celebrity of that ilk, as it struck him, the two identical
names, as a striking coincidence.

By the chains the horse slowly swerved to turn, which perceiving,
Bloom, who was keeping a sharp lookout as usual, plucked the other’s
sleeve gently, jocosely remarking:

—Our lives are in peril tonight. Beware of the steamroller.

They thereupon stopped. Bloom looked at the head of a horse not worth
anything like sixtyfive guineas, suddenly in evidence in the dark quite
near so that it seemed new, a different grouping of bones and even
flesh because palpably it was a fourwalker, a hipshaker, a
blackbuttocker, a taildangler, a headhanger putting his hind foot
foremost the while the lord of his creation sat on the perch, busy with
his thoughts. But such a good poor brute he was sorry he hadn’t a lump
of sugar but, as he wisely reflected, you could scarcely be prepared
for every emergency that might crop up. He was just a big nervous
foolish noodly kind of a horse, without a second care in the world. But
even a dog, he reflected, take that mongrel in Barney Kiernan’s, of the
same size, would be a holy horror to face. But it was no animal’s fault
in particular if he was built that way like the camel, ship of the
desert, distilling grapes into potheen in his hump. Nine tenths of them
all could be caged or trained, nothing beyond the art of man barring
the bees. Whale with a harpoon hairpin, alligator tickle the small of
his back and he sees the joke, chalk a circle for a rooster, tiger my
eagle eye. These timely reflections anent the brutes of the field
occupied his mind somewhat distracted from Stephen’s words while the
ship of the street was manœuvring and Stephen went on about the highly
interesting old.

—What’s this I was saying? Ah, yes! My wife, he intimated, plunging _in
medias res_, would have the greatest of pleasure in making your
acquaintance as she is passionately attached to music of any kind.

He looked sideways in a friendly fashion at the sideface of Stephen,
image of his mother, which was not quite the same as the usual handsome
blackguard type they unquestionably had an insatiable hankering after
as he was perhaps not that way built.

Still, supposing he had his father’s gift as he more than suspected, it
opened up new vistas in his mind such as Lady Fingall’s Irish
industries, concert on the preceding Monday, and aristocracy in
general.

Exquisite variations he was now describing on an air _Youth here has
End_ by Jans Pieter Sweelinck, a Dutchman of Amsterdam where the frows
come from. Even more he liked an old German song of _Johannes Jeep_
about the clear sea and the voices of sirens, sweet murderers of men,
which boggled Bloom a bit:

     Von der Sirenen Listigkeit
     Tun die Poeten dichten.

These opening bars he sang and translated _extempore_. Bloom, nodding,
said he perfectly understood and begged him to go on by all means which
he did.

A phenomenally beautiful tenor voice like that, the rarest of boons,
which Bloom appreciated at the very first note he got out, could
easily, if properly handled by some recognised authority on voice
production such as Barraclough and being able to read music into the
bargain, command its own price where baritones were ten a penny and
procure for its fortunate possessor in the near future an _entrée_ into
fashionable houses in the best residential quarters of financial
magnates in a large way of business and titled people where with his
university degree of B. A. (a huge ad in its way) and gentlemanly
bearing to all the more influence the good impression he would
infallibly score a distinct success, being blessed with brains which
also could be utilised for the purpose and other requisites, if his
clothes were properly attended to so as to the better worm his way into
their good graces as he, a youthful tyro in society’s sartorial
niceties, hardly understood how a little thing like that could militate
against you. It was in fact only a matter of months and he could easily
foresee him participating in their musical and artistic
_conversaziones_ during the festivities of the Christmas season, for
choice, causing a slight flutter in the dovecotes of the fair sex and
being made a lot of by ladies out for sensation, cases of which, as he
happened to know, were on record—in fact, without giving the show away,
he himself once upon a time, if he cared to, could easily have. Added
to which of course would be the pecuniary emolument by no means to be
sneezed at, going hand in hand with his tuition fees. Not, he
parenthesised, that for the sake of filthy lucre he need necessarily
embrace the lyric platform as a walk in life for any lengthy space of
time. But a step in the required direction it was beyond yea or nay and
both monetarily and mentally it contained no reflection on his dignity
in the smallest and it often turned in uncommonly handy to be handed a
cheque at a muchneeded moment when every little helped. Besides, though
taste latterly had deteriorated to a degree, original music like that,
different from the conventional rut, would rapidly have a great vogue
as it would be a decided novelty for Dublin’s musical world after the
usual hackneyed run of catchy tenor solos foisted on a confiding public
by Ivan St Austell and Hilton St Just and their _genus omne_. Yes,
beyond a shadow of a doubt he could with all the cards in his hand and
he had a capital opening to make a name for himself and win a high
place in the city’s esteem where he could command a stiff figure and,
booking ahead, give a grand concert for the patrons of the King street
house, given a backerup, if one were forthcoming to kick him upstairs,
so to speak, a big _if_, however, with some impetus of the goahead sort
to obviate the inevitable procrastination which often tripped up a too
much fêted prince of good fellows. And it need not detract from the
other by one iota as, being his own master, he would have heaps of time
to practise literature in his spare moments when desirous of so doing
without its clashing with his vocal career or containing anything
derogatory whatsoever as it was a matter for himself alone. In fact, he
had the ball at his feet and that was the very reason why the other,
possessed of a remarkably sharp nose for smelling a rat of any sort,
hung on to him at all.

The horse was just then. And later on at a propitious opportunity he
purposed (Bloom did), without anyway prying into his private affairs on
the _fools step in where angels_ principle, advising him to sever his
connection with a certain budding practitioner who, he noticed, was
prone to disparage and even to a slight extent with some hilarious
pretext when not present, deprecate him, or whatever you like to call
it which in Bloom’s humble opinion threw a nasty sidelight on that side
of a person’s character, no pun intended.

The horse having reached the end of his tether, so to speak, halted
and, rearing high a proud feathering tail, added his quota by letting
fall on the floor which the brush would soon brush up and polish, three
smoking globes of turds. Slowly three times, one after another, from a
full crupper he mired. And humanely his driver waited till he (or she)
had ended, patient in his scythed car.

Side by side Bloom, profiting by the _contretemps_, with Stephen passed
through the gap of the chains, divided by the upright, and, stepping
over a strand of mire, went across towards Gardiner street lower,
Stephen singing more boldly, but not loudly, the end of the ballad.

     Und alle Schiffe brücken.

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 _tête à tête_ (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 collapse which Bloom ascribed to gastric
inanition and certain chemical compounds of varying degrees of
adulteration and alcoholic strength, accelerated by mental exertion and
the velocity of rapid circular motion in a relaxing atmosphere, Stephen
attributed to the reapparition of a matutinal cloud (perceived by both
from two different points of observation Sandycove and Dublin) at first
no bigger than a woman’s hand.

Was there one point on which their views were equal and negative?

The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of adjoining
paraheliotropic trees.

Had Bloom discussed similar subjects during nocturnal perambulations in
the past?

In 1884 with Owen Goldberg and Cecil Turnbull at night on public
thoroughfares between Longwood avenue and Leonard’s corner and
Leonard’s corner and Synge street and Synge street and Bloomfield
avenue. In 1885 with Percy Apjohn in the evenings, reclined against the
wall between Gibraltar villa and Bloomfield house in Crumlin, barony of
Uppercross. In 1886 occasionally with casual acquaintances and
prospective purchasers on doorsteps, in front parlours, in third class
railway carriages of suburban lines. In 1888 frequently with major
Brian Tweedy and his daughter Miss Marion Tweedy, together and
separately on the lounge in Matthew Dillon’s house in Roundtown. Once
in 1892 and once in 1893 with Julius (Juda) Mastiansky, on both
occasions in the parlour of his (Bloom’s) house in Lombard street,
west.

What reflection concerning the irregular sequence of dates 1884, 1885,
1886, 1888, 1892, 1893, 1904 did Bloom make before their arrival at
their destination?

He reflected that the progressive extension of the field of individual
development and experience was regressively accompanied by a
restriction of the converse domain of interindividual relations.

As in what ways?

From inexistence to existence he came to many and was as one received:
existence with existence he was with any as any with any: from
existence to nonexistence gone he would be by all as none perceived.

What act did Bloom make on their arrival at their destination?

At the housesteps of the 4th of the equidifferent uneven numbers,
number 7 Eccles street, he inserted his hand mechanically into the back
pocket of his trousers to obtain his latchkey.

Was it there?

It was in the corresponding pocket of the trousers which he had worn on
the day but one preceding.

Why was he doubly irritated?

Because he had forgotten and because he remembered that he had reminded
himself twice not to forget.

What were then the alternatives before the, premeditatedly
(respectively) and inadvertently, keyless couple?

To enter or not to enter. To knock or not to knock.

Bloom’s decision?

A stratagem. Resting his feet on the dwarf wall, he climbed over the
area railings, compressed his hat on his head, grasped two points at
the lower union of rails and stiles, lowered his body gradually by its
length of five feet nine inches and a half to within two feet ten
inches of the area pavement and allowed his body to move freely in
space by separating himself from the railings and crouching in
preparation for the impact of the fall.

Did he fall?

By his body’s known weight of eleven stone and four pounds in
avoirdupois measure, as certified by the graduated machine for
periodical selfweighing in the premises of Francis Froedman,
pharmaceutical chemist of 19 Frederick street, north, on the last feast
of the Ascension, to wit, the twelfth day of May of the bissextile year
one thousand nine hundred and four of the christian era (jewish era
five thousand six hundred and sixtyfour, mohammadan era one thousand
three hundred and twentytwo), golden number 5, epact 13, solar cycle 9,
dominical letters C B, Roman indiction 2, Julian period 6617, MCMIV.

Did he rise uninjured by concussion?

Regaining new stable equilibrium he rose uninjured though concussed by
the impact, raised the latch of the area door by the exertion of force
at its freely moving flange and by leverage of the first kind applied
at its fulcrum, gained retarded access to the kitchen through the
subadjacent scullery, ignited a lucifer match by friction, set free
inflammable coal gas by 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?

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 1/2 million gallons the water had fallen below the
sill of the overflow weir for which reason the borough surveyor and
waterworks engineer, Mr Spencer Harty, C. E., on the instructions of
the waterworks committee had prohibited the use of municipal water for
purposes other than those of consumption (envisaging the possibility of
recourse being had to the impotable water of the Grand and Royal canals
as in 1893) particularly as the South Dublin Guardians, notwithstanding
their ration of 15 gallons per day per pauper supplied through a 6 inch
meter, had been convicted of a wastage of 20,000 gallons per night by a
reading of their meter on the affirmation of the law agent of the
corporation, Mr Ignatius Rice, solicitor, thereby acting to the
detriment of another section of the public, selfsupporting taxpayers,
solvent, sound.

What in water did Bloom, waterlover, drawer of water, watercarrier,
returning to the range, admire?

Its universality: its democratic equality and constancy to its nature
in seeking its own level: its vastness in the ocean of Mercator’s
projection: its unplumbed profundity in the Sundam trench of the
Pacific exceeding 8000 fathoms: the restlessness of its waves and
surface particles visiting in turn all points of its seaboard: the
independence of its units: the variability of states of sea: its
hydrostatic quiescence in calm: its hydrokinetic turgidity in neap and
spring tides: its subsidence after devastation: its sterility in the
circumpolar icecaps, arctic and antarctic: its climatic and commercial
significance: its preponderance of 3 to 1 over the dry land of the
globe: its indisputable hegemony extending in square leagues over all
the region below the subequatorial tropic of Capricorn: the
multisecular stability of its primeval basin: its luteofulvous bed: its
capacity to dissolve and hold in solution all soluble substances
including millions of tons of the most precious metals: its slow
erosions of peninsulas and islands, its persistent formation of
homothetic islands, peninsulas and downwardtending promontories: its
alluvial deposits: its weight and volume and density: its
imperturbability in lagoons and highland tarns: its gradation of
colours in the torrid and temperate and frigid zones: its vehicular
ramifications in continental lakecontained streams and confluent
oceanflowing rivers with their tributaries and transoceanic currents,
gulfstream, north and south equatorial courses: its violence in
seaquakes, waterspouts, Artesian wells, eruptions, torrents, eddies,
freshets, spates, groundswells, watersheds, waterpartings, geysers,
cataracts, whirlpools, maelstroms, inundations, deluges, cloudbursts:
its vast circumterrestrial ahorizontal curve: its secrecy in springs
and latent humidity, revealed by rhabdomantic or hygrometric
instruments and exemplified by the well by the hole in the wall at
Ashtown gate, saturation of air, distillation of dew: the simplicity of
its composition, two constituent parts of hydrogen with one constituent
part of oxygen: its healing virtues: its buoyancy in the waters of the
Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness in runnels, gullies,
inadequate dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for cleansing,
quenching thirst and fire, nourishing vegetation: its infallibility as
paradigm and paragon: its metamorphoses as vapour, mist, cloud, rain,
sleet, snow, hail: its strength in rigid hydrants: its variety of forms
in loughs and bays and gulfs and bights and guts and lagoons and atolls
and archipelagos and sounds and fjords and minches and tidal estuaries
and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers, icebergs, icefloes: its
docility in working hydraulic millwheels, turbines, dynamos, electric
power stations, bleachworks, tanneries, scutchmills: its utility in
canals, rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its
potentiality derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling
from level to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic,
photophobe), numerically, if not literally, the inhabitants of the
globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90
% of the human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine
% marshes,
pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning
moon.

Having set the halffilled kettle on the now burning coals, why did he
return to the stillflowing tap?

To wash his soiled hands with a partially consumed tablet of
Barrington’s lemonflavoured soap, to which paper still adhered, (bought
thirteen hours previously for fourpence and still unpaid for), in fresh
cold neverchanging everchanging water and dry them, face and hands, in
a long redbordered holland cloth passed over a wooden revolving roller.

What reason did Stephen give for declining Bloom’s offer?

That he was hydrophobe, hating partial contact by immersion or total by
submersion in cold water, (his last bath having taken place in the
month of October of the preceding year), disliking the aqueous
substances of glass and crystal, distrusting aquacities of thought and
language.

What impeded Bloom from giving Stephen counsels of hygiene and
prophylactic to which should be added suggestions concerning a
preliminary wetting of the head and contraction of the muscles with
rapid splashing of the face and neck and thoracic and epigastric region
in case of sea or river bathing, the parts of the human anatomy most
sensitive to cold being the nape, stomach and thenar or sole of foot?

The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius.

What additional didactic counsels did he similarly repress?

Dietary: concerning the respective percentage of protein and caloric
energy in bacon, salt ling and butter, the absence of the former in the
lastnamed and the abundance of the latter in the firstnamed.

Which seemed to the host to be the predominant qualities of his guest?

Confidence in himself, an equal and opposite power of abandonment and
recuperation.

What concomitant phenomenon took place in the vessel of liquid by the
agency of fire?

The phenomenon of ebullition. Fanned by a constant updraught of
ventilation between the kitchen and the chimneyflue, ignition was
communicated from the faggots of precombustible fuel to polyhedral
masses of bituminous coal, containing in compressed mineral form the
foliated fossilised decidua of primeval forests which had in turn
derived their vegetative existence from the sun, primal source of heat
(radiant), transmitted through omnipresent luminiferous diathermanous
ether. Heat (convected), a mode of motion developed by such combustion,
was constantly and increasingly conveyed from the source of
calorification to the liquid contained in the vessel, being radiated
through the uneven unpolished dark surface of the metal iron, in part
reflected, in part absorbed, in part transmitted, gradually raising the
temperature of the water from normal to boiling point, a rise in
temperature expressible as the result of an expenditure of 72 thermal
units needed to raise 1 pound of water from 50° 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?

On the lower shelf five vertical breakfast plates, six horizontal
breakfast saucers on which rested inverted breakfast cups, a
moustachecup, uninverted, and saucer of Crown Derby, four white
goldrimmed eggcups, an open shammy purse displaying coins, mostly
copper, and a phial of aromatic (violet) comfits. On the middle shelf a
chipped eggcup containing pepper, a drum of table salt, four
conglomerated black olives in oleaginous paper, an empty pot of
Plumtree’s potted meat, an oval wicker basket bedded with fibre and
containing one Jersey pear, a halfempty bottle of William Gilbey and
Co’s white invalid port, half disrobed of its swathe of coralpink
tissue paper, a packet of Epps’s soluble cocoa, five ounces of Anne
Lynch’s choice tea at 2/- per lb in a crinkled leadpaper bag, a
cylindrical canister containing the best crystallised lump sugar, two
onions, one, the larger, Spanish, entire, the other, smaller, Irish,
bisected with augmented surface and more redolent, a jar of Irish Model
Dairy’s cream, a jug of brown crockery containing a naggin and a
quarter of soured adulterated milk, converted by heat into water,
acidulous serum and semisolidified curds, which added to the quantity
subtracted for Mr Bloom’s and Mrs Fleming’s breakfasts, made one
imperial pint, the total quantity originally delivered, two cloves, a
halfpenny and a small dish containing a slice of fresh ribsteak. On the
upper shelf a battery of jamjars (empty) of various sizes and
proveniences.

What attracted his attention lying on the apron of the dresser?

Four polygonal fragments of two lacerated scarlet betting tickets,
numbered 8 87, 88 6.

What reminiscences temporarily corrugated his brow?

Reminiscences of coincidences, truth stranger than fiction,
preindicative of the result of the Gold Cup flat handicap, the official
and definitive result of which he had read in the _Evening Telegraph_,
late pink edition, in the cabman’s shelter, at Butt bridge.

Where had previous intimations of the result, effected or projected,
been received by him?

In Bernard Kiernan’s licensed premises 8, 9 and 10 little Britain
street: in David Byrne’s licensed premises, 14 Duke street: in
O’Connell street lower, outside Graham Lemon’s when a dark man had
placed in his hand a throwaway (subsequently thrown away), advertising
Elijah, restorer of the church in Zion: in Lincoln place outside the
premises of F. W. Sweny and Co (Limited), dispensing chemists, when,
when Frederick M. (Bantam) Lyons had rapidly and successively
requested, perused and restituted the copy of the current issue of the
_Freeman’s Journal_ and _National Press_ which he had been about to
throw away (subsequently thrown away), he had proceeded towards the
oriental edifice of the Turkish and Warm Baths, 11 Leinster street,
with the light of inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in
his arms the secret of the race, graven in the language of prediction.

What qualifying considerations allayed his perturbations?

The difficulties of interpretation since the significance of any event
followed its occurrence as variably as the acoustic report followed the
electrical discharge and of counterestimating against an actual loss by
failure to interpret the total sum of possible losses proceeding
originally from a successful interpretation.

His mood?

He had not risked, he did not expect, he had not been disappointed, he
was satisfied.

What satisfied him?

To have sustained no positive loss. To have brought a positive gain to
others. Light to the gentiles.

How did Bloom prepare a collation for a gentile?

He poured into two teacups two level spoonfuls, four in all, of Epps’s
soluble cocoa and proceeded according to the directions for use printed
on the label, to each adding after sufficient time for infusion the
prescribed ingredients for diffusion in the manner and in the quantity
prescribed.

What supererogatory marks of special hospitality did the host show his
guest?

Relinquishing his symposiarchal right to the moustache cup of imitation
Crown Derby presented to him by his only daughter, Millicent (Milly),
he substituted a cup identical with that of his guest and served
extraordinarily to his guest and, in reduced measure, to himself the
viscous cream ordinarily reserved for the breakfast of his wife Marion
(Molly).

Was the guest conscious of and did he acknowledge these marks of
hospitality?

His attention was directed to them by his host jocosely, and he
accepted them seriously as they drank in jocoserious silence Epps’s
massproduct, the creature cocoa.

Were there marks of hospitality which he contemplated but suppressed,
reserving them for another and for himself on future occasions to
complete the act begun?

The reparation of a fissure of the length of 1 1/2 inches in the right
side of his guest’s jacket. A gift to his guest of one of the four
lady’s handkerchiefs, if and when ascertained to be in a presentable
condition.

Who drank more quickly?

Bloom, having the advantage of ten seconds at the initiation and
taking, from the concave surface of a spoon along the handle of which a
steady flow of heat was conducted, three sips to his opponent’s one,
six to two, nine to three.

What cerebration accompanied his frequentative act?

Concluding by inspection but erroneously that his silent companion was
engaged in mental composition he reflected on the pleasures derived
from literature of instruction rather than of amusement as he himself
had applied to the works of William Shakespeare more than once for the
solution of difficult problems in imaginary or real life.

Had he found their solution?

In spite of careful and repeated reading of certain classical passages,
aided by a glossary, he had derived imperfect conviction from the text,
the answers not bearing in all points.

What lines concluded his first piece of original verse written by him,
potential poet, at the age of 11 in 1877 on the occasion of the
offering of three prizes of 10/-, 5/- and 2/6 respectively for
competition by the _Shamrock_, a weekly newspaper?

     An ambition to squint
     At my verses in print
     Makes me hope that for these you’ll find room.
     If you so condescend
     Then please place at the end
     The name of yours truly, L. Bloom.

Did he find four separating forces between his temporary guest and him?

Name, age, race, creed.

What anagrams had he made on his name in youth?

Leopold Bloom
Ellpodbomool
Molldopeloob
Bollopedoom
Old Ollebo, M. P.

What acrostic upon the abbreviation of his first name had he (kinetic
poet) sent to Miss Marion (Molly) Tweedy on the 14 February 1888?

     Poets oft have sung in rhyme
     Of music sweet their praise divine.
     Let them hymn it nine times nine.
     Dearer far than song or wine.
     You are mine. The world is mine.

What had prevented him from completing a topical song (music by R. G.
Johnston) on the events of the past, or fixtures for the actual, years,
entitled _If Brian Boru could but come back and see old Dublin now_,
commissioned by Michael Gunn, lessee of the Gaiety Theatre, 46, 47, 48,
49 South King street, and to be introduced into the sixth scene, the
valley of diamonds, of the second edition (30 January 1893) of the
grand annual Christmas pantomime _Sinbad the Sailor_ (produced by R.
Shelton 26 December 1892, written by Greenleaf Whittier, scenery by
George A. Jackson and Cecil Hicks, costumes by Mrs and Miss Whelan
under the personal supervision of Mrs Michael Gunn, ballets by Jessie
Noir, harlequinade by Thomas Otto) and sung by Nelly Bouverist,
principal girl?

Firstly, oscillation between events of imperial and of local interest,
the anticipated diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria (born 1820, acceded
1837) and the posticipated opening of the new municipal fish market:
secondly, apprehension of opposition from extreme circles on the
questions of the respective visits of Their Royal Highnesses the duke
and duchess of York (real) and of His Majesty King Brian Boru
(imaginary): thirdly, a conflict between professional etiquette and
professional emulation concerning the recent erections of the Grand
Lyric Hall on Burgh Quay and the Theatre Royal in Hawkins street:
fourthly, distraction resultant from compassion for Nelly Bouverist’s
non-intellectual, non-political, non-topical expression of countenance
and concupiscence caused by Nelly Bouverist’s revelations of white
articles of non-intellectual, non-political, non-topical underclothing
while she (Nelly Bouverist) was in the articles: fifthly, the
difficulties of the selection of appropriate music and humorous
allusions from _Everybody’s Book of Jokes_ (1000 pages and a laugh in
every one): sixthly, the rhymes, homophonous and cacophonous,
associated with the names of the new lord mayor, Daniel Tallon, the new
high sheriff, Thomas Pile and the new solicitorgeneral, Dunbar Plunket
Barton.

What relation existed between their ages?

16 years before in 1888 when Bloom was of Stephen’s present age Stephen
was 6. 16 years after in 1920 when Stephen would be of Bloom’s present
age Bloom would be 54. In 1936 when Bloom would be 70 and Stephen 54
their ages initially in the ratio of 16 to 0 would be as 17 1/2 to 13
1/2, the proportion increasing and the disparity diminishing according
as arbitrary future years were added, for if the proportion existing in
1883 had continued immutable, conceiving that to be possible, till then
1904 when Stephen was 22 Bloom would be 374 and in 1920 when Stephen
would be 38, as Bloom then was, Bloom would be 646 while in 1952 when
Stephen would have attained the maximum postdiluvian age of 70 Bloom,
being 1190 years alive having been born in the year 714, would have
surpassed by 221 years the maximum antediluvian age, that of
Methusalah, 969 years, while, if Stephen would continue to live until
he would attain that age in the year 3072 A.D., 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?

Because in middle youth he had often sat observing through a rondel of
bossed glass of a multicoloured pane the spectacle offered with
continual changes of the thoroughfare without, pedestrians, quadrupeds,
velocipedes, vehicles, passing slowly, quickly, evenly, round and round
and round the rim of a round and round precipitous globe.

What distinct different memories had each of her now eight years
deceased?

The older, her bezique cards and counters, her Skye terrier, her
suppositious wealth, her lapses of responsiveness and incipient
catarrhal deafness: the younger, her lamp of colza oil before the
statue of the Immaculate Conception, her green and maroon brushes for
Charles Stewart Parnell and for Michael Davitt, her tissue papers.

Were there no means still remaining to him to achieve the rejuvenation
which these reminiscences divulged to a younger companion rendered the
more desirable?

The indoor exercises, formerly intermittently practised, subsequently
abandoned, prescribed in Eugen Sandow’s _Physical Strength and How to
Obtain It_ which, designed particularly for commercial men engaged in
sedentary occupations, were to be made with mental concentration in
front of a mirror so as to bring into play the various families of
muscles and produce successively a pleasant rigidity, a more pleasant
relaxation and the most pleasant repristination of juvenile agility.

Had any special agility been his in earlier youth?

Though ringweight lifting had been beyond his strength and the full
circle gyration beyond his courage yet as a High school scholar he had
excelled in his stable and protracted execution of the half lever
movement on the parallel bars in consequence of his abnormally
developed abdominal muscles.

Did either openly allude to their racial difference?

Neither.

What, reduced to their simplest reciprocal form, were Bloom’s thoughts
about Stephen’s thoughts about Bloom and about Stephen’s thoughts about
Bloom’s thoughts about Stephen?

He thought that he thought that he was a jew whereas he knew that he
knew that he knew that he was not.

What, the enclosures of reticence removed, were their respective
parentages?

Bloom, only born male transubstantial heir of Rudolf Virag
(subsequently Rudolph Bloom) of Szombathely, Vienna, Budapest, Milan,
London and Dublin and of Ellen Higgins, second daughter of Julius
Higgins (born Karoly) and Fanny Higgins (born Hegarty). Stephen, eldest
surviving male consubstantial heir of Simon Dedalus of Cork and Dublin
and of Mary, daughter of Richard and Christina Goulding (born Grier).

Had Bloom and Stephen been baptised, and where and by whom, cleric or
layman?

Bloom (three times), by the reverend Mr Gilmer Johnston M. A., alone,
in the protestant church of Saint Nicholas Without, Coombe, by James
O’Connor, Philip Gilligan and James Fitzpatrick, together, under a pump
in the village of Swords, and by the reverend Charles Malone C. C., in
the church of the Three Patrons, Rathgar. Stephen (once) by the
reverend Charles Malone C. C., alone, in the church of the Three
Patrons, Rathgar.

Did they find their educational careers similar?

Substituting Stephen for Bloom Stoom would have passed successively
through a dame’s school and the high school. Substituting Bloom for
Stephen Blephen would have passed successively through the preparatory,
junior, middle and senior grades of the intermediate and through the
matriculation, first arts, second arts and arts degree courses of the
royal university.

Why did Bloom refrain from stating that he had frequented the
university of life?

Because of his fluctuating incertitude as to whether this observation
had or had not been already made by him to Stephen or by Stephen to
him.

What two temperaments did they individually represent?

The scientific. The artistic.

What proofs did Bloom adduce to prove that his tendency was towards
applied, rather than towards pure, science?

Certain possible inventions of which he had cogitated when reclining in
a state of supine repletion to aid digestion, stimulated by his
appreciation of the importance of inventions now common but once
revolutionary, for example, the aeronautic parachute, the reflecting
telescope, the spiral corkscrew, the safety pin, the mineral water
siphon, the canal lock with winch and sluice, the suction pump.

Were these inventions principally intended for an improved scheme of
kindergarten?

Yes, rendering obsolete popguns, elastic airbladders, games of hazard,
catapults. They comprised astronomical kaleidoscopes exhibiting the
twelve constellations of the zodiac from Aries to Pisces, miniature
mechanical orreries, arithmetical gelatine lozenges, geometrical to
correspond with zoological biscuits, globemap playing balls,
historically costumed dolls.

What also stimulated him in his cogitations?

The financial success achieved by Ephraim Marks and Charles A. James,
the former by his 1d bazaar at 42 George’s street, south, the latter at
his 6 1/2d shop and world’s fancy fair and waxwork exhibition at 30
Henry street, admission 2d, children 1d: and the infinite possibilities
hitherto unexploited of the modern art of advertisement if condensed in
triliteral monoideal symbols, vertically of maximum visibility
(divined), horizontally of maximum legibility (deciphered) and of
magnetising efficacy to arrest involuntary attention, to interest, to
convince, to decide.

Such as?

K. 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).

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 1 of chloroform liniment (purchased by him at 10.20 a.m. on
the morning of 27 June 1886 at the medical hall of Francis Dennehy, 17
Church street, Ennis) after having, though not in consequence of
having, purchased at 3.15 p.m. on the afternoon of 27 June 1886 a new
boater straw hat, extra smart (after having, though not in consequence
of having, purchased at the hour and in the place aforesaid, the toxin
aforesaid), at the general drapery store of James Cullen, 4 Main
street, Ennis.

Did he attribute this homonymity to information or coincidence or
intuition?

Coincidence.

Did he depict the scene verbally for his guest to see?

He preferred himself to see another’s face and listen to another’s
words by which potential narration was realised and kinetic temperament
relieved.

Did he see only a second coincidence in the second scene narrated to
him, described by the narrator as _A Pisgah Sight of Palestine_ or _The
Parable of the Plums_?

It, with the preceding scene and with others unnarrated but existent by
implication, to which add essays on various subjects or moral apothegms
(e.g. _My Favourite Hero_ or _Procrastination is the Thief of Time_)
composed during schoolyears, seemed to him to contain in itself and in
conjunction with the personal equation certain possibilities of
financial, social, personal and sexual success, whether specially
collected and selected as model pedagogic themes (of cent per cent
merit) for the use of preparatory and junior grade students or
contributed in printed form, following the precedent of Philip Beaufoy
or Doctor Dick or Heblon’s _Studies in Blue_, to a publication of
certified circulation and solvency or employed verbally as intellectual
stimulation for sympathetic auditors, tacitly appreciative of
successful narrative and confidently augurative of successful
achievement, during the increasingly longer nights gradually following
the summer solstice on the day but three following, videlicet, Tuesday,
21 June (S. Aloysius Gonzaga), sunrise 3.33 a.m., sunset 8.29 p.m.

Which domestic problem as much as, if not more than, any other
frequently engaged his mind?

What to do with our wives.

What had been his hypothetical singular solutions?

Parlour games (dominos, halma, tiddledywinks, spilikins, cup and ball,
nap, spoil five, bezique, twentyfive, beggar my neighbour, draughts,
chess or backgammon): embroidery, darning or knitting for the
policeaided clothing society: musical duets, mandoline and guitar,
piano and flute, guitar and piano: legal scrivenery or envelope
addressing: biweekly visits to variety entertainments: commercial
activity as pleasantly commanding and pleasingly obeyed mistress
proprietress in a cool dairy shop or warm cigar divan: the clandestine
satisfaction of erotic irritation in masculine brothels, state
inspected and medically controlled: social visits, at regular
infrequent prevented intervals and with regular frequent preventive
superintendence, to and from female acquaintances of recognised
respectability in the vicinity: courses of evening instruction
specially designed to render liberal instruction agreeable.

What instances of deficient mental development in his wife inclined him
in favour of the lastmentioned (ninth) solution?

In disoccupied moments she had more than once covered a sheet of paper
with signs and hieroglyphics which she stated were Greek and Irish and
Hebrew characters. She had interrogated constantly at varying intervals
as to the correct method of writing the capital initial of the name of
a city in Canada, Quebec. She understood little of political
complications, internal, or balance of power, external. In calculating
the addenda of bills she frequently had recourse to digital aid. After
completion of laconic epistolary compositions she abandoned the
implement of calligraphy in the encaustic pigment, exposed to the
corrosive action of copperas, green vitriol and nutgall. Unusual
polysyllables of foreign origin she interpreted phonetically or by
false analogy or by both: metempsychosis (met him pike hoses), _alias_
(a mendacious person mentioned in sacred scripture).

What compensated in the false balance of her intelligence for these and
such deficiencies of judgment regarding persons, places and things?

The false apparent parallelism of all perpendicular arms of all
balances, proved true by construction. The counterbalance of her
proficiency of judgment regarding one person, proved true by
experiment.

How had he attempted to remedy this state of comparative ignorance?

Variously. By leaving in a conspicuous place a certain book open at a
certain page: by assuming in her, when alluding explanatorily, latent
knowledge: by open ridicule in her presence of some absent other’s
ignorant lapse.

With what success had he attempted direct instruction?

She followed not all, a part of the whole, gave attention with interest
comprehended with surprise, with care repeated, with greater difficulty
remembered, forgot with ease, with misgiving reremembered, rerepeated
with error.

What system had proved more effective?

Indirect suggestion implicating selfinterest.

Example?

She disliked umbrella with rain, he liked woman with umbrella, she
disliked new hat with rain, he liked woman with new hat, he bought new
hat with rain, she carried umbrella with new hat.

Accepting the analogy implied in his guest’s parable which examples of
postexilic eminence did he adduce?

Three seekers of the pure truth, Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides,
author of _More Nebukim_ (Guide of the Perplexed) and Moses Mendelssohn
of such eminence that from Moses (of Egypt) to Moses (Mendelssohn)
there arose none like Moses (Maimonides).

What statement was made, under correction, by Bloom concerning a fourth
seeker of pure truth, by name Aristotle, mentioned, with permission, by
Stephen?

That the seeker mentioned had been a pupil of a rabbinical philosopher,
name uncertain.

Were other anapocryphal illustrious sons of the law and children of a
selected or rejected race mentioned?

Felix Bartholdy Mendelssohn (composer), Baruch Spinoza (philosopher),
Mendoza (pugilist), Ferdinand Lassalle (reformer, duellist).

What fragments of verse from the ancient Hebrew and ancient Irish
languages were cited with modulations of voice and translation of texts
by guest to host and by host to guest?

By Stephen: _suil, suil, suil arun, suil go siocair agus suil go cuin_
(walk, walk, walk your way, walk in safety, walk with care).

By Bloom: _Kifeloch, harimon rakatejch m’baad l’zamatejch_ (thy temple
amid thy hair is as a slice of pomegranate).

How was a glyphic comparison of the phonic symbols of both languages
made in substantiation of the oral comparison?

By juxtaposition. On the penultimate blank page of a book of inferior
literary style, entituled _Sweets of Sin_ (produced by Bloom and so
manipulated that its front cover came in contact with the surface of
the table) with a pencil (supplied by Stephen) Stephen wrote the Irish
characters for gee, eh, dee, em, simple and modified, and Bloom in turn
wrote the Hebrew characters ghimel, aleph, daleth and (in the absence
of mem) a substituted qoph, explaining their arithmetical values as
ordinal and cardinal numbers, videlicet 3, 1, 4, and 100.

Was the knowledge possessed by both of each of these languages, the
extinct and the revived, theoretical or practical?

Theoretical, being confined to certain grammatical rules of accidence
and syntax and practically excluding vocabulary.

What points of contact existed between these languages and between the
peoples who spoke them?

The presence of guttural sounds, diacritic aspirations, epenthetic and
servile letters in both languages: their antiquity, both having been
taught on the plain of Shinar 242 years after the deluge in the
seminary instituted by Fenius Farsaigh, descendant of Noah, progenitor
of Israel, and ascendant of Heber and Heremon, progenitors of Ireland:
their archaeological, genealogical, hagiographical, exegetical,
homiletic, toponomastic, historical and religious literatures
comprising the works of rabbis and culdees, Torah, Talmud (Mischna and
Ghemara), Massor, Pentateuch, Book of the Dun Cow, Book of Ballymote,
Garland of Howth, Book of Kells: their dispersal, persecution, survival
and revival: the isolation of their synagogical and ecclesiastical
rites in ghetto (S. Mary’s Abbey) and masshouse (Adam and Eve’s
tavern): the proscription of their national costumes in penal laws and
jewish dress acts: the restoration in Chanah David of Zion and the
possibility of Irish political autonomy or devolution.

What anthem did Bloom chant partially in anticipation of that multiple,
ethnically irreducible consummation?

     Kolod balejwaw pnimah
     Nefesch, jehudi, homijah.

Why was the chant arrested at the conclusion of this first distich?

In consequence of defective mnemotechnic.

How did the chanter compensate for this deficiency?

By a periphrastic version of the general text.

In what common study did their mutual reflections merge?

The increasing simplification traceable from the Egyptian epigraphic
hieroglyphs to the Greek and Roman alphabets and the anticipation of
modern stenography and telegraphic code in the cuneiform inscriptions
(Semitic) and the virgular quinquecostate ogham writing (Celtic).

Did the guest comply with his host’s request?

Doubly, by appending his signature in Irish and Roman characters.

What was Stephen’s auditive sensation?

He heard in a profound ancient male unfamiliar melody the accumulation
of the past.

What was Bloom’s visual sensation?

He saw in a quick young male familiar form the predestination of a
future.

What were Stephen’s and Bloom’s quasisimultaneous volitional
quasisensations of concealed identities?

Visually, Stephen’s: The traditional figure of hypostasis, depicted by
Johannes Damascenus, Lentulus Romanus and Epiphanius Monachus as
leucodermic, sesquipedalian with winedark hair.

Auditively, Bloom’s: The traditional accent of the ecstasy of
catastrophe.

What future careers had been possible for Bloom in the past and with
what exemplars?

In the church, Roman, Anglican or Nonconformist: exemplars, the very
reverend John Conmee S. J., the reverend T. Salmon, D. D., provost of
Trinity college, Dr Alexander J. Dowie. At the bar, English or Irish:
exemplars, Seymour Bushe, K. C., Rufus Isaacs, K. C. On the stage,
modern or Shakespearean: exemplars, Charles Wyndham, high comedian,
Osmond Tearle († 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.

[Illustration]

How did the son of Rudolph receive this first part?

With unmixed feeling. Smiling, a jew, he heard with pleasure and saw
the unbroken kitchen window.

Recite the second part (minor) of the legend.

     Then out there came the jew’s daughter
     And she all dressed in green.
     “Come back, come back, you pretty little boy,
     And play your ball again.”
     
     I can’t come back and I won’t come back
     Without my schoolfellows all.
     For if my master he did hear
     He’d make it a sorry ball.”

     She took him by the lilywhite hand
     And led him along the hall
     Until she led him to a room
     Where none could hear him call.

     She took a penknife out of her pocket
     And cut off his little head.
     And now he’ll play his ball no more
     For he lies among the dead.

[Illustration]

How did the father of Millicent receive this second part?

With mixed feelings. Unsmiling, he heard and saw with wonder a jew’s
daughter, all dressed in green.

Condense Stephen’s commentary.

One of all, the least of all, is the victim predestined. Once by
inadvertence twice by design he challenges his destiny. It comes when
he is abandoned and challenges him reluctant and, as an apparition of
hope and youth, holds him unresisting. It leads him to a strange
habitation, to a secret infidel apartment, and there, implacable,
immolates him, consenting.

Why was the host (victim predestined) sad?

He wished that a tale of a deed should be told of a deed not by him
should by him not be told.

Why was the host (reluctant, unresisting) still?

In accordance with the law of the conservation of energy.

Why was the host (secret infidel) silent?

He weighed the possible evidences for and against ritual murder: the
incitations of the hierarchy, the superstition of the populace, the
propagation of rumour in continued fraction of veridicity, the envy of
opulence, the influence of retaliation, the sporadic reappearance of
atavistic delinquency, the mitigating circumstances of fanaticism,
hypnotic suggestion and somnambulism.

From which (if any) of these mental or physical disorders was he not
totally immune?

From hypnotic suggestion: once, waking, he had not recognised his
sleeping apartment: more than once, waking, he had been for an
indefinite time incapable of moving or uttering sounds. From
somnambulism: once, sleeping, his body had risen, crouched and crawled
in the direction of a heatless fire and, having attained its
destination, there, curled, unheated, in night attire had lain,
sleeping.

Had this latter or any cognate phenomenon declared itself in any member
of his family?

Twice, in Holles street and in Ontario terrace, his daughter Millicent
(Milly) at the ages of 6 and 8 years had uttered in sleep an
exclamation of terror and had replied to the interrogations of two
figures in night attire with a vacant mute expression.

What other infantile memories had he of her?

15 June 1889. A querulous newborn female infant crying to cause and
lessen congestion. A child renamed Padney Socks she shook with shocks
her moneybox: counted his three free moneypenny buttons, one, tloo,
tlee: a doll, a boy, a sailor she cast away: blond, born of two dark,
she had blond ancestry, remote, a violation, Herr Hauptmann Hainau,
Austrian army, proximate, a hallucination, lieutenant Mulvey, British
navy.

What endemic characteristics were present?

Conversely the nasal and frontal formation was derived in a direct line
of lineage which, though interrupted, would continue at distant
intervals to more distant intervals to its most distant intervals.

What memories had he of her adolescence?

She relegated her hoop and skippingrope to a recess. On the duke’s
lawn, entreated by an English visitor, she declined to permit him to
make and take away her photographic image (objection not stated). On
the South Circular road in the company of Elsa Potter, followed by an
individual of sinister aspect, she went half way down Stamer street and
turned abruptly back (reason of change not stated). On the vigil of the
15th anniversary of her birth she wrote a letter from Mullingar, county
Westmeath, making a brief allusion to a local student (faculty and year
not stated).

Did that first division, portending a second division, afflict him?

Less than he had imagined, more than he had hoped.

What second departure was contemporaneously perceived by him similarly,
if differently?

A temporary departure of his cat.

Why similarly, why differently?

Similarly, because actuated by a secret purpose the quest of a new male
(Mullingar student) or of a healing herb (valerian). Differently,
because of different possible returns to the inhabitants or to the
habitation.

In other respects were their differences similar?

In passivity, in economy, in the instinct of tradition, in
unexpectedness.

As?

Inasmuch as leaning she sustained her blond hair for him to ribbon it
for her (cf neckarching cat). Moreover, on the free surface of the lake
in Stephen’s green amid inverted reflections of trees her uncommented
spit, describing concentric circles of waterrings, indicated by the
constancy of its permanence the locus of a somnolent prostrate fish (cf
mousewatching cat). Again, in order to remember the date, combatants,
issue and consequences of a famous military engagement she pulled a
plait of her hair (cf earwashing cat). Furthermore, silly Milly, she
dreamed of having had an unspoken unremembered conversation with a
horse whose name had been Joseph to whom (which) she had offered a
tumblerful of lemonade which it (he) had appeared to have accepted (cf
hearthdreaming cat). Hence, in passivity, in economy, in the instinct
of tradition, in unexpectedness, their differences were similar.

In what way had he utilised gifts (1) an owl, 2) a clock, given as
matrimonial auguries, to interest and to instruct her?

As object lessons to explain: 1) the nature and habits of oviparous
animals, the possibility of aerial flight, certain abnormalities of
vision, the secular process of imbalsamation: 2) the principle of the
pendulum, exemplified in bob, wheelgear and regulator, the translation
in terms of human or social regulation of the various positions of
clockwise moveable indicators on an unmoving dial, the exactitude of
the recurrence per hour of an instant in each hour when the longer and
the shorter indicator were at the same angle of inclination,
_videlicet_, 5 5/11 minutes past each hour per hour in arithmetical
progression.

In what manners did she reciprocate?

She remembered: on the 27th anniversary of his birth she presented to
him a breakfast moustachecup of imitation Crown Derby porcelain ware.
She provided: at quarter day or thereabouts if or when purchases had
been made by him not for her she showed herself attentive to his
necessities, anticipating his desires. She admired: a natural
phenomenon having been explained by him to her she expressed the
immediate desire to possess without gradual acquisition a fraction of
his science, the moiety, the quarter, a thousandth part.

What proposal did Bloom, diambulist, father of Milly, somnambulist,
make to Stephen, noctambulist?

To pass in repose the hours intervening between Thursday (proper) and
Friday (normal) on an extemporised cubicle in the apartment immediately
above the kitchen and immediately adjacent to the sleeping apartment of
his host and hostess.

What various advantages would or might have resulted from a
prolongation of such an extemporisation?

For the guest: security of domicile and seclusion of study. For the
host: rejuvenation of intelligence, vicarious satisfaction. For the
hostess: disintegration of obsession, acquisition of correct Italian
pronunciation.

Why might these several provisional contingencies between a guest and a
hostess not necessarily preclude or be precluded by a permanent
eventuality of reconciliatory union between a schoolfellow and a jew’s
daughter?

Because the way to daughter led through mother, the way to mother
through daughter.

To what inconsequent polysyllabic question of his host did the guest
return a monosyllabic negative answer?

If he had known the late Mrs Emily Sinico, accidentally killed at
Sydney Parade railway station, 14 October 1903.

What inchoate corollary statement was consequently suppressed by the
host?

A statement explanatory of his absence on the occasion of the interment
of Mrs Mary Dedalus (born Goulding), 26 June 1903, vigil of the
anniversary of the decease of Rudolph Bloom (born Virag).

Was the proposal of asylum accepted?

Promptly, inexplicably, with amicability, gratefully it was declined.

What exchange of money took place between host and guest?

The former returned to the latter, without interest, a sum of money (£
1-7-0), one pound seven shillings sterling, advanced by the latter to
the former.

What counterproposals were alternately advanced, accepted, modified,
declined, restated in other terms, reaccepted, ratified, reconfirmed?

To inaugurate a prearranged course of Italian instruction, place the
residence of the instructed. To inaugurate a course of vocal
instruction, place the residence of the instructress. To inaugurate a
series of static, semistatic and peripatetic intellectual dialogues,
places the residence of both speakers (if both speakers were resident
in the same place), the _Ship_ hotel and tavern, 6 Lower Abbey street
(W. and E. Connery, proprietors), the National Library of Ireland, 10
Kildare street, the National Maternity Hospital, 29, 30 and 31 Holles
street, a public garden, the vicinity of a place of worship, a
conjunction of two or more public thoroughfares, the point of bisection
of a right line drawn between their residences (if both speakers were
resident in different places).

What rendered problematic for Bloom the realisation of these mutually
selfexcluding propositions?

The irreparability of the past: once at a performance of Albert
Hengler’s circus in the Rotunda, Rutland square, Dublin, an intuitive
particoloured clown in quest of paternity had penetrated from the ring
to a place in the auditorium where Bloom, solitary, was seated and had
publicly declared to an exhilarated audience that he (Bloom) was his
(the clown’s) papa. The imprevidibility of the future: once in the
summer of 1898 he (Bloom) had marked a florin (2/-) with three notches
on the milled edge and tendered it in payment of an account due to and
received by J. and T. Davy, family grocers, 1 Charlemont Mall, Grand
Canal, for circulation on the waters of civic finance, for possible,
circuitous or direct, return.

Was the clown Bloom’s son?

No.

Had Bloom’s coin returned?

Never.

Why would a recurrent frustration the more depress him?

Because at the critical turningpoint of human existence he desired to
amend many social conditions, the product of inequality and avarice and
international animosity.

He believed then that human life was infinitely perfectible,
eliminating these conditions?

There remained the generic conditions imposed by natural, as distinct
from human law, as integral parts of the human whole: the necessity of
destruction to procure alimentary sustenance: the painful character of
the ultimate functions of separate existence, the agonies of birth and
death: the monotonous menstruation of simian and (particularly) human
females extending from the age of puberty to the menopause: inevitable
accidents at sea, in mines and factories: certain very painful maladies
and their resultant surgical operations, innate lunacy and congenital
criminality, decimating epidemics: catastrophic cataclysms which make
terror the basis of human mentality: seismic upheavals the epicentres
of which are located in densely populated regions: the fact of vital
growth, through convulsions of metamorphosis, from infancy through
maturity to decay.

Why did he desist from speculation?

Because it was a task for a superior intelligence to substitute other
more acceptable phenomena in the place of the less acceptable phenomena
to be removed.

Did Stephen participate in his dejection?

He affirmed his significance as a conscious rational animal proceeding
syllogistically from the known to the unknown and a conscious rational
reagent between a micro and a macrocosm ineluctably constructed upon
the incertitude of the void.

Was this affirmation apprehended by Bloom?

Not verbally. Substantially.

What comforted his misapprehension?

That as a competent keyless citizen he had proceeded energetically from
the unknown to the known through the incertitude of the void.

In what order of precedence, with what attendant ceremony was the
exodus from the house of bondage to the wilderness of inhabitation
effected?

Lighted Candle in Stick borne by
BLOOM
Diaconal Hat on Ashplant borne by
STEPHEN

With what intonation _secreto_ of what commemorative psalm?

The 113th, _modus peregrinus: In exitu Israël de Egypto: domus Jacob de
populo barbaro_.

What did each do at the door of egress?

Bloom set the candlestick on the floor. Stephen put the hat on his
head.

For what creature was the door of egress a door of ingress?

For a cat.

What spectacle confronted them when they, first the host, then the
guest, emerged silently, doubly dark, from obscurity by a passage from
the rere of the house into the penumbra of the garden?

The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.

With what meditations did Bloom accompany his demonstration to his
companion of various constellations?

Meditations of evolution increasingly vaster: of the moon invisible in
incipient lunation, approaching perigee: of the infinite lattiginous
scintillating uncondensed milky way, discernible by daylight by an
observer placed at the lower end of a cylindrical vertical shaft 5000
ft deep sunk from the surface towards the centre of the earth: of
Sirius (alpha in Canis Maior) 10 lightyears (57,000,000,000,000 miles)
distant and in volume 900 times the dimension of our planet: of
Arcturus: of the precession of equinoxes: of Orion with belt and
sextuple sun theta and nebula in which 100 of our solar systems could
be contained: of moribund and of nascent new stars such as Nova in
1901: of our system plunging towards the constellation of Hercules: of
the parallax or parallactic drift of socalled fixed stars, in reality
evermoving wanderers from immeasurably remote eons to infinitely remote
futures in comparison with which the years, threescore and ten, of
allotted human life formed a parenthesis of infinitesimal brevity.

Were there obverse meditations of involution increasingly less vast?

Of the eons of geological periods recorded in the stratifications of
the earth: of the myriad minute entomological organic existences
concealed in cavities of the earth, beneath removable stones, in hives
and mounds, of microbes, germs, bacteria, bacilli, spermatozoa: of the
incalculable trillions of billions of millions of imperceptible
molecules contained by cohesion of molecular affinity in a single
pinhead: of the universe of human serum constellated with red and white
bodies, themselves universes of void space constellated with other
bodies, each, in continuity, its universe of divisible component bodies
of which each was again divisible in divisions of redivisible component
bodies, dividends and divisors ever diminishing without actual division
till, if the progress were carried far enough, nought nowhere was never
reached.

Why did he not elaborate these calculations to a more precise result?

Because some years previously in 1886 when occupied with the problem of
the quadrature of the circle he had learned of the existence of a
number computed to a relative degree of accuracy to be of such
magnitude and of so many places, e.g., the 9th power of the 9th power
of 9, that, the result having been obtained, 33 closely printed volumes
of 1000 pages each of innumerable quires and reams of India paper would
have to be requisitioned in order to contain the complete tale of its
printed integers of units, tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of
thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions, tens of millions, hundreds
of millions, billions, the nucleus of the nebula of every digit of
every series containing succinctly the potentiality of being raised to
the utmost kinetic elaboration of any power of any of its powers.

Did he find the problems of the inhabitability of the planets and their
satellites by a race, given in species, and of the possible social and
moral redemption of said race by a redeemer, easier of solution?

Of a different order of difficulty. Conscious that the human organism,
normally capable of sustaining an atmospheric pressure of 19 tons, when
elevated to a considerable altitude in the terrestrial atmosphere
suffered with arithmetical progression of intensity, according as the
line of demarcation between troposphere and stratosphere was
approximated from nasal hemorrhage, impeded respiration and vertigo,
when proposing this problem for solution, he had conjectured as a
working hypothesis which could not be proved impossible that a more
adaptable and differently anatomically constructed race of beings might
subsist otherwise under Martian, Mercurial, Veneral, Jovian, Saturnian,
Neptunian or Uranian sufficient and equivalent conditions, though an
apogean humanity of beings created in varying forms with finite
differences resulting similar to the whole and to one another would
probably there as here remain inalterably and inalienably attached to
vanities, to vanities of vanities and to all that is vanity.

And the problem of possible redemption?

The minor was proved by the major.

Which various features of the constellations were in turn considered?

The various colours significant of various degrees of vitality (white,
yellow, crimson, vermilion, cinnabar): their degrees of brilliancy:
their magnitudes revealed up to and including the 7th: their positions:
the waggoner’s star: Walsingham way: the chariot of David: the annular
cinctures of Saturn: the condensation of spiral nebulae into suns: the
interdependent gyrations of double suns: the independent synchronous
discoveries of Galileo, Simon Marius, Piazzi, Le Verrier, Herschel,
Galle: the systematisations attempted by Bode and Kepler of cubes of
distances and squares of times of revolution: the almost infinite
compressibility of hirsute comets and their vast elliptical egressive
and reentrant orbits from perihelion to aphelion: the sidereal origin
of meteoric stones: the Libyan floods on Mars about the period of the
birth of the younger astroscopist: the annual recurrence of meteoric
showers about the period of the feast of S. Lawrence (martyr, 10
August): the monthly recurrence known as the new moon with the old moon
in her arms: the posited influence of celestial on human bodies: the
appearance of a star (1st magnitude) of exceeding brilliancy dominating
by night and day (a new luminous sun generated by the collision and
amalgamation in incandescence of two nonluminous exsuns) about the
period of the birth of William Shakespeare over delta in the recumbent
neversetting constellation of Cassiopeia and of a star (2nd magnitude)
of similar origin but of lesser brilliancy which had appeared in and
disappeared from the constellation of the Corona Septentrionalis about
the period of the birth of Leopold Bloom and of other stars of
(presumably) similar origin which had (effectively or presumably)
appeared in and disappeared from the constellation of Andromeda about
the period of the birth of Stephen Dedalus, and in and from the
constellation of Auriga some years after the birth and death of Rudolph
Bloom, junior, and in and from other constellations some years before
or after the birth or death of other persons: the attendant phenomena
of eclipses, solar and lunar, from immersion to emersion, abatement of
wind, transit of shadow, taciturnity of winged creatures, emergence of
nocturnal or crepuscular animals, persistence of infernal light,
obscurity of terrestrial waters, pallor of human beings.

His (Bloom’s) logical conclusion, having weighed the matter and
allowing for possible error?

That it was not a heaventree, not a heavengrot, not a heavenbeast, not
a heavenman. That it was a Utopia, there being no known method from the
known to the unknown: an infinity renderable equally finite by the
suppositious apposition of one or more bodies equally of the same and
of different magnitudes: a mobility of illusory forms immobilised in
space, remobilised in air: a past which possibly had ceased to exist as
a present before its probable spectators had entered actual present
existence.

Was he more convinced of the esthetic value of the spectacle?

Indubitably in consequence of the reiterated examples of poets in the
delirium of the frenzy of attachment or in the abasement of rejection
invoking ardent sympathetic constellations or the frigidity of the
satellite of their planet.

Did he then accept as an article of belief the theory of astrological
influences upon sublunary disasters?

It seemed to him as possible of proof as of confutation and the
nomenclature employed in its selenographical charts as attributable to
verifiable intuition as to fallacious analogy: the lake of dreams, the
sea of rains, the gulf of dews, the ocean of fecundity.

What special affinities appeared to him to exist between the moon and
woman?

Her antiquity in preceding and surviving successive tellurian
generations: her nocturnal predominance: her satellitic dependence: her
luminary reflection: her constancy under all her phases, rising and
setting by her appointed times, waxing and waning: the forced
invariability of her aspect: her indeterminate response to
inaffirmative interrogation: her potency over effluent and refluent
waters: her power to enamour, to mortify, to invest with beauty, to
render insane, to incite to and aid delinquency: the tranquil
inscrutability of her visage: the terribility of her isolated dominant
implacable resplendent propinquity: her omens of tempest and of calm:
the stimulation of her light, her motion and her presence: the
admonition of her craters, her arid seas, her silence: her splendour,
when visible: her attraction, when invisible.

What visible luminous sign attracted Bloom’s, who attracted Stephen’s,
gaze?

In the second storey (rere) of his (Bloom’s) house the light of a
paraffin oil lamp with oblique shade projected on a screen of roller
blind supplied by Frank O’Hara, window blind, curtain pole and
revolving shutter manufacturer, 16 Aungier street.

How did he elucidate the mystery of an invisible attractive person, his
wife Marion (Molly) Bloom, denoted by a visible splendid sign, a lamp?

With indirect and direct verbal allusions or affirmations: with subdued
affection and admiration: with description: with impediment: with
suggestion.

Both then were silent?

Silent, each contemplating the other in both mirrors of the reciprocal
flesh of theirhisnothis fellowfaces.

Were they indefinitely inactive?

At Stephen’s suggestion, at Bloom’s instigation both, first Stephen,
then Bloom, in penumbra urinated, their sides contiguous, their organs
of micturition reciprocally rendered invisible by manual
circumposition, their gazes, first Bloom’s, then Stephen’s, elevated to
the projected luminous and semiluminous shadow.

Similarly?

The trajectories of their, first sequent, then simultaneous, urinations
were dissimilar: Bloom’s longer, less irruent, in the incomplete form
of the bifurcated penultimate alphabetical letter, who in his ultimate
year at High School (1880) had been capable of attaining the point of
greatest altitude against the whole concurrent strength of the
institution, 210 scholars: Stephen’s higher, more sibilant, who in the
ultimate hours of the previous day had augmented by diuretic
consumption an insistent vesical pressure.

What different problems presented themselves to each concerning the
invisible audible collateral organ of the other?

To Bloom: the problems of irritability, tumescence, rigidity,
reactivity, dimension, sanitariness, pilosity.

To Stephen: the problem of the sacerdotal integrity of Jesus
circumcised (1 January, holiday of obligation to hear mass and abstain
from unnecessary servile work) and the problem as to whether the divine
prepuce, the carnal bridal ring of the holy Roman catholic apostolic
church, conserved in Calcata, were deserving of simple hyperduly or of
the fourth degree of latria accorded to the abscission of such divine
excrescences as hair and toenails.

What celestial sign was by both simultaneously observed?

A star precipitated with great apparent velocity across the firmament
from Vega in the Lyre above the zenith beyond the stargroup of the
Tress of Berenice towards the zodiacal sign of Leo.

How did the centripetal remainer afford egress to the centrifugal
departer?

By inserting the barrel of an arruginated male key in the hole of an
unstable female lock, obtaining a purchase on the bow of the key and
turning its wards from right to left, withdrawing a bolt from its
staple, pulling inward spasmodically an obsolescent unhinged door and
revealing an aperture for free egress and free ingress.

How did they take leave, one of the other, in separation?

Standing perpendicular at the same door and on different sides of its
base, the lines of their valedictory arms, meeting at any point and
forming any angle less than the sum of two right angles.

What sound accompanied the union of their tangent, the disunion of
their (respectively) centrifugal and centripetal hands?

The sound of the peal of the hour of the night by the chime of the
bells in the church of Saint George.

What echoes of that sound were by both and each heard?

By Stephen:

     Liliata rutilantium. Turma circumdet.
     Iubilantium te virginum. Chorus excipiat.

By Bloom:

     Heigho, heigho,
     Heigho, heigho.

Where were the several members of the company which with Bloom that day
at the bidding of that peal had travelled from Sandymount in the south
to Glasnevin in the north?

Martin Cunningham (in bed), Jack Power (in bed), Simon Dedalus (in
bed), Ned Lambert (in bed), Tom Kernan (in bed), Joe Hynes (in bed),
John Henry Menton (in bed), Bernard Corrigan (in bed), Patsy Dignam (in
bed), Paddy Dignam (in the grave).

Alone, what did Bloom hear?

The double reverberation of retreating feet on the heavenborn earth,
the double vibration of a jew’s harp in the resonant lane.

Alone, what did Bloom feel?

The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing
point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the
incipient intimations of proximate dawn.

Of what did bellchime and handtouch and footstep and lonechill remind
him?

Of companions now in various manners in different places defunct: Percy
Apjohn (killed in action, Modder River), Philip Gilligan (phthisis,
Jervis Street hospital), Matthew F. Kane (accidental drowning, Dublin
Bay), Philip Moisel (pyemia, Heytesbury street), Michael Hart
(phthisis, Mater Misericordiae hospital), Patrick Dignam (apoplexy,
Sandymount).

What prospect of what phenomena inclined him to remain?

The disparition of three final stars, the diffusion of daybreak, the
apparition of a new solar disk.

Had he ever been a spectator of those phenomena?

Once, in 1887, after a protracted performance of charades in the house
of Luke Doyle, Kimmage, he had awaited with patience the apparition of
the diurnal phenomenon, seated on a wall, his gaze turned in the
direction of Mizrach, the east.

He remembered the initial paraphenomena?

More active air, a matutinal distant cock, ecclesiastical clocks at
various points, avine music, the isolated tread of an early wayfarer,
the visible diffusion of the light of an invisible luminous body, the
first golden limb of the resurgent sun perceptible low on the horizon.

Did he remain?

With deep inspiration he returned, retraversing the garden, reentering
the passage, reclosing the door. With brief suspiration he reassumed
the candle, reascended the stairs, reapproached the door of the front
room, hallfloor, and reentered.

What suddenly arrested his ingress?

The right temporal lobe of the hollow sphere of his cranium came into
contact with a solid timber angle where, an infinitesimal but sensible
fraction of a second later, a painful sensation was located in
consequence of antecedent sensations transmitted and registered.

Describe the alterations effected in the disposition of the articles of
furniture.

A sofa upholstered in prune plush had been translocated from opposite
the door to the ingleside near the compactly furled Union Jack (an
alteration which he had frequently intended to execute): the blue and
white checker inlaid majolicatopped table had been placed opposite the
door in the place vacated by the prune plush sofa: the walnut sideboard
(a projecting angle of which had momentarily arrested his ingress) had
been moved from its position beside the door to a more advantageous but
more perilous position in front of the door: two chairs had been moved
from right and left of the ingleside to the position originally
occupied by the blue and white checker inlaid majolicatopped table.

Describe them.

One: a squat stuffed easychair, with stout arms extended and back
slanted to the rere, which, repelled in recoil, had then upturned an
irregular fringe of a rectangular rug and now displayed on its amply
upholstered seat a centralised diffusing and diminishing
discolouration. The other: a slender splayfoot chair of glossy cane
curves, placed directly opposite the former, its frame from top to seat
and from seat to base being varnished dark brown, its seat being a
bright circle of white plaited rush.

What significances attached to these two chairs?

Significances of similitude, of posture, of symbolism, of
circumstantial evidence, of testimonial supermanence.

What occupied the position originally occupied by the sideboard?

A vertical piano (Cadby) with exposed keyboard, its closed coffin
supporting a pair of long yellow ladies’ gloves and an emerald ashtray
containing four consumed matches, a partly consumed cigarette and two
discoloured ends of cigarettes, its musicrest supporting the music in
the key of G natural for voice and piano of _Love’s Old Sweet Song_
(words by G. Clifton Bingham, composed by J. L. Molloy, sung by Madam
Antoinette Sterling) open at the last page with the final indications
_ad libitum, forte_, pedal, _animato_, sustained pedal, _ritirando_,
close.

With what sensations did Bloom contemplate in rotation these objects?

With strain, elevating a candlestick: with pain, feeling on his right
temple a contused tumescence: with attention, focussing his gaze on a
large dull passive and a slender bright active: with solicitation,
bending and downturning the upturned rugfringe: with amusement,
remembering Dr Malachi Mulligan’s scheme of colour containing the
gradation of green: with pleasure, repeating the words and antecedent
act and perceiving through various channels of internal sensibility the
consequent and concomitant tepid pleasant diffusion of gradual
discolouration.

His next proceeding?

From an open box on the majolicatopped table he extracted a black
diminutive cone, one inch in height, placed it on its circular base on
a small tin plate, placed his candlestick on the right corner of the
mantelpiece, produced from his waistcoat a folded page of prospectus
(illustrated) entitled Agendath Netaim, unfolded the same, examined it
superficially, rolled it into a thin cylinder, ignited it in the
candleflame, applied it when ignited to the apex of the cone till the
latter reached the stage of rutilance, placed the cylinder in the basin
of the candlestick disposing its unconsumed part in such a manner as to
facilitate total combustion.

What followed this operation?

The truncated conical crater summit of the diminutive volcano emitted a
vertical and serpentine fume redolent of aromatic oriental incense.

What homothetic objects, other than the candlestick, stood on the
mantelpiece?

A timepiece of striated Connemara marble, stopped at the hour of 4.46
a.m. on the 21 March 1896, matrimonial gift of Matthew Dillon: a dwarf
tree of glacial arborescence under a transparent bellshade, matrimonial
gift of Luke and Caroline Doyle: an embalmed owl, matrimonial gift of
Alderman John Hooper.

What interchanges of looks took place between these three objects and
Bloom?

In the mirror of the giltbordered pierglass the undecorated back of the
dwarf tree regarded the upright back of the embalmed owl. Before the
mirror the matrimonial gift of Alderman John Hooper with a clear
melancholy wise bright motionless compassionate gaze regarded Bloom
while Bloom with obscure tranquil profound motionless compassionated
gaze regarded the matrimonial gift of Luke and Caroline Doyle.

What composite asymmetrical image in the mirror then attracted his
attention?

The image of a solitary (ipsorelative) mutable (aliorelative) man.

Why solitary (ipsorelative)?

     Brothers and sisters had he none.
     Yet that man’s father was his grandfather’s son.

Why mutable (aliorelative)?

From infancy to maturity he had resembled his maternal procreatrix.
From maturity to senility he would increasingly resemble his paternal
procreator.

What final visual impression was communicated to him by the mirror?

The optical reflection of several inverted volumes improperly arranged
and not in the order of their common letters with scintillating titles
on the two bookshelves opposite.

Catalogue these books.

_Thom’s Dublin Post Office Directory_, 1886.

Denis Florence M’Carthy’s _Poetical Works_ (copper beechleaf bookmark
at p. 5).

Shakespeare’s _Works_ (dark crimson morocco, goldtooled).

_The Useful Ready Reckoner_ (brown cloth).

_The Secret History of the Court of Charles II_ (red cloth, tooled
binding).

_The Child’s Guide_ (blue cloth).

_The Beauties of Killarney_ (wrappers).

_When We Were Boys_ by William O’Brien M. P. (green cloth, slightly
faded, envelope bookmark at p. 217).

_Thoughts from Spinoza_ (maroon leather).

_The Story of the Heavens_ by Sir Robert Ball (blue cloth).

Ellis’s _Three Trips to Madagascar_ (brown cloth, title obliterated).

_The Stark-Munro Letters_ by A. Conan Doyle, property of the City of
Dublin Public Library, 106 Capel street, lent 21 May (Whitsun Eve)
1904, due 4 June 1904, 13 days overdue (black cloth binding, bearing
white letternumber ticket).

_Voyages in China_ by “Viator” (recovered with brown paper, red ink
title).

_Philosophy of the Talmud_ (sewn pamphlet).

Lockhart’s _Life of Napoleon_ (cover wanting, marginal annotations,
minimising victories, aggrandising defeats of the protagonist).

_Soll und Haben_ by Gustav Freytag (black boards, Gothic characters,
cigarette coupon bookmark at p. 24).

Hozier’s _History of the Russo-Turkish War_ (brown cloth, 2 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, 5 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 Biſhop’s Head, MDCCXI, with dedicatory
epiſtle to his worthy friend Charles Cox, eſquire, 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 requeſting the perſon who should
find it, if the book should be loſt or go aſtray, to reſtore it to
Michael Gallagher, carpenter, Dufery Gate, Enniſcorthy, county Wicklow,
the fineſt place in the world.

What reflections occupied his mind during the process of reversion of
the inverted volumes?

The necessity of order, a place for everything and everything in its
place: the deficient appreciation of literature possessed by females:
the incongruity of an apple incuneated in a tumbler and of an umbrella
inclined in a closestool: the insecurity of hiding any secret document
behind, beneath or between the pages of a book.

Which volume was the largest in bulk?

Hozier’s _History of the Russo-Turkish War._

What among other data did the second volume of the work in question
contain?

The name of a decisive battle (forgotten), frequently remembered by a
decisive officer, major Brian Cooper Tweedy (remembered).

Why, firstly and secondly, did he not consult the work in question?

Firstly, in order to exercise mnemotechnic: secondly, because after an
interval of amnesia, when, seated at the central table, about to
consult the work in question, he remembered by mnemotechnic the name of
the military engagement, Plevna.

What caused him consolation in his sitting posture?

The candour, nudity, pose, tranquility, youth, grace, sex, counsel of a
statue erect in the centre of the table, an image of Narcissus
purchased by auction from P. A. Wren, 9 Bachelor’s Walk.

What caused him irritation in his sitting posture?

Inhibitory pressure of collar (size 17) and waistcoat (5 buttons), two
articles of clothing superfluous in the costume of mature males and
inelastic to alterations of mass by expansion.

How was the irritation allayed?

He removed his collar, with contained black necktie and collapsible
stud, from his neck to a position on the left of the table. He
unbuttoned successively in reversed direction waistcoat, trousers,
shirt and vest along the medial line of irregular incrispated black
hairs extending in triangular convergence from the pelvic basin over
the circumference of the abdomen and umbilicular fossicle along the
medial line of nodes to the intersection of the sixth pectoral
vertebrae, thence produced both ways at right angles and terminating in
circles described about two equidistant points, right and left, on the
summits of the mammary prominences. He unbraced successively each of
six minus one braced trouser buttons, arranged in pairs, of which one
incomplete.

What involuntary actions followed?

He compressed between 2 fingers the flesh circumjacent to a cicatrice
in the left infracostal region below the diaphragm resulting from a
sting inflicted 2 weeks and 3 days previously (23 May 1904) by a bee.
He scratched imprecisely with his right hand, though insensible of
prurition, various points and surfaces of his partly exposed, wholly
abluted skin. He inserted his left hand into the left lower pocket of
his waistcoat and extracted and replaced a silver coin (1 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
                                        £. s. d.
     1 Pork kidney                      0—0—3
     1 Copy Freeman’s Journal           0—0—1
     1 Bath and Gratification           0—1—6
     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
     1 Postal Order and Stamp           0—2—8
     Tramfare                           0—0—1
     1 Pig’s Foot                       0—0—4
     1 Sheep’s Trotter                  0—0—3
     1 Cake Fry’s Plain Chocolate       0—0—1
     1 Square Soda Bread                0—0—4
     1 Coffee and Bun                   0—0—4
     Loan (Stephen Dedalus) refunded    1—7—0
        BALANCE                         0—16—6
                                        —————
                                        2—19—3
     Credit
                                        £. s. d.
     Cash in hand                       0—4—9
     Commission recd. Freeman’s Journal 1—7—6
     Loan (Stephen Dedalus)             1—7—0
                                        —————
                                        2—19—3
Did the process of divestiture continue?

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 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 the soil, multiplying wisdom,
achieving longevity.

What syllabus of intellectual pursuits was simultaneously possible?

Snapshot photography, comparative study of religions, folklore relative
to various amatory and superstitious practices, contemplation of the
celestial constellations.

What lighter recreations?

Outdoor: garden and fieldwork, cycling on level macadamised causeways,
ascents of moderately high hills, natation in secluded fresh water and
unmolested river boating in secure wherry or light curricle with kedge
anchor on reaches free from weirs and rapids (period of estivation),
vespertinal perambulation or equestrian circumprocession with
inspection of sterile landscape and contrastingly agreeable cottagers’
fires of smoking peat turves (period of hibernation). Indoor:
discussion in tepid security of unsolved historical and criminal
problems: lecture of unexpurgated exotic erotic masterpieces: house
carpentry with toolbox containing hammer, awl, nails, screws, tintacks,
gimlet, tweezers, bullnose plane and turnscrew.

Might he become a gentleman farmer of field produce and live stock?

Not impossibly, with 1 or 2 stripper cows, 1 pike of upland hay and
requisite farming implements, e.g., an end-to-end churn, a turnip
pulper etc.

What would be his civic functions and social status among the county
families and landed gentry?

Arranged successively in ascending powers of hierarchical order, that
of gardener, groundsman, cultivator, breeder, and at the zenith of his
career, resident magistrate or justice of the peace with a family crest
and coat of arms and appropriate classical motto _(Semper paratus_),
duly recorded in the court directory (Bloom, Leopold P., M. P., P. C.,
K. P., L. L. D. (_honoris causa_), Bloomville, Dundrum) and mentioned
in court and fashionable intelligence (Mr and Mrs Leopold Bloom have
left Kingstown for England).

What course of action did he outline for himself in such capacity?

A course that lay between undue clemency and excessive rigour: the
dispensation in a heterogeneous society of arbitrary classes,
incessantly rearranged in terms of greater and lesser social
inequality, of unbiassed homogeneous indisputable justice, tempered
with mitigants of the widest possible latitude but exactable to the
uttermost farthing with confiscation of estate, real and personal, to
the crown. Loyal to the highest constituted power in the land, actuated
by an innate love of rectitude his aims would be the strict maintenance
of public order, the repression of many abuses though not of all
simultaneously (every measure of reform or retrenchment being a
preliminary solution to be contained by fluxion in the final solution),
the upholding of the letter of the law (common, statute and law
merchant) against all traversers in covin and trespassers acting in
contravention of bylaws and regulations, all resuscitators (by trespass
and petty larceny of kindlings) of venville rights, obsolete by
desuetude, all orotund instigators of international persecution, all
perpetuators of international animosities, all menial molestors of
domestic conviviality, all recalcitrant violators of domestic
connubiality.

Prove that he had loved rectitude from his earliest youth.

To Master Percy Apjohn at High School in 1880 he had divulged his
disbelief in the tenets of the Irish (protestant) church (to which his
father Rudolf Virag (later Rudolph Bloom) had been converted from the
Israelitic faith and communion in 1865 by the Society for promoting
Christianity among the jews) subsequently abjured by him in favour of
Roman catholicism at the epoch of and with a view to his matrimony in
1888. To Daniel Magrane and Francis Wade in 1882 during a juvenile
friendship (terminated by the premature emigration of the former) he
had advocated during nocturnal perambulations the political theory of
colonial (e.g. Canadian) expansion and the evolutionary theories of
Charles Darwin, expounded in _The Descent of Man_ and _The Origin of
Species_. In 1885 he had publicly expressed his adherence to the
collective and national economic programme advocated by James Fintan
Lalor, John Fisher Murray, John Mitchel, J. F. X. O’Brien and others,
the agrarian policy of Michael Davitt, the constitutional agitation of
Charles Stewart Parnell (M. P. for Cork City), the programme of peace,
retrenchment and reform of William Ewart Gladstone (M. P. for
Midlothian, N. B.) and, in support of his political convictions, had
climbed up into a secure position amid the ramifications of a tree on
Northumberland road to see the entrance (2 February 1888) into the
capital of a demonstrative torchlight procession of 20,000
torchbearers, divided into 120 trade corporations, bearing 2000 torches
in escort of the marquess of Ripon and (honest) John Morley.

How much and how did he propose to pay for this country residence?

As per prospectus of the Industrious Foreign Acclimatised Nationalised
Friendly Stateaided Building Society (incorporated 1874), a maximum of
£ 60 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 1/3 to be paid on
acquisition and the balance in the form of annual rent, viz. £ 800 plus
2 1/2 % 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 1 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 100 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 1/4d to be increased constantly in the
geometrical progression of 2 (1/4d, 1/2d, 1d, 2d, 4d, 8d, 1s 4d, 2s 8d
to 32 terms). A prepared scheme based on a study of the laws of
probability to break the bank at Monte Carlo. A solution of the secular
problem of the quadrature of the circle, government premium £ 1,000,000
sterling.

Was vast wealth acquirable through industrial channels?

The reclamation of dunams of waste arenary soil, proposed in the
prospectus of Agendath Netaim, Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W. 15, by the
cultivation of orange plantations and melonfields and reafforestation.
The utilisation of waste paper, fells of sewer rodents, human excrement
possessing chemical properties, in view of the vast production of the
first, vast number of the second and immense quantity of the third,
every normal human being of average vitality and appetite producing
annually, cancelling byproducts of water, a sum total of 80 lbs. (mixed
animal and vegetable diet), to be multiplied by 4,386,035, the total
population of Ireland according to census returns of 1901.

Were there schemes of wider scope?

A scheme to be formulated and submitted for approval to the harbour
commissioners for the exploitation of white coal (hydraulic power),
obtained by hydroelectric plant at peak of tide at Dublin bar or at
head of water at Poulaphouca or Powerscourt or catchment basins of main
streams for the economic production of 500,000 W. H. P. of electricity.
A scheme to enclose the peninsular delta of the North Bull at
Dollymount and erect on the space of the foreland, used for golf links
and rifle ranges, an asphalted esplanade with casinos, booths, shooting
galleries, hotels, boardinghouses, readingrooms, establishments for
mixed bathing. A scheme for the use of dogvans and goatvans for the
delivery of early morning milk. A scheme for the development of Irish
tourist traffic in and around Dublin by means of petrolpropelled
riverboats, plying in the fluvial fairway between Island bridge and
Ringsend, charabancs, narrow gauge local railways, and pleasure
steamers for coastwise navigation (10/- per person per day, guide
(trilingual) included). A scheme for the repristination of passenger
and goods traffics over Irish waterways, when freed from weedbeds. A
scheme to connect by tramline the Cattle Market (North Circular road
and Prussia street) with the quays (Sheriff street, lower, and East
Wall), parallel with the Link line railway laid (in conjunction with
the Great Southern and Western railway line) between the cattle park,
Liffey junction, and terminus of Midland Great Western Railway 43 to 45
North Wall, in proximity to the terminal stations or Dublin branches of
Great Central Railway, Midland Railway of England, City of Dublin Steam
Packet Company, Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway Company, Dublin and
Glasgow Steam Packet Company, Glasgow, Dublin and Londonderry Steam
Packet Company (Laird line), British and Irish Steam Packet Company,
Dublin and Morecambe Steamers, London and North Western Railway
Company, Dublin Port and Docks Board Landing Sheds and transit sheds of
Palgrave, Murphy and Company, steamship owners, agents for steamers
from Mediterranean, Spain, Portugal, France, Belgium and Holland and
for Liverpool Underwriters’ Association, the cost of acquired rolling
stock for animal transport and of additional mileage operated by the
Dublin United Tramways Company, limited, to be covered by graziers’
fees.

Positing what protasis would the contraction for such several schemes
become a natural and necessary apodosis?

Given a guarantee equal to the sum sought, the support, by deed of gift
and transfer vouchers during donor’s lifetime or by bequest after
donor’s painless extinction, of eminent financiers (Blum Pasha,
Rothschild, Guggenheim, Hirsch, Montefiore, Morgan, Rockefeller)
possessing fortunes in 6 figures, amassed during a successful life, and
joining capital with opportunity the thing required was done.

What eventuality would render him independent of such wealth?

The independent discovery of a goldseam of inexhaustible ore.

For what reason did he meditate on schemes so difficult of realisation?

It was one of his axioms that similar meditations or the automatic
relation to himself of a narrative concerning himself or tranquil
recollection of the past when practised habitually before retiring for
the night alleviated fatigue and produced as a result sound repose and
renovated vitality.

His justifications?

As a physicist he had learned that of the 70 years of complete human
life at least 2/7, viz. 20 years are passed in sleep. As a philosopher
he knew that at the termination of any allotted life only an
infinitesimal part of any person’s desires has been realised. As a
physiologist he believed in the artificial placation of malignant
agencies chiefly operative during somnolence.

What did he fear?

The committal of homicide or suicide during sleep by an aberration of
the light of reason, the incommensurable categorical intelligence
situated in the cerebral convolutions.

What were habitually his final meditations?

Of some one sole unique advertisement to cause passers to stop in
wonder, a poster novelty, with all extraneous accretions excluded,
reduced to its simplest and most efficient terms not exceeding the span
of casual vision and congruous with the velocity of modern life.

What did the first drawer unlocked contain?

A Vere Foster’s handwriting copybook, property of Milly (Millicent)
Bloom, certain pages of which bore diagram drawings, marked _Papli_,
which showed a large globular head with 5 hairs erect, 2 eyes in
profile, the trunk full front with 3 large buttons, 1 triangular foot:
2 fading photographs of queen Alexandra of England and of Maud
Branscombe, actress and professional beauty: a Yuletide card, bearing
on it a pictorial representation of a parasitic plant, the legend
_Mizpah_, the date Xmas 1892, the name of the senders: from Mr + Mrs M.
Comerford, the versicle: _May this Yuletide bring to thee, Joy and
peace and welcome glee_: a butt of red partly liquefied sealing wax,
obtained from the stores department of Messrs Hely’s, Ltd., 89, 90, and
91 Dame street: a box containing the remainder of a gross of gilt “J”
pennibs, obtained from same department of same firm: an old sandglass
which rolled containing sand which rolled: a sealed prophecy (never
unsealed) written by Leopold Bloom in 1886 concerning the consequences
of the passing into law of William Ewart Gladstone’s Home Rule bill of
1886 (never passed into law): a bazaar ticket, No 2004, of S. Kevin’s
Charity Fair, price 6d, 100 prizes: an infantile epistle, dated, small
em monday, reading: capital pee Papli comma capital aitch How are you
note of interrogation capital eye I am very well full stop new
paragraph signature with flourishes capital em Milly no stop: a cameo
brooch, property of Ellen Bloom (born Higgins), deceased: a cameo
scarfpin, property of Rudolph Bloom (born Virag), deceased: 3
typewritten letters, addressee, Henry Flower, c/o. P. O. Westland Row,
addresser, Martha Clifford, c/o. P. O. Dolphin’s Barn: the
transliterated name and address of the addresser of the 3 letters in
reversed alphabetic boustrophedonic punctated quadrilinear cryptogram
(vowels suppressed) N. IGS./WI. UU. OX/W. OKS. MH/Y. IM: a press
cutting from an English weekly periodical _Modern Society_, subject
corporal chastisement in girls’ schools: a pink ribbon which had
festooned an Easter egg in the year 1899: two partly uncoiled rubber
preservatives with reserve pockets, purchased by post from Box 32, P.
O., Charing Cross, London, W. C.: 1 pack of 1 dozen creamlaid envelopes
and feintruled notepaper, watermarked, now reduced by 3: some assorted
Austrian-Hungarian coins: 2 coupons of the Royal and Privileged
Hungarian Lottery: a lowpower magnifying glass: 2 erotic photocards
showing a) buccal coition between nude senorita (rere presentation,
superior position) and nude torero (fore presentation, inferior
position) b) anal violation by male religious (fully clothed, eyes
abject) of female religious (partly clothed, eyes direct), purchased by
post from Box 32, P. O., Charing Cross, London, W. C.: a press cutting
of recipe for renovation of old tan boots: a 1d adhesive stamp,
lavender, of the reign of Queen Victoria: a chart of the measurements
of Leopold Bloom compiled before, during and after 2 months’
consecutive use of Sandow-Whiteley’s pulley exerciser (men’s 15/-,
athlete’s 20/-) viz. chest 28 in and 29 1/2 in, biceps 9 in and 10 in,
forearm 8 1/2 in and 9 in, thigh 10 in and 12 in, calf 11 in and 12 in:
1 prospectus of The Wonderworker, the world’s greatest remedy for
rectal complaints, direct from Wonderworker, Coventry House, South
Place, London E C, addressed (erroneously) to Mrs L. Bloom with brief
accompanying note commencing (erroneously): Dear Madam.

Quote the textual terms in which the prospectus claimed advantages for
this thaumaturgic remedy.

It heals and soothes while you sleep, in case of trouble in breaking
wind, assists nature in the most formidable way, insuring instant
relief in discharge of gases, keeping parts clean and free natural
action, an initial outlay of 7/6 making a new man of you and life worth
living. Ladies find Wonderworker especially useful, a pleasant surprise
when they note delightful result like a cool drink of fresh spring
water on a sultry summer’s day. Recommend it to your lady and gentlemen
friends, lasts a lifetime. Insert long round end. Wonderworker.

Were there testimonials?

Numerous. From clergyman, British naval officer, wellknown author, city
man, hospital nurse, lady, mother of five, absentminded beggar.

How did absentminded beggar’s concluding testimonial conclude?

What a pity the government did not supply our men with wonderworkers
during the South African campaign! What a relief it would have been!

What object did Bloom add to this collection of objects?

A 4th typewritten letter received by Henry Flower (let H. F. be L. B.)
from Martha Clifford (find M. C.).

What pleasant reflection accompanied this action?

The reflection that, apart from the letter in question, his magnetic
face, form and address had been favourably received during the course
of the preceding day by a wife (Mrs Josephine Breen, born Josie
Powell), a nurse, Miss Callan (Christian name unknown), a maid,
Gertrude (Gerty, family name unknown).

What possibility suggested itself?

The possibility of exercising virile power of fascination in the not
immediate future after an expensive repast in a private apartment in
the company of an elegant courtesan, of corporal beauty, moderately
mercenary, variously instructed, a lady by origin.

What did the 2nd drawer contain?

Documents: the birth certificate of Leopold Paula Bloom: an endowment
assurance policy of £ 500 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.

Quote the textual terms of this notice.

I, Rudolph Virag, now resident at no 52 Clanbrassil street, Dublin,
formerly of Szombathely in the kingdom of Hungary, hereby give notice
that I have assumed and intend henceforth upon all occasions and at all
times to be known by the name of Rudolph Bloom.

What other objects relative to Rudolph Bloom (born Virag) were in the
2nd drawer?

An indistinct daguerreotype of Rudolf Virag and his father Leopold
Virag executed in the year 1852 in the portrait atelier of their
(respectively) 1st and 2nd cousin, Stefan Virag of Szesfehervar,
Hungary. An ancient haggadah book in which a pair of hornrimmed convex
spectacles inserted marked the passage of thanksgiving in the ritual
prayers for Pessach (Passover): a photocard of the Queen’s Hotel,
Ennis, proprietor, Rudolph Bloom: an envelope addressed: _To My Dear
Son Leopold_.

What fractions of phrases did the lecture of those five whole words
evoke?

Tomorrow will be a week that I received... it is no use Leopold to be
... with your dear mother... that is not more to stand... to her... all
for me is out... be kind to Athos, Leopold... my dear son... always...
of me... _das Herz... Gott... dein_...

What reminiscences of a human subject suffering from progressive
melancholia did these objects evoke in Bloom?

An old man, widower, unkempt of hair, in bed, with head covered,
sighing: an infirm dog, Athos: aconite, resorted to by increasing doses
of grains and scruples as a palliative of recrudescent neuralgia: the
face in death of a septuagenarian, suicide by poison.

Why did Bloom experience a sentiment of remorse?

Because in immature impatience he had treated with disrespect certain
beliefs and practices.

As?

The prohibition of the use of fleshmeat and milk at one meal: the
hebdomadary symposium of incoordinately abstract, perfervidly concrete
mercantile coexreligionist excompatriots: the circumcision of male
infants: the supernatural character of Judaic scripture: the
ineffability of the tetragrammaton: the sanctity of the sabbath.

How did these beliefs and practices now appear to him?

Not more rational than they had then appeared, not less rational than
other beliefs and practices now appeared.

What first reminiscence had he of Rudolph Bloom (deceased)?

Rudolph Bloom (deceased) narrated to his son Leopold Bloom (aged 6) a
retrospective arrangement of migrations and settlements in and between
Dublin, London, Florence, Milan, Vienna, Budapest, Szombathely with
statements of satisfaction (his grandfather having seen Maria Theresia,
empress of Austria, queen of Hungary), with commercial advice (having
taken care of pence, the pounds having taken care of themselves).
Leopold Bloom (aged 6) had accompanied these narrations by constant
consultation of a geographical map of Europe (political) and by
suggestions for the establishment of affiliated business premises in
the various centres mentioned.

Had time equally but differently obliterated the memory of these
migrations in narrator and listener?

In narrator by the access of years and in consequence of the use of
narcotic toxin: in listener by the access of years and in consequence
of the action of distraction upon vicarious experiences.

What idiosyncracies of the narrator were concomitant products of
amnesia?

Occasionally he ate without having previously removed his hat.
Occasionally he drank voraciously the juice of gooseberry fool from an
inclined plate. Occasionally he removed from his lips the traces of
food by means of a lacerated envelope or other accessible fragment of
paper.

What two phenomena of senescence were more frequent?

The myopic digital calculation of coins, eructation consequent upon
repletion.

What object offered partial consolation for these reminiscences?

The endowment policy, the bank passbook, the certificate of the
possession of scrip.

Reduce Bloom by cross multiplication of reverses of fortune, from which
these supports protected him, and by elimination of all positive values
to a negligible negative irrational unreal quantity.

Successively, in descending helotic order: Poverty: that of the outdoor
hawker of imitation jewellery, the dun for the recovery of bad and
doubtful debts, the poor rate and deputy cess collector. Mendicancy:
that of the fraudulent bankrupt with negligible assets paying 1/4d in
the £, sandwichman, distributor of throwaways, nocturnal vagrant,
insinuating sycophant, maimed sailor, blind stripling, superannuated
bailiff’s man, marfeast, lickplate, spoilsport, pickthank, eccentric
public laughingstock seated on bench of public park under discarded
perforated umbrella. Destitution: the inmate of Old Man’s House (Royal
Hospital), Kilmainham, the inmate of Simpson’s Hospital for reduced but
respectable men permanently disabled by gout or want of sight. Nadir of
misery: the aged impotent disfranchised ratesupported moribund lunatic
pauper.

With which attendant indignities?

The unsympathetic indifference of previously amiable females, the
contempt of muscular males, the acceptance of fragments of bread, the
simulated ignorance of casual acquaintances, the latration of
illegitimate unlicensed vagabond dogs, the infantile discharge of
decomposed vegetable missiles, worth little or nothing, nothing or less
than nothing.

By what could such a situation be precluded?

By decease (change of state): by departure (change of place).

Which preferably?

The latter, by the line of least resistance.

What considerations rendered departure not entirely undesirable?

Constant cohabitation impeding mutual toleration of personal defects.
The habit of independent purchase increasingly cultivated. The
necessity to counteract by impermanent sojourn the permanence of
arrest.

What considerations rendered departure not irrational?

The parties concerned, uniting, had increased and multiplied, which
being done, offspring produced and educed to maturity, the parties, if
not disunited were obliged to reunite for increase and multiplication,
which was absurd, to form by reunion the original couple of uniting
parties, which was impossible.

What considerations rendered departure desirable?

The attractive character of certain localities in Ireland and abroad,
as represented in general geographical maps of polychrome design or in
special ordnance survey charts by employment of scale numerals and
hachures.

In Ireland?

The cliffs of Moher, the windy wilds of Connemara, lough Neagh with
submerged petrified city, the Giant’s Causeway, Fort Camden and Fort
Carlisle, the Golden Vale of Tipperary, the islands of Aran, the
pastures of royal Meath, Brigid’s elm in Kildare, the Queen’s Island
shipyard in Belfast, the Salmon Leap, the lakes of Killarney.

Abroad?

Ceylon (with spicegardens supplying tea to Thomas Kernan, agent for
Pulbrook, Robertson and Co, 2 Mincing Lane, London, E. C., 5 Dame
street, Dublin), Jerusalem, the holy city (with mosque of Omar and gate
of Damascus, goal of aspiration), the straits of Gibraltar (the unique
birthplace of Marion Tweedy), the Parthenon (containing statues of nude
Grecian divinities), the Wall street money market (which controlled
international finance), the Plaza de Toros at La Linea, Spain (where
O’Hara of the Camerons had slain the bull), Niagara (over which no
human being had passed with impunity), the land of the Eskimos (eaters
of soap), the forbidden country of Thibet (from which no traveller
returns), the bay of Naples (to see which was to die), the Dead Sea.

Under what guidance, following what signs?

At sea, septentrional, by night the polestar, located at the point of
intersection of the right line from beta to alpha in Ursa Maior
produced and divided externally at omega and the hypotenuse of the
rightangled triangle formed by the line alpha omega so produced and the
line alpha delta of Ursa Maior. On land, meridional, a bispherical
moon, revealed in imperfect varying phases of lunation through the
posterior interstice of the imperfectly occluded skirt of a carnose
negligent perambulating female, a pillar of the cloud by day.

What public advertisement would divulge the occultation of the
departed?

£ 5 reward, lost, stolen or strayed from his residence 7 Eccles street,
missing gent about 40, answering to the name of Bloom, Leopold (Poldy),
height 5 ft 9 1/2 inches, full build, olive complexion, may have since
grown a beard, when last seen was wearing a black suit. Above sum will
be paid for information leading to his discovery.

What universal binomial denominations would be his as entity and
nonentity?

Assumed by any or known to none. Everyman or Noman.

What tributes his?

Honour and gifts of strangers, the friends of Everyman. A nymph
immortal, beauty, the bride of Noman.

Would the departed never nowhere nohow reappear?

Ever he would wander, selfcompelled, to the extreme limit of his
cometary orbit, beyond the fixed stars and variable suns and telescopic
planets, astronomical waifs and strays, to the extreme boundary of
space, passing from land to land, among peoples, amid events. Somewhere
imperceptibly he would hear and somehow reluctantly, suncompelled, obey
the summons of recall. Whence, disappearing from the constellation of
the Northern Crown he would somehow reappear reborn above delta in the
constellation of Cassiopeia and after incalculable eons of
peregrination return an estranged avenger, a wreaker of justice on
malefactors, a dark crusader, a sleeper awakened, with financial
resources (by supposition) surpassing those of Rothschild or the silver
king.

What would render such return irrational?

An unsatisfactory equation between an exodus and return in time through
reversible space and an exodus and return in space through irreversible
time.

What play of forces, inducing inertia, rendered departure undesirable?

The lateness of the hour, rendering procrastinatory: the obscurity of
the night, rendering invisible: the uncertainty of thoroughfares,
rendering perilous: the necessity for repose, obviating movement: the
proximity of an occupied bed, obviating research: the anticipation of
warmth (human) tempered with coolness (linen), obviating desire and
rendering desirable: the statue of Narcissus, sound without echo,
desired desire.

What advantages were possessed by an occupied, as distinct from an
unoccupied bed?

The removal of nocturnal solitude, the superior quality of human
(mature female) to inhuman (hotwaterjar) calefaction, the stimulation
of matutinal contact, the economy of mangling done on the premises in
the case of trousers accurately folded and placed lengthwise between
the spring mattress (striped) and the woollen mattress (biscuit
section).

What past consecutive causes, before rising preapprehended, of
accumulated fatigue did Bloom, before rising, silently recapitulate?

The preparation of breakfast (burnt offering): intestinal congestion
and premeditative defecation (holy of holies): the bath (rite of John):
the funeral (rite of Samuel): the advertisement of Alexander Keyes
(Urim and Thummim): the unsubstantial lunch (rite of Melchisedek): the
visit to museum and national library (holy place): the bookhunt along
Bedford row, Merchants’ Arch, Wellington Quay (Simchath Torah): the
music in the Ormond Hotel (Shira Shirim): the altercation with a
truculent troglodyte in Bernard Kiernan’s premises (holocaust): a blank
period of time including a cardrive, a visit to a house of mourning, a
leavetaking (wilderness): the eroticism produced by feminine
exhibitionism (rite of Onan): the prolonged delivery of Mrs Mina
Purefoy (heave offering): the visit to the disorderly house of Mrs
Bella Cohen, 82 Tyrone street, lower, and subsequent brawl and chance
medley in Beaver street (Armageddon): nocturnal perambulation to and
from the cabman’s shelter, Butt Bridge (atonement).

What selfimposed enigma did Bloom about to rise in order to go so as to
conclude lest he should not conclude involuntarily apprehend?

The cause of a brief sharp unforeseen heard loud lone crack emitted by
the insentient material of a strainveined timber table.

What selfinvolved enigma did Bloom risen, going, gathering
multicoloured multiform multitudinous garments, voluntarily
apprehending, not comprehend?

Who was M’Intosh?

What selfevident enigma pondered with desultory constancy during 30
years did Bloom now, having effected natural obscurity by the
extinction of artificial light, silently suddenly comprehend?

Where was Moses when the candle went out?

What imperfections in a perfect day did Bloom, walking, charged with
collected articles of recently disvested male wearing apparel,
silently, successively, enumerate?

A provisional failure to obtain renewal of an advertisement: to obtain
a certain quantity of tea from Thomas Kernan (agent for Pulbrook,
Robertson and Co, 5 Dame Street, Dublin, and 2 Mincing Lane, London E.
C.): to certify the presence or absence of posterior rectal orifice in
the case of Hellenic female divinities: to obtain admission (gratuitous
or paid) to the performance of _Leah_ by Mrs Bandmann Palmer at the
Gaiety Theatre, 46, 47, 48, 49 South King street.

What impression of an absent face did Bloom, arrested, silently recall?

The face of her father, the late Major Brian Cooper Tweedy, Royal
Dublin Fusiliers, of Gibraltar and Rehoboth, Dolphin’s Barn.

What recurrent impressions of the same were possible by hypothesis?

Retreating, at the terminus of the Great Northern Railway, Amiens
street, with constant uniform acceleration, along parallel lines
meeting at infinity, if produced: along parallel lines, reproduced from
infinity, with constant uniform retardation, at the terminus of the
Great Northern Railway, Amiens street, returning.

What miscellaneous effects of female personal wearing apparel were
perceived by him?

A pair of new inodorous halfsilk black ladies’ hose, a pair of new
violet garters, a pair of outsize ladies’ drawers of India mull, cut on
generous lines, redolent of opoponax, jessamine and Muratti’s Turkish
cigarettes and containing a long bright steel safety pin, folded
curvilinear, a camisole of batiste with thin lace border, an accordion
underskirt of blue silk moirette, all these objects being disposed
irregularly on the top of a rectangular trunk, quadruple battened,
having capped corners, with multicoloured labels, initialled on its
fore side in white lettering B. C. T. (Brian Cooper Tweedy).

What impersonal objects were perceived?

A commode, one leg fractured, totally covered by square cretonne
cutting, apple design, on which rested a lady’s black straw hat.
Orangekeyed ware, bought of Henry Price, basket, fancy goods, chinaware
and ironmongery manufacturer, 21, 22, 23 Moore street, disposed
irregularly on the washstand and floor and consisting of basin,
soapdish and brushtray (on the washstand, together), pitcher and night
article (on the floor, separate).

Bloom’s acts?

He deposited the articles of clothing on a chair, removed his remaining
articles of clothing, took from beneath the bolster at the head of the
bed a folded long white nightshirt, inserted his head and arms into the
proper apertures of the nightshirt, removed a pillow from the head to
the foot of the bed, prepared the bedlinen accordingly and entered the
bed.

How?

With circumspection, as invariably when entering an abode (his own or
not his own): with solicitude, the snakespiral springs of the mattress
being old, the brass quoits and pendent viper radii loose and tremulous
under stress and strain: prudently, as entering a lair or ambush of
lust or adders: lightly, the less to disturb: reverently, the bed of
conception and of birth, of consummation of marriage and of breach of
marriage, of sleep and of death.

What did his limbs, when gradually extended, encounter?

New clean bedlinen, additional odours, the presence of a human form,
female, hers, the imprint of a human form, male, not his, some crumbs,
some flakes of potted meat, recooked, which he removed.

If he had smiled why would he have smiled?

To reflect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to
enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if
the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be first,
last, only and alone whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor
alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity.

What preceding series?

Assuming Mulvey to be the first term of his series, Penrose, Bartell
d’Arcy, professor Goodwin, Julius Mastiansky, John Henry Menton, Father
Bernard Corrigan, a farmer at the Royal Dublin Society’s Horse Show,
Maggot O’Reilly, Matthew Dillon, Valentine Blake Dillon (Lord Mayor of
Dublin), Christopher Callinan, Lenehan, an Italian organgrinder, an
unknown gentleman in the Gaiety Theatre, Benjamin Dollard, Simon
Dedalus, Andrew (Pisser) Burke, Joseph Cuffe, Wisdom Hely, Alderman
John Hooper, Dr Francis Brady, Father Sebastian of Mount Argus, a
bootblack at the General Post Office, Hugh E. (Blazes) Boylan and so
each and so on to no last term.

What were his reflections concerning the last member of this series and
late occupant of the bed?

Reflections on his vigour (a bounder), corporal proportion (a
billsticker), commercial ability (a bester), impressionability (a
boaster).

Why for the observer impressionability in addition to vigour, corporal
proportion and commercial ability?

Because he had observed with augmenting frequency in the preceding
members of the same series the same concupiscence, inflammably
transmitted, first with alarm, then with understanding, then with
desire, finally with fatigue, with alternating symptoms of epicene
comprehension and apprehension.

With what antagonistic sentiments were his subsequent reflections
affected?

Envy, jealousy, abnegation, equanimity.

Envy?

Of a bodily and mental male organism specially adapted for the
superincumbent posture of energetic human copulation and energetic
piston and cylinder movement necessary for the complete satisfaction of
a constant but not acute concupiscence resident in a bodily and mental
female organism, passive but not obtuse.

Jealousy?

Because a nature full and volatile in its free state, was alternately
the agent and reagent of attraction. Because attraction between
agent(s) and reagent(s) at all instants varied, with inverse proportion
of increase and decrease, with incessant circular extension and radial
reentrance. Because the controlled contemplation of the fluctuation of
attraction produced, if desired, a fluctuation of pleasure.

Abnegation?

In virtue of a) acquaintance initiated in September 1903 in the
establishment of George Mesias, merchant tailor and outfitter, 5 Eden
Quay, b) hospitality extended and received in kind, reciprocated and
reappropriated in person, c) comparative youth subject to impulses of
ambition and magnanimity, colleagual altruism and amorous egoism, d)
extraracial attraction, intraracial inhibition, supraracial
prerogative, e) an imminent provincial musical tour, common current
expenses, net proceeds divided.

Equanimity?

As as natural as any and every natural act of a nature expressed or
understood executed in natured nature by natural creatures in
accordance with his, her and their natured natures, of dissimilar
similarity. As not so calamitous as a cataclysmic annihilation of the
planet in consequence of a collision with a dark sun. As less
reprehensible than theft, highway robbery, cruelty to children and
animals, obtaining money under false pretences, forgery, embezzlement,
misappropriation of public money, betrayal of public trust,
malingering, mayhem, corruption of minors, criminal libel, blackmail,
contempt of court, arson, treason, felony, mutiny on the high seas,
trespass, burglary, jailbreaking, practice of unnatural vice, desertion
from armed forces in the field, perjury, poaching, usury, intelligence
with the king’s enemies, impersonation, criminal assault, manslaughter,
wilful and premeditated murder. As not more abnormal than all other
parallel processes of adaptation to altered conditions of existence,
resulting in a reciprocal equilibrium between the bodily organism and
its attendant circumstances, foods, beverages, acquired habits,
indulged inclinations, significant disease. As more than inevitable,
irreparable.

Why more abnegation than jealousy, less envy than equanimity?

From outrage (matrimony) to outrage (adultery) there arose nought but
outrage (copulation) yet the matrimonial violator of the matrimonially
violated had not been outraged by the adulterous violator of the
adulterously violated.

What retribution, if any?

Assassination, never, as two wrongs did not make one right. Duel by
combat, no. Divorce, not now. Exposure by mechanical artifice
(automatic bed) or individual testimony (concealed ocular witnesses),
not yet. Suit for damages by legal influence or simulation of assault
with evidence of injuries sustained (selfinflicted), not impossibly.
Hushmoney by moral influence, possibly. If any, positively, connivance,
introduction of emulation (material, a prosperous rival agency of
publicity: moral, a successful rival agent of intimacy), depreciation,
alienation, humiliation, separation protecting the one separated from
the other, protecting the separator from both.

By what reflections did he, a conscious reactor against the void of
incertitude, justify to himself his sentiments?

The preordained frangibility of the hymen: the presupposed
intangibility of the thing in itself: the incongruity and disproportion
between the selfprolonging tension of the thing proposed to be done and
the selfabbreviating relaxation of the thing done: the fallaciously
inferred debility of the female: the muscularity of the male: the
variations of ethical codes: the natural grammatical transition by
inversion involving no alteration of sense of an aorist preterite
proposition (parsed as masculine subject, monosyllabic onomatopoeic
transitive verb with direct feminine object) from the active voice into
its correlative aorist preterite proposition (parsed as feminine
subject, auxiliary verb and quasimonosyllabic onomatopoeic past
participle with complementary masculine agent) in the passive voice:
the continued product of seminators by generation: the continual
production of semen by distillation: the futility of triumph or protest
or vindication: the inanity of extolled virtue: the lethargy of
nescient matter: the apathy of the stars.

In what final satisfaction did these antagonistic sentiments and
reflections, reduced to their simplest forms, converge?

Satisfaction at the ubiquity in eastern and western terrestrial
hemispheres, in all habitable lands and islands explored or unexplored
(the land of the midnight sun, the islands of the blessed, the isles of
Greece, the land of promise), of adipose anterior and posterior female
hemispheres, redolent of milk and honey and of excretory sanguine and
seminal warmth, reminiscent of secular families of curves of amplitude,
insusceptible of moods of impression or of contrarieties of expression,
expressive of mute immutable mature animality.

The visible signs of antesatisfaction?

An approximate erection: a solicitous adversion: a gradual elevation: a
tentative revelation: a silent contemplation.

Then?

He kissed the plump mellow yellow smellow melons of her rump, on each
plump melonous hemisphere, in their mellow yellow furrow, with obscure
prolonged provocative melonsmellonous osculation.

The visible signs of postsatisfaction?

A silent contemplation: a tentative velation: a gradual abasement: a
solicitous aversion: a proximate erection.

What followed this silent action?

Somnolent invocation, less somnolent recognition, incipient excitation,
catechetical interrogation.

With what modifications did the narrator reply to this interrogation?

Negative: he omitted to mention the clandestine correspondence between
Martha Clifford and Henry Flower, the public altercation at, in and in
the vicinity of the licensed premises of Bernard Kiernan and Co,
Limited, 8, 9 and 10 Little Britain street, the erotic provocation and
response thereto caused by the exhibitionism of Gertrude (Gerty),
surname unknown. Positive: he included mention of a performance by Mrs
Bandmann Palmer of _Leah_ at the Gaiety Theatre, 46, 47, 48, 49 South
King street, an invitation to supper at Wynn’s (Murphy’s) Hotel, 35, 36
and 37 Lower Abbey street, a volume of peccaminous pornographical
tendency entituled _Sweets of Sin_, anonymous author a gentleman of
fashion, a temporary concussion caused by a falsely calculated movement
in the course of a postcenal gymnastic display, the victim (since
completely recovered) being Stephen Dedalus, professor and author,
eldest surviving son of Simon Dedalus, of no fixed occupation, an
aeronautical feat executed by him (narrator) in the presence of a
witness, the professor and author aforesaid, with promptitude of
decision and gymnastic flexibility.

Was the narration otherwise unaltered by modifications?

Absolutely.

Which event or person emerged as the salient point of his narration?

Stephen Dedalus, professor and author.

What limitations of activity and inhibitions of conjugal rights were
perceived by listener and narrator concerning themselves during the
course of this intermittent and increasingly more laconic narration?

By the listener a limitation of fertility inasmuch as marriage had been
celebrated 1 calendar month after the 18th anniversary of her birth (8
September 1870), viz. 8 October, and consummated on the same date with
female issue born 15 June 1889, having been anticipatorily consummated
on the 10 September of the same year and complete carnal intercourse,
with ejaculation of semen within the natural female organ, having last
taken place 5 weeks previous, viz. 27 November 1893, to the birth on 29
December 1893 of second (and only male) issue, deceased 9 January 1894,
aged 11 days, there remained a period of 10 years, 5 months and 18 days
during which carnal intercourse had been incomplete, without
ejaculation of semen within the natural female organ. By the narrator a
limitation of activity, mental and corporal, inasmuch as complete
mental intercourse between himself and the listener had not taken place
since the consummation of puberty, indicated by catamenic hemorrhage,
of the female issue of narrator and listener, 15 September 1903, there
remained a period of 9 months and 1 day during which, in consequence of
a preestablished natural comprehension in incomprehension between the
consummated females (listener and issue), complete corporal liberty of
action had been circumscribed.

How?

By various reiterated feminine interrogation concerning the masculine
destination whither, the place where, the time at which, the duration
for which, the object with which in the case of temporary absences,
projected or effected.

What moved visibly above the listener’s and the narrator’s invisible
thoughts?

The upcast reflection of a lamp and shade, an inconstant series of
concentric circles of varying gradations of light and shadow.

In what directions did listener and narrator lie?

Listener, S. E. by E.: Narrator, N. W. by W.: on the 53rd parallel of
latitude, N., and 6th meridian of longitude, W.: at an angle of 45° to
the terrestrial equator.

In what state of rest or motion?

At rest relatively to themselves and to each other. In motion being
each and both carried westward, forward and rereward respectively, by
the proper perpetual motion of the earth through everchanging tracks of
neverchanging space.

In what posture?

Listener: reclined semilaterally, left, left hand under head, right leg
extended in a straight line and resting on left leg, flexed, in the
attitude of Gea-Tellus, fulfilled, recumbent, big with seed. Narrator:
reclined laterally, left, with right and left legs flexed, the index
finger and thumb of the right hand resting on the bridge of the nose,
in the attitude depicted in a snapshot photograph made by Percy Apjohn,
the childman weary, the manchild in the womb.

Womb? Weary?

He rests. He has travelled.

With?

Sinbad the Sailor and Tinbad the Tailor and Jinbad the Jailer and
Whinbad the Whaler and Ninbad the Nailer and Finbad the Failer and
Binbad the Bailer and Pinbad the Pailer and Minbad the Mailer and
Hinbad the Hailer and Rinbad the Railer and Dinbad the Kailer and
Vinbad the Quailer and Linbad the Yailer and Xinbad the Phthailer.

When?

Going to dark bed there was a square round Sinbad the Sailor roc’s
auk’s egg in the night of the bed of all the auks of the rocs of
Darkinbad the Brightdayler.

Where?

•




[ 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 till
they throw him out or a nun maybe like the smutty photo he has shes as
much a nun as Im not yes because theyre so weak and puling when theyre
sick they want a woman to get well if his nose bleeds youd think it was
O tragic and that dyinglooking one off the south circular when he
sprained his foot at the choir party at the sugarloaf Mountain the day
I wore that dress Miss Stack bringing him flowers the worst old ones
she could find at the bottom of the basket anything at all to get into
a mans bedroom with her old maids voice trying to imagine he was dying
on account of her to never see thy face again though he looked more
like a man with his beard a bit grown in the bed father was the same
besides I hate bandaging and dosing when he cut his toe with the razor
paring his corns afraid hed get bloodpoisoning but if it was a thing I
was sick then wed see what attention only of course the woman hides it
not to give all the trouble they do yes he came somewhere Im sure by
his appetite anyway love its not or hed be off his feed thinking of her
so either it was one of those night women if it was down there he was
really and the hotel story he made up a pack of lies to hide it
planning it Hynes kept me who did I meet ah yes I met do you remember
Menton and who else who let me see that big babbyface I saw him and he
not long married flirting with a young girl at Pooles Myriorama and
turned my back on him when he slinked out looking quite conscious what
harm but he had the impudence to make up to me one time well done to
him mouth almighty and his boiled eyes of all the big stupoes I ever
met and thats called a solicitor only for I hate having a long wrangle
in bed or else if its not that its some little bitch or other he got in
with somewhere or picked up on the sly if they only knew him as well as
I do yes because the day before yesterday he was scribbling something a
letter when I came into the front room to show him Dignams death in the
paper as if something told me and he covered it up with the
blottingpaper pretending to be thinking about business so very probably
that was it to somebody who thinks she has a softy in him because all
men get a bit like that at his age especially getting on to forty he is
now so as to wheedle any money she can out of him no fool like an old
fool and then the usual kissing my bottom was to hide it not that I
care two straws now who he does it with or knew before that way though
Id like to find out so long as I dont have the two of them under my
nose all the time like that slut that Mary we had in Ontario terrace
padding out her false bottom to excite him bad enough to get the smell
of those painted women off him once or twice I had a suspicion by
getting him to come near me when I found the long hair on his coat
without that one when I went into the kitchen pretending he was
drinking water 1 woman is not enough for them it was all his fault of
course ruining servants then proposing that she could eat at our table
on Christmas day if you please O no thank you not in my house stealing
my potatoes and the oysters 2/6 per doz going out to see her aunt if
you please common robbery so it was but I was sure he had something on
with that one it takes me to find out a thing like that he said you
have no proof it was her proof O yes her aunt was very fond of oysters
but I told her what I thought of her suggesting me to go out to be
alone with her I wouldnt lower myself to spy on them the garters I
found in her room the Friday she was out that was enough for me a
little bit too much her face swelled up on her with temper when I gave
her her weeks notice I saw to that better do without them altogether do
out the rooms myself quicker only for the damn cooking and throwing out
the dirt I gave it to him anyhow either she or me leaves the house I
couldnt even touch him if I thought he was with a dirty barefaced liar
and sloven like that one denying it up to my face and singing about the
place in the W C too because she knew she was too well off yes because
he couldnt possibly do without it that long so he must do it somewhere
and the last time he came on my bottom when was it the night Boylan
gave my hand a great squeeze going along by the Tolka in my hand there
steals another I just pressed the back of his like that with my thumb
to squeeze back singing the young May moon shes beaming love because he
has an idea about him and me hes not such a fool he said Im dining out
and going to the Gaiety though Im not going to give him the
satisfaction in any case God knows hes a change in a way not to be
always and ever wearing the same old hat unless I paid some nicelooking
boy to do it since I cant do it myself a young boy would like me Id
confuse him a little alone with him if we were Id let him see my
garters the new ones and make him turn red looking at him seduce him I
know what boys feel with that down on their cheek doing that frigging
drawing out the thing by the hour question and answer would you do this
that and the other with the coalman yes with a bishop yes I would
because I told him about some dean or bishop was sitting beside me in
the jews temples gardens when I was knitting that woollen thing a
stranger to Dublin what place was it and so on about the monuments and
he tired me out with statues encouraging him making him worse than he
is who is in your mind now tell me who are you thinking of who is it
tell me his name who tell me who the german Emperor is it yes imagine
Im him think of him can you feel him trying to make a whore of me what
he never will he ought to give it up now at this age of his life simply
ruination for any woman and no satisfaction in it pretending to like it
till he comes and then finish it off myself anyway and it makes your
lips pale anyhow its done now once and for all with all the talk of the
world about it people make its only the first time after that its just
the ordinary do it and think no more about it why cant you kiss a man
without going and marrying him first you sometimes love to wildly when
you feel that way so nice all over you you cant help yourself I wish
some man or other would take me sometime when hes there and kiss me in
his arms theres nothing like a kiss long and hot down to your soul
almost paralyses you then I hate that confession when I used to go to
Father Corrigan he touched me father and what harm if he did where and
I said on the canal bank like a fool but whereabouts on your person my
child on the leg behind high up was it yes rather high up was it where
you sit down yes O Lord couldnt he say bottom right out and have done
with it what has that got to do with it and did you whatever way he put
it I forget no father and I always think of the real father what did he
want to know for when I already confessed it to God he had a nice fat
hand the palm moist always I wouldnt mind feeling it neither would he
Id say by the bullneck in his horsecollar I wonder did he know me in
the box I could see his face he couldnt see mine of course hed never
turn or let on still his eyes were red when his father died theyre lost
for a woman of course must be terrible when a man cries let alone them
Id like to be embraced by one in his vestments and the smell of incense
off him like the pope besides theres no danger with a priest if youre
married hes too careful about himself then give something to H H the
pope for a penance I wonder was he satisfied with me one thing I didnt
like his slapping me behind going away so familiarly in the hall though
I laughed Im not a horse or an ass am I I suppose he was thinking of
his fathers I wonder is he awake thinking of me or dreaming am I in it
who gave him that flower he said he bought he smelt of some kind of
drink not whisky or stout or perhaps the sweety kind of paste they
stick their bills up with some liqueur Id like to sip those richlooking
green and yellow expensive drinks those stagedoor johnnies drink with
the opera hats I tasted once with my finger dipped out of that American
that had the squirrel talking stamps with father he had all he could do
to keep himself from falling asleep after the last time after we took
the port and potted meat it had a fine salty taste yes because I felt
lovely and tired myself and fell asleep as sound as a top the moment I
popped straight into bed till that thunder woke me up God be merciful
to us I thought the heavens were coming down about us to punish us when
I blessed myself and said a Hail Mary like those awful thunderbolts in
Gibraltar as if the world was coming to an end and then they come and
tell you theres no God what could you do if it was running and rushing
about nothing only make an act of contrition the candle I lit that
evening in Whitefriars street chapel for the month of May see it
brought its luck though hed scoff if he heard because he never goes to
church mass or meeting he says your soul you have no soul inside only
grey matter because he doesnt know what it is to have one yes when I
lit the lamp because he must have come 3 or 4 times with that
tremendous big red brute of a thing he has I thought the vein or
whatever the dickens they call it was going to burst though his nose is
not so big after I took off all my things with the blinds down after my
hours dressing and perfuming and combing it like iron or some kind of a
thick crowbar standing all the time he must have eaten oysters I think
a few dozen he was in great singing voice no I never in all my life
felt anyone had one the size of that to make you feel full up he must
have eaten a whole sheep after whats the idea making us like that with
a big hole in the middle of us or like a Stallion driving it up into
you because thats all they want out of you with that determined vicious
look in his eye I had to halfshut my eyes still he hasnt such a
tremendous amount of spunk in him when I made him pull out and do it on
me considering how big it is so much the better in case any of it wasnt
washed out properly the last time I let him finish it in me nice
invention they made for women for him to get all the pleasure but if
someone gave them a touch of it themselves theyd know what I went
through with Milly nobody would believe cutting her teeth too and Mina
Purefoys husband give us a swing out of your whiskers filling her up
with a child or twins once a year as regular as the clock always with a
smell of children off her the one they called budgers or something like
a nigger with a shock of hair on it Jesusjack the child is a black the
last time I was there a squad of them falling over one another and
bawling you couldnt hear your ears supposed to be healthy not satisfied
till they have us swollen out like elephants or I dont know what
supposing I risked having another not off him though still if he was
married Im sure hed have a fine strong child but I dont know Poldy has
more spunk in him yes thatd be awfully jolly I suppose it was meeting
Josie Powell and the funeral and thinking about me and Boylan set him
off well he can think what he likes now if thatll do him any good I
know they were spooning a bit when I came on the scene he was dancing
and sitting out with her the night of Georgina Simpsons housewarming
and then he wanted to ram it down my neck it was on account of not
liking to see her a wallflower that was why we had the standup row over
politics he began it not me when he said about Our Lord being a
carpenter at last he made me cry of course a woman is so sensitive
about everything I was fuming with myself after for giving in only for
I knew he was gone on me and the first socialist he said He was he
annoyed me so much I couldnt put him into a temper still he knows a lot
of mixedup things especially about the body and the inside I often
wanted to study up that myself what we have inside us in that family
physician I could always hear his voice talking when the room was
crowded and watch him after that I pretended I had a coolness on with
her over him because he used to be a bit on the jealous side whenever
he asked who are you going to and I said over to Floey and he made me
the present of Byrons 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 1 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 go and hang a woman surely are they

theyre all so different Boylan talking about the shape of my foot he
noticed at once even before he was introduced when I was in the D B C
with Poldy laughing and trying to listen I was waggling my foot we both
ordered 2 teas and plain bread and butter I saw him looking with his
two old maids of sisters when I stood up and asked the girl where it
was what do I care with it dropping out of me and that black closed
breeches he made me buy takes you half an hour to let them down wetting
all myself always with some brandnew fad every other week such a long
one I did I forgot my suede gloves on the seat behind that I never got
after some robber of a woman and he wanted me to put it in the Irish
times lost in the ladies lavatory D B C Dame street finder return to
Mrs Marion Bloom and I saw his eyes on my feet going out through the
turning door he was looking when I looked back and I went there for tea
2 days after in the hope but he wasnt now how did that excite him
because I was crossing them when we were in the other room first he
meant the shoes that are too tight to walk in my hand is nice like that
if I only had a ring with the stone for my month a nice aquamarine Ill
stick him for one and a gold bracelet I dont like my foot so much still
I made him spend once with my foot the night after Goodwins botchup of
a concert so cold and windy it was well we had that rum in the house to
mull and the fire wasnt black out when he asked to take off my
stockings lying on the hearthrug in Lombard street west and another
time it was my muddy boots hed like me to walk in all the horses dung I
could find but of course hes not natural like the rest of the world
that I what did he say I could give 9 points in 10 to Katty Lanner and
beat her what does that mean I asked him I forget what he said because
the stoppress edition just passed and the man with the curly hair in
the Lucan dairy thats so polite I think I saw his face before somewhere
I noticed him when I was tasting the butter so I took my time Bartell
DArcy too that he used to make fun of when he commenced kissing me on
the choir stairs after I sang Gounods _Ave Maria_ what are we waiting
for O my heart kiss me straight on the brow and part which is my brown
part he was pretty hot for all his tinny voice too my low notes he was
always raving about if you can believe him I liked the way he used his
mouth singing then he said wasnt it terrible to do that there in a
place like that I dont see anything so terrible about it Ill tell him
about that some day not now and surprise him ay and Ill take him there
and show him the very place too we did it so now there you are like it
or lump it he thinks nothing can happen without him knowing he hadnt an
idea about my mother till we were engaged otherwise hed never have got
me so cheap as he did he was 10 times worse himself anyhow begging me
to give him a tiny bit cut off my drawers that was the evening coming
along Kenilworth square he kissed me in the eye of my glove and I had
to take it off asking me questions is it permitted to enquire the shape
of my bedroom so I let him keep it as if I forgot it to think of me
when I saw him slip it into his pocket of course hes mad on the subject
of drawers thats plain to be seen always skeezing at those brazenfaced
things on the bicycles with their skirts blowing up to their navels
even when Milly and I were out with him at the open air fete that one
in the cream muslin standing right against the sun so he could see
every atom she had on when he saw me from behind following in the rain
I saw him before he saw me however standing at the corner of the
Harolds cross road with a new raincoat on him with the muffler in the
Zingari colours to show off his complexion and the brown hat looking
slyboots as usual what was he doing there where hed no business they
can go and get whatever they like from anything at all with a skirt on
it and were not to ask any questions but they want to know where were
you where are you going I could feel him coming along skulking after me
his eyes on my neck he had been keeping away from the house he felt it
was getting too warm for him so I halfturned and stopped then he
pestered me to say yes till I took off my glove slowly watching him he
said my openwork sleeves were too cold for the rain anything for an
excuse to put his hand anear me drawers drawers the whole blessed time
till I promised to give him the pair off my doll to carry about in his
waistcoat pocket _O Maria Santisima_ he did look a big fool dreeping in
the rain splendid set of teeth he had made me hungry to look at them
and beseeched of me to lift the orange petticoat I had on with the
sunray pleats that there was nobody he said hed kneel down in the wet
if I didnt so persevering he would too and ruin his new raincoat you
never know what freak theyd take alone with you theyre so savage for it
if anyone was passing so I lifted them a bit and touched his trousers
outside the way I used to Gardner after with my ring hand to keep him
from doing worse where it was too public I was dying to find out was he
circumcised he was shaking like a jelly all over they want to do
everything too quick take all the pleasure out of it and father waiting
all the time for his dinner he told me to say I left my purse in the
butchers and had to go back for it what a Deceiver then he wrote me
that letter with all those words in it how could he have the face to
any woman after his company manners making it so awkward after when we
met asking me have I offended you with my eyelids down of course he saw
I wasnt he had a few brains not like that other fool Henny Doyle he was
always breaking or tearing something in the charades I hate an unlucky
man and if I knew what it meant of course I had to say no for form sake
dont understand you I said and wasnt it natural so it is of course it
used to be written up with a picture of a womans on that wall in
Gibraltar with that word I couldnt find anywhere only for children
seeing it too young then writing every morning a letter sometimes twice
a day I liked the way he made love then he knew the way to take a woman
when he sent me the 8 big poppies because mine was the 8th then I wrote
the night he kissed my heart at Dolphins barn I couldnt describe it
simply it makes you feel like nothing on earth but he never knew how to
embrace well like Gardner I hope hell come on Monday as he said at the
same time four I hate people who come at all hours answer the door you
think its the vegetables then its somebody and you all undressed or the
door of the filthy sloppy kitchen blows open the day old frostyface
Goodwin called about the concert in Lombard street and I just after
dinner all flushed and tossed with boiling old stew dont look at me
professor I had to say Im a fright yes but he was a real old gent in
his way it was impossible to be more respectful nobody to say youre out
you have to peep out through the blind like the messengerboy today I
thought it was a putoff first him sending the port and the peaches
first and I was just beginning to yawn with nerves thinking he was
trying to make a fool of me when I knew his tattarrattat at the door he
must have been a bit late because it was 1/4 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 1 or 2 tunnels perhaps then you have to look out of the
window all the nicer then coming back suppose I never came back what
would they say eloped with him that gets you on on the stage the last
concert I sang at where its over a year ago when was it St Teresas hall
Clarendon St little chits of missies they have now singing Kathleen
Kearney and her like on account of father being in the army and my
singing the absentminded beggar and wearing a brooch for Lord Roberts
when I had the map of it all and Poldy not Irish enough was it him
managed it this time I wouldnt put it past him like he got me on to
sing in the _Stabat Mater_ by going around saying he was putting Lead
Kindly Light to music I put him up to that till the jesuits found out
he was a freemason thumping the piano lead Thou me on copied from some
old opera yes and he was going about with some of them Sinner Fein
lately or whatever they call themselves talking his usual trash and
nonsense he says that little man he showed me without the neck is very
intelligent the coming man Griffiths is he well he doesnt look it thats
all I can say still it must have been him he knew there was a boycott I
hate the mention of their politics after the war that Pretoria and
Ladysmith and Bloemfontein where Gardner lieut Stanley G 8th Bn 2nd
East Lancs Rgt of enteric fever he was a lovely fellow in khaki and
just the right height over me Im sure he was brave too he said I was
lovely the evening we kissed goodbye at the canal lock my Irish beauty
he was pale with excitement about going away or wed be seen from the
road he couldnt stand properly and I so hot as I never felt they could
have made their peace in the beginning or old oom Paul and the rest of
the other old Krugers go and fight it out between them instead of
dragging on for years killing any finelooking men there were with their
fever if he was even decently shot it wouldnt have been so bad I love
to see a regiment pass in review the first time I saw the Spanish
cavalry at La Roque it was lovely after looking across the bay from
Algeciras all the lights of the rock like fireflies or those sham
battles on the 15 acres the Black Watch with their kilts in time at the
march past the 10th hussars the prince of Wales own or the lancers O
the lancers theyre grand or the Dublins that won Tugela his father made
his money over selling the horses for the cavalry well he could buy me
a nice present up in Belfast after what I gave him theyve lovely linen
up there or one of those nice kimono things I must buy a mothball like
I had before to keep in the drawer with them it would be exciting going
round with him shopping buying those things in a new city better leave
this ring behind want to keep turning and turning to get it over the
knuckle there or they might bell it round the town in their papers or
tell the police on me but theyd think were married O let them all go
and smother themselves for the fat lot I care he has plenty of money
and hes not a marrying man so somebody better get it out of him if I
could find out whether he likes me I looked a bit washy of course when
I looked close in the handglass powdering a mirror never gives you the
expression besides scrooching down on me like that all the time with
his big hipbones hes heavy too with his hairy chest for this heat
always having to lie down for them better for him put it into me from
behind the way Mrs Mastiansky told me her husband made her like the
dogs do it and stick out her tongue as far as ever she could and he so
quiet and mild with his tingating cither can you ever be up to men the
way it takes them lovely stuff in that blue suit he had on and stylish
tie and socks with the skyblue silk things on them hes certainly
welloff I know by the cut his clothes have and his heavy watch but he
was like a perfect devil for a few minutes after he came back with the
stoppress tearing up the tickets and swearing blazes because he lost 20
quid he said he lost over that outsider that won and half he put on for
me on account of Lenehans tip cursing him to the lowest pits that
sponger he was making free with me after the Glencree dinner coming
back that long joult over the featherbed mountain after the lord Mayor
looking at me with his dirty eyes Val Dillon that big heathen I first
noticed him at dessert when I was cracking the nuts with my teeth I
wished I could have picked every morsel of that chicken out of my
fingers it was so tasty and browned and as tender as anything only for
I didnt want to eat everything on my plate those forks and fishslicers
were hallmarked silver too I wish I had some I could easily have
slipped a couple into my muff when I was playing with them then always
hanging out of them for money in a restaurant for the bit you put down
your throat we have to be thankful for our mangy cup of tea itself as a
great compliment to be noticed the way the world is divided in any case
if its going to go on I want at least two other good chemises for one
thing and but I dont know what kind of drawers he likes none at all I
think didnt he say yes and half the girls in Gibraltar never wore them
either naked as God made them that Andalusian singing her Manola she
didnt make much secret of what she hadnt yes and the second pair of
silkette stockings is laddered after one days wear I could have brought
them back to Lewers this morning and kicked up a row and made that one
change them only not to upset myself and run the risk of walking into
him and ruining the whole thing and one of those kidfitting corsets Id
want advertised cheap in the Gentlewoman with elastic gores on the hips
he saved the one I have but thats no good what did they say they give a
delightful figure line 11/6 obviating that unsightly broad appearance
across the lower back to reduce flesh my belly is a bit too big Ill
have to knock off the stout at dinner or am I getting too fond of it
the last they sent from ORourkes was as flat as a pancake he makes his
money easy Larry they call him the old mangy parcel he sent at Xmas a
cottage cake and a bottle of hogwash he tried to palm off as claret
that he couldnt get anyone to drink God spare his spit for fear hed die
of the drouth or I must do a few breathing exercises I wonder is that
antifat any good might overdo it the thin ones are not so much the
fashion now garters that much I have the violet pair I wore today thats
all he bought me out of the cheque he got on the first O no there was
the face lotion I finished the last of yesterday that made my skin like
new I told him over and over again get that made up in the same place
and dont forget it God only knows whether he did after all I said to
him Ill know by the bottle anyway if not I suppose Ill only have to
wash in my piss like beeftea or chickensoup with some of that opoponax
and violet I thought it was beginning to look coarse or old a bit the
skin underneath is much finer where it peeled off there on my finger
after the burn its a pity it isnt all like that and the four paltry
handkerchiefs about 6/- in all sure you cant get on in this world
without style all going in food and rent when I get it Ill lash it
around I tell you in fine style I always want to throw a handful of tea
into the pot measuring and mincing if I buy a pair of old brogues
itself do you like those new shoes yes were they Ive no clothes at all
the brown costume and the skirt and jacket and the one at the cleaners
3 whats that for any woman cutting up this old hat and patching up the
other the men wont look at you and women try to walk on you because
they know youve no man then with all the things getting dearer every
day for the 4 years more I have of life up to 35 no Im what am I at all
Ill be 33 in September will I what O well look at that Mrs Galbraith
shes much older than me I saw her when I was out last week her beautys
on the wane she was a lovely woman magnificent head of hair on her down
to her waist tossing it back like that like Kitty OShea in Grantham
street 1st thing I did every morning to look across see her combing it
as if she loved it and was full of it pity I only got to know her the
day before we left and that Mrs Langtry the jersey lily the prince of
Wales was in love with I suppose hes like the first man going the roads
only for the name of a king theyre all made the one way only a black
mans Id like to try a beauty up to what was she 45 there was some funny
story about the jealous old husband what was it at all and an oyster
knife he went no he made her wear a kind of a tin thing round her and
the prince of Wales yes he had the oyster knife cant be true a thing
like that like some of those books he brings me the works of Master
Francois Somebody supposed to be a priest about a child born out of her
ear because her bumgut fell out a nice word for any priest to write and
her a—e as if any fool wouldnt know what that meant I hate that
pretending of all things with that old blackguards face on him anybody
can see its not true and that Ruby and Fair Tyrants he brought me that
twice I remember when I came to page 50 the part about where she hangs
him up out of a hook with a cord flagellate sure theres nothing for a
woman in that all invention made up about he drinking the champagne out
of her slipper after the ball was over like the infant Jesus in the
crib at Inchicore in the Blessed Virgins arms sure no woman could have
a child that big taken out of her and I thought first it came out of
her side because how could she go to the chamber when she wanted to and
she a rich lady of course she felt honoured H R H he was in Gibraltar
the year I was born I bet he found lilies there too where he planted
the tree he planted more than that in his time he might have planted me
too if hed come a bit sooner then I wouldnt be here as I am he ought to
chuck that Freeman with the paltry few shillings he knocks out of it
and go into an office or something where hed get regular pay or a bank
where they could put him up on a throne to count the money all the day
of course he prefers plottering about the house so you cant stir with
him any side whats your programme today I wish hed even smoke a pipe
like father to get the smell of a man or pretending to be mooching
about for advertisements when he could have been in Mr Cuffes still
only for what he did then sending me to try and patch it up I could
have got him promoted there to be the manager he gave me a great mirada
once or twice first he was as stiff as the mischief really and truly
Mrs Bloom only I felt rotten simply with the old rubbishy dress that I
lost the leads out of the tails with no cut in it but theyre coming
into fashion again I bought it simply to please him I knew it was no
good by the finish pity I changed my mind of going to Todd and Burns as
I said and not Lees it was just like the shop itself rummage sale a lot
of trash I hate those rich shops get on your nerves nothing kills me
altogether only he thinks he knows a great lot about a womans dress and
cooking mathering everything he can scour off the shelves into it if I
went by his advices every blessed hat I put on does that suit me yes
take that thats alright the one like a weddingcake standing up miles
off my head he said suited me or the dishcover one coming down on my
backside on pins and needles about the shopgirl in that place in
Grafton street I had the misfortune to bring him into and she as
insolent as ever she could be with her smirk saying Im afraid were
giving you too much trouble what shes there for but I stared it out of
her yes he was awfully stiff and no wonder but he changed the second
time he looked Poldy pigheaded as usual like the soup but I could see
him looking very hard at my chest when he stood up to open the door for
me it was nice of him to show me out in any case Im extremely sorry Mrs
Bloom believe me without making it too marked the first time after him
being insulted and me being supposed to be his wife I just half smiled
I know my chest was out that way at the door when he said Im extremely
sorry and Im sure you were

yes I think he made them a bit firmer sucking them like that so long he
made me thirsty titties he calls them I had to laugh yes this one
anyhow stiff the nipple gets for the least thing Ill get him to keep
that up and Ill take those eggs beaten up with marsala fatten them out
for him what are all those veins and things curious the way its made 2
the same in case of twins theyre supposed to represent beauty placed up
there like those statues in the museum one of them pretending to hide
it with her hand are they so beautiful of course compared with what a
man looks like with his two bags full and his other thing hanging down
out of him or sticking up at you like a hatrack no wonder they hide it
with a cabbageleaf that disgusting Cameron highlander behind the meat
market or that other wretch with the red head behind the tree where the
statue of the fish used to be when I was passing pretending he was
pissing standing out for me to see it with his babyclothes up to one
side the Queens own they were a nice lot its well the Surreys relieved
them theyre always trying to show it to you every time nearly I passed
outside the mens greenhouse near the Harcourt street station just to
try some fellow or other trying to catch my eye as if it was 1 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 1 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 one 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 I’ll get him to cut them tomorrow for me instead of having them there
for the next year to get a few pence for them have him asking wheres
last Januarys paper and all those old overcoats I bundled out of the
hall making the place hotter than it is that rain was lovely and
refreshing just after my beauty sleep I thought it was going to get
like Gibraltar my goodness the heat there before the levanter came on
black as night and the glare of the rock standing up in it like a big
giant compared with their 3 Rock mountain they think is so great with
the red sentries here and there the poplars and they all whitehot and
the smell of the rainwater in those tanks watching the sun all the time
weltering down on you faded all that lovely frock fathers friend Mrs
Stanhope sent me from the B Marche paris what a shame my dearest
Doggerina she wrote on it she was very nice whats this her other name
was just a p c to tell you I sent the little present have just had a
jolly warm bath and feel a very clean dog now enjoyed it wogger she
called him wogger wd give anything to be back in Gib and hear you sing
Waiting and in old Madrid Concone is the name of those exercises he
bought me one of those new some word I couldnt make out shawls amusing
things but tear for the least thing still there lovely I think dont you
will always think of the lovely teas we had together scrumptious
currant scones and raspberry wafers I adore well now dearest Doggerina
be sure and write soon kind she left out regards to your father also
Captain Grove with love yrs affly Hester x x x x x she didnt look a bit
married just like a girl he was years older than her wogger he was
awfully fond of me when he held down the wire with his foot for me to
step over at the bullfight at La Linea when that matador Gomez was
given the bulls ear these clothes we have to wear whoever invented them
expecting you to walk up Killiney hill then for example at that picnic
all staysed up you cant do a blessed thing in them in a crowd run or
jump out of the way thats why I was afraid when that other ferocious
old Bull began to charge the banderilleros with the sashes and the 2
things in their hats and the brutes of men shouting bravo toro sure the
women were as bad in their nice white mantillas ripping all the whole
insides out of those poor horses I never heard of such a thing in all
my life yes he used to break his heart at me taking off the dog barking
in bell lane poor brute and it sick what became of them ever I suppose
theyre dead long ago the 2 of them its like all through a mist makes
you feel so old I made the scones of course I had everything all to
myself then a girl Hester we used to compare our hair mine was thicker
than hers she showed me how to settle it at the back when I put it up
and whats this else how to make a knot on a thread with the one hand we
were like cousins what age was I then the night of the storm I slept in
her bed she had her arms round me then we were fighting in the morning
with the pillow what fun he was watching me whenever he got an
opportunity at the band on the Alameda esplanade when I was with father
and Captain Grove I looked up at the church first and then at the
windows then down and our eyes met I felt something go through me like
all needles my eyes were dancing I remember after when I looked at
myself in the glass hardly recognised myself the change he was
attractive to a girl in spite of his being a little bald intelligent
looking disappointed and gay at the same time he was like Thomas in the
shadow of Ashlydyat I had a splendid skin from the sun and the
excitement like a rose I didnt get a wink of sleep it wouldnt have been
nice on account of her but I could have stopped it in time she gave me
the Moonstone to read that was the first I read of Wilkie Collins East
Lynne I read and the shadow of Ashlydyat Mrs Henry Wood Henry Dunbar by
that other woman I lent him afterwards with Mulveys photo in it so as
he see I wasnt without and Lord Lytton Eugene Aram Molly bawn she gave
me by Mrs Hungerford on account of the name I dont like books with a
Molly in them like that one he brought me about the one from Flanders a
whore always shoplifting anything she could cloth and stuff and yards
of it O this blanket is too heavy on me thats better I havent even one
decent nightdress this thing gets all rolled under me besides him and
his fooling thats better I used to be weltering then in the heat my
shift drenched with the sweat stuck in the cheeks of my bottom on the
chair when I stood up they were so fattish and firm when I got up on
the sofa cushions to see with my clothes up and the bugs tons of them
at night and the mosquito nets I couldnt read a line Lord how long ago
it seems centuries of course they never came back and she didnt put her
address right on it either she may have noticed her wogger people were
always going away and we never I remember that day with the waves and
the boats with their high heads rocking and the smell of ship those
Officers uniforms on shore leave made me seasick he didnt say anything
he was very serious I had the high buttoned boots on and my skirt was
blowing she kissed me six or seven times didnt I cry yes I believe I
did or near it my lips were taittering when I said goodbye she had a
Gorgeous wrap of some special kind of blue colour on her for the voyage
made very peculiarly to one side like and it was extremely pretty it
got as dull as the devil after they went I was almost planning to run
away mad out of it somewhere were never easy where we are father or
aunt or marriage waiting always waiting to guiiiide him toooo me
waiting nor speeeed his flying feet their damn guns bursting and
booming all over the shop especially the Queens birthday and throwing
everything down in all directions if you didnt open the windows when
general Ulysses Grant whoever he was or did supposed to be some great
fellow landed off the ship and old Sprague the consul that was there
from before the flood dressed up poor man and he in mourning for the
son then the same old bugles for reveille in the morning and drums
rolling and the unfortunate poor devils of soldiers walking about with
messtins smelling the place more than the old longbearded jews in their
jellibees and levites assembly and sound clear and gunfire for the men
to cross the lines and the warden marching with his keys to lock the
gates and the bagpipes and only captain Groves and father talking about
Rorkes drift and Plevna and sir Garnet Wolseley and Gordon at Khartoum
lighting their pipes for them everytime they went out drunken old devil
with his grog on the windowsill catch him leaving any of it picking his
nose trying to think of some other dirty story to tell up in a corner
but he never forgot himself when I was there sending me out of the room
on some blind excuse paying his compliments the Bushmills whisky
talking of course but hed do the same to the next woman that came along
I suppose he died of galloping drink ages ago the days like years not a
letter from a living soul except the odd few I posted to myself with
bits of paper in them so bored sometimes I could fight with my nails
listening to that old Arab with the one eye and his heass of an
instrument singing his heah heah aheah all my compriment 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
symph̸athy I always make that mistake and new̸phew 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 precipitancy with
equal candour the greatest earthly happiness answer to a gentlemans
proposal affirmatively my goodness theres nothing else its all very
fine for them but as for being a woman as soon as youre old they might
as well throw you out in the bottom of the ashpit.

Mulveys was the first when I was in bed that morning and Mrs Rubio
brought it in with the coffee she stood there standing when I asked her
to hand me and I pointing at them I couldnt think of the word a hairpin
to open it with ah horquilla disobliging old thing and it staring her
in the face with her switch of false hair on her and vain about her
appearance ugly as she was near 80 or a 100 her face a mass of wrinkles
with all her religion domineering because she never could get over the
Atlantic fleet coming in half the ships of the world and the Union Jack
flying with all her carabineros because 4 drunken English sailors took
all the rock from them and because I didnt run into mass often enough
in Santa Maria to please her with her shawl up on her except when there
was a marriage on with all her miracles of the saints and her black
blessed virgin with the silver dress and the sun dancing 3 times on
Easter Sunday morning and when the priest was going by with the bell
bringing the vatican to the dying blessing herself for his Majestad an
admirer he signed it I near jumped out of my skin I wanted to pick him
up when I saw him following me along the Calle Real in the shop window
then he tipped me just in passing but I never thought hed write making
an appointment I had it inside my petticoat bodice all day reading it
up in every hole and corner while father was up at the drill
instructing to find out by the handwriting or the language of stamps
singing I remember shall I wear a white rose and I wanted to put on the
old stupid clock to near the time he was the first man kissed me under
the Moorish wall my sweetheart when a boy it never entered my head what
kissing meant till he put his tongue in my mouth his mouth was
sweetlike young I put my knee up to him a few times to learn the way
what did I tell him I was engaged for for fun to the son of a Spanish
nobleman named Don Miguel de la Flora and he believed me that I was to
be married to him in 3 years time theres many a true word spoken in
jest there is a flower that bloometh a few things I told him true about
myself just for him to be imagining the Spanish girls he didnt like I
suppose one of them wouldnt have him I got him excited he crushed all
the flowers on my bosom he brought me he couldnt count the pesetas and
the perragordas till I taught him Cappoquin he came from he said on the
black water but it was too short then the day before he left May yes it
was May when the infant king of Spain was born Im always like that in
the spring Id like a new fellow every year up on the tiptop under the
rockgun near OHaras tower I told him it was struck by lightning and all
about the old Barbary apes they sent to Clapham without a tail
careering all over the show on each others back Mrs Rubio said she was
a regular old rock scorpion robbing the chickens out of Inces farm and
throw stones at you if you went anear he was looking at me I had that
white blouse on open in the front to encourage him as much as I could
without too openly they were just beginning to be plump I said I was
tired we lay over the firtree cove a wild place I suppose it must be
the highest rock in existence the galleries and casemates and those
frightful rocks and Saint Michaels cave with the icicles or whatever
they call them hanging down and ladders all the mud plotching my boots
Im sure thats the way down the monkeys go under the sea to Africa when
they die the ships out far like chips that was the Malta boat passing
yes the sea and the sky you could do what you liked lie there for ever
he caressed them outside they love doing that its the roundness there I
was leaning over him with my white ricestraw hat to take the newness
out of it the left side of my face the best my blouse open for his last
day transparent kind of shirt he had I could see his chest pink he
wanted to touch mine with his for a moment but I wouldnt let him he was
awfully put out first for fear you never know consumption or leave me
with a child embarazada that old servant Ines told me that one drop
even if it got into you at all after I tried with the Banana but I was
afraid it might break and get lost up in me somewhere because they once
took something down out of a woman that was up there for years covered
with limesalts theyre all mad to get in there where they come out of
youd think they could never go far enough up and then theyre done with
you in a way till the next time yes because theres a wonderful feeling
there so tender all the time how did we finish it off yes O yes I
pulled him off into my handkerchief pretending not to be excited but I
opened my legs I wouldnt let him touch me inside my petticoat because I
had a skirt opening up the side I tormented the life out of him first
tickling him I loved rousing that dog in the hotel rrrsssstt
awokwokawok his eyes shut and a bird flying below us he was shy all the
same I liked him like that moaning I made him blush a little when I got
over him that way when I unbuttoned him and took his out and drew back
the skin it had a kind of eye in it theyre all Buttons men down the
middle on the wrong side of them Molly darling he called me what was
his name Jack Joe Harry Mulvey was it yes I think a lieutenant he was
rather fair he had a laughing kind of a voice so I went round to the
whatyoucallit everything was whatyoucallit moustache had he he said hed
come back Lord its just like yesterday to me and if I was married hed
do it to me and I promised him yes faithfully Id let him block me now
flying perhaps hes dead or killed or a captain or admiral its nearly 20
years if I said firtree cove he would if he came up behind me and put
his hands over my eyes to guess who I might recognise him hes young
still about 40 perhaps hes married some girl on the black water and is
quite changed they all do they havent half the character a woman has
she little knows what I did with her beloved husband before he ever
dreamt of her in broad daylight too in the sight of the whole world you
might say they could have put an article about it in the Chronicle I
was a bit wild after when I blew out the old bag the biscuits were in
from Benady Bros and exploded it Lord what a bang all the woodcocks and
pigeons screaming coming back the same way that we went over middle
hill round by the old guardhouse and the jews burialplace pretending to
read out the Hebrew on them I wanted to fire his pistol he said he
hadnt one he didnt know what to make of me with his peak cap on that he
always wore crooked as often as I settled it straight H M S Calypso
swinging my hat that old Bishop that spoke off the altar his long
preach about womans higher functions about girls now riding the bicycle
and wearing peak caps and the new woman bloomers God send him sense and
me more money I suppose theyre called after him I never thought that
would be my name Bloom when I used to write it in print to see how it
looked on a visiting card or practising for the butcher and oblige M
Bloom youre looking blooming Josie used to say after I married him well
its better than Breen or Briggs does brig or those awful names with
bottom in them Mrs Ramsbottom or some other kind of a bottom Mulvey I
wouldnt go mad about either or suppose I divorced him Mrs Boylan my
mother whoever she was might have given me a nicer name the Lord knows
after the lovely one she had Lunita Laredo the fun we had running along
Williss road to Europa point twisting in and out all round the other
side of Jersey they were shaking and dancing about in my blouse like
Millys little ones now when she runs up the stairs I loved looking down
at them I was jumping up at the pepper trees and the white poplars
pulling the leaves off and throwing them at him he went to India he was
to write the voyages those men have to make to the ends of the world
and back its the least they might get a squeeze or two at a woman while
they can going out to be drowned or blown up somewhere I went up
Windmill hill to the flats that Sunday morning with captain Rubios that
was dead spyglass like the sentry had he said hed have one or two from
on board I wore that frock from the B Marche paris and the coral
necklace the straits shining I could see over to Morocco almost the bay
of Tangier white and the Atlas mountain with snow on it and the straits
like a river so clear Harry Molly darling I was thinking of him on the
sea all the time after at mass when my petticoat began to slip down at
the elevation weeks and weeks I kept the handkerchief under my pillow
for the smell of him there was no decent perfume to be got in that
Gibraltar only that cheap peau dEspagne that faded and left a stink on
you more than anything else I wanted to give him a memento he gave me
that clumsy Claddagh ring for luck that I gave Gardner going to south
Africa where those Boers killed him with their war and fever but they
were well beaten all the same as if it brought its bad luck with it
like an opal or pearl still it must have been pure 18 carrot gold
because it was very heavy but what could you get in a place like that
the sandfrog shower from Africa and that derelict ship that came up to
the harbour Marie the Marie whatyoucallit no he hadnt a moustache that
was Gardner yes I can see his face cleanshaven
Frseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeefrong that train again weeping tone once in the
dear deaead days beyondre call close my eyes breath my lips forward
kiss sad look eyes open piano ere oer the world the mists began I hate
that istsbeg comes loves sweet sooooooooooong Ill let that out full
when I get in front of the footlights again Kathleen Kearney and her
lot of squealers Miss This Miss That Miss Theother lot of sparrowfarts
skitting around talking about politics they know as much about as my
backside anything in the world to make themselves someway interesting
Irish homemade beauties soldiers daughter am I ay and whose are you
bootmakers and publicans I beg your pardon coach I thought you were a
wheelbarrow theyd die down dead off their feet if ever they got a
chance of walking down the Alameda on an officers arm like me on the
bandnight my eyes flash my bust that they havent passion God help their
poor head I knew more about men and life when I was 15 than theyll all
know at 50 they dont know how to sing a song like that Gardner said no
man could look at my mouth and teeth smiling like that and not think of
it I was afraid he mightnt like my accent first he so English all
father left me in spite of his stamps Ive my mothers eyes and figure
anyhow he always said theyre so snotty about themselves some of those
cads he wasnt a bit like that he was dead gone on my lips let them get
a husband first thats fit to be looked at and a daughter like mine or
see if they can excite a swell with money that can pick and choose
whoever he wants like Boylan to do it 4 or 5 times locked in each
others arms or the voice either I could have been a prima donna only I
married him comes looooves old deep down chin back not too much make it
double My Ladys Bower is too long for an encore about the moated grange
at twilight and vaunted rooms yes Ill sing Winds that blow from the
south that he gave after the choirstairs performance Ill change that
lace on my black dress to show off my bubs and Ill yes by God Ill get
that big fan mended make them burst with envy my hole is itching me
always when I think of him I feel I want to I feel some wind in me
better go easy not wake him have him at it again slobbering after
washing every bit of myself back belly and sides if we had even a bath
itself or my own room anyway I wish hed sleep in some bed by himself
with his cold feet on me give us room even to let a fart God or do the
least thing better yes hold them like that a bit on my side piano
quietly sweeeee theres that train far away pianissimo eeeee one more
song

that was a relief wherever you be let your wind go free who knows if
that pork chop I took with my cup of tea after was quite good with the
heat I couldnt smell anything off it Im sure that queerlooking man in
the porkbutchers is a great rogue I hope that lamp is not smoking fill
my nose up with smuts better than having him leaving the gas on all
night I couldnt rest easy in my bed in Gibraltar even getting up to see
why am I so damned nervous about that though I like it in the winter
its more company O Lord it was rotten cold too that winter when I was
only about ten was I yes I had the big doll with all the funny clothes
dressing her up and undressing that icy wind skeeting across from those
mountains the something Nevada sierra nevada standing at the fire with
the little bit of a short shift I had up to heat myself I loved dancing
about in it then make a race back into bed Im sure that fellow opposite
used to be there the whole time watching with the lights out in the
summer and I in my skin hopping around I used to love myself then
stripped at the washstand dabbing and creaming only when it came to the
chamber performance I put out the light too so then there were 2 of us
goodbye to my sleep for this night anyhow I hope hes not going to get
in with those medicals leading him astray to imagine hes young again
coming in at 4 in the morning it must be if not more still he had the
manners not to wake me what do they find to gabber about all night
squandering money and getting drunker and drunker couldnt they drink
water then he starts giving us his orders for eggs and tea and Findon
haddy and hot buttered toast I suppose well have him sitting up like
the king of the country pumping the wrong end of the spoon up and down
in his egg wherever he learned that from and I love to hear him falling
up the stairs of a morning with the cups rattling on the tray and then
play with the cat she rubs up against you for her own sake I wonder has
she fleas shes as bad as a woman always licking and lecking but I hate
their claws I wonder do they see anything that we cant staring like
that when she sits at the top of the stairs so long and listening as I
wait always what a robber too that lovely fresh plaice I bought I think
Ill get a bit of fish tomorrow or today is it Friday yes I will with
some blancmange with black currant jam like long ago not those 2 lb
pots of mixed plum and apple from the London and Newcastle Williams and
Woods goes twice as far only for the bones I hate those eels cod yes
Ill get a nice piece of cod Im always getting enough for 3 forgetting
anyway Im sick of that everlasting butchers meat from Buckleys loin
chops and leg beef and rib steak and scrag of mutton and calfs pluck
the very name is enough or a picnic suppose we all gave 5/- each and or
let him pay it and invite some other woman for him who Mrs Fleming and
drove out to the furry glen or the strawberry beds wed have him
examining all the horses toenails first like he does with the letters
no not with Boylan there yes with some cold veal and ham mixed
sandwiches there are little houses down at the bottom of the banks
there on purpose but its as hot as blazes he says not a bank holiday
anyhow I hate those ruck of Mary Ann coalboxes out for the day Whit
Monday is a cursed day too no wonder that bee bit him better the
seaside but Id never again in this life get into a boat with him after
him at Bray telling the boatman he knew how to row if anyone asked
could he ride the steeplechase for the gold cup hed say yes then it
came on to get rough the old thing crookeding about and the weight all
down my side telling me pull the right reins now pull the left and the
tide all swamping in floods in through the bottom and his oar slipping
out of the stirrup its a mercy we werent all drowned he can swim of
course me no theres no danger whatsoever keep yourself calm in his
flannel trousers Id like to have tattered them down off him before all
the people and give him what that one calls flagellate till he was
black and blue do him all the good in the world only for that longnosed
chap I dont know who he is with that other beauty Burke out of the City
Arms hotel was there spying around as usual on the slip always where he
wasnt wanted if there was a row on youd vomit a better face there was
no love lost between us thats 1 consolation I wonder what kind is that
book he brought me Sweets of Sin by a gentleman of fashion some other
Mr de Kock I suppose the people gave him that nickname going about with
his tube from one woman to another I couldnt even change my new white
shoes all ruined with the saltwater and the hat I had with that feather
all blowy and tossed on me how annoying and provoking because the smell
of the sea excited me of course the sardines and the bream in Catalan
bay round the back of the rock they were fine all silver in the
fishermens baskets old Luigi near a hundred they said came from Genoa
and the tall old chap with the earrings I dont like a man you have to
climb up to to get at I suppose theyre all dead and rotten long ago
besides I dont like being alone in this big barracks of a place at
night I suppose Ill have to put up with it I never brought a bit of
salt in even when we moved in the confusion musical academy he was
going to make on the first floor drawingroom with a brassplate or
Blooms private hotel he suggested go and ruin himself altogether the
way his father did down in Ennis like all the things he told father he
was going to do and me but I saw through him telling me all the lovely
places we could go for the honeymoon Venice by moonlight with the
gondolas and the lake of Como he had a picture cut out of some paper of
and mandolines and lanterns O how nice I said whatever I liked he was
going to do immediately if not sooner will you be my man will you carry
my can he ought to get a leather medal with a putty rim for all the
plans he invents then leaving us here all day youd never know what old
beggar at the door for a crust with his long story might be a tramp and
put his foot in the way to prevent me shutting it like that picture of
that hardened criminal he was called in Lloyds Weekly news 20 years in
jail then he comes out and murders an old woman for her money imagine
his poor wife or mother or whoever she is such a face youd run miles
away from I couldnt rest easy till I bolted all the doors and windows
to make sure but its worse again being locked up like in a prison or a
madhouse they ought to be all shot or the cat of nine tails a big brute
like that that would attack a poor old woman to murder her in her bed
Id cut them off him so I would not that hed be much use still better
than nothing the night I was sure I heard burglars in the kitchen and
he went down in his shirt with a candle and a poker as if he was
looking for a mouse as white as a sheet frightened out of his wits
making as much noise as he possibly could for the burglars benefit
there isnt much to steal indeed the Lord knows still its the feeling
especially now with Milly away such an idea for him to send the girl
down there to learn to take photographs on account of his grandfather
instead of sending her to Skerrys academy where shed have to learn not
like me getting all at school only hed do a thing like that all the
same on account of me and Boylan thats why he did it Im certain the way
he plots and plans everything out I couldnt turn round with her in the
place lately unless I bolted the door first gave me the fidgets coming
in without knocking first when I put the chair against the door just as
I was washing myself there below with the glove get on your nerves then
doing the loglady all day put her in a glasscase with two at a time to
look at her if he knew she broke off the hand off that little gimcrack
statue with her roughness and carelessness before she left that I got
that little Italian boy to mend so that you cant see the join for 2
shillings wouldnt even teem the potatoes for you of course shes right
not to ruin her hands I noticed he was always talking to her lately at
the table explaining things in the paper and she pretending to
understand sly of course that comes from his side of the house he cant
say I pretend things can he Im too honest as a matter of fact and
helping her into her coat but if there was anything wrong with her its
me shed tell not him I suppose he thinks Im finished out and laid on
the shelf well Im not no nor anything like it well see well see now
shes well on for flirting too with Tom Devans two sons imitating me
whistling with those romps of Murray girls calling for her can Milly
come out please shes in great demand to pick what they can out of her
round in Nelson street riding Harry Devans bicycle at night its as well
he sent her where she is she was just getting out of bounds wanting to
go on the skatingrink and smoking their cigarettes through their nose I
smelt it off her dress when I was biting off the thread of the button I
sewed on to the bottom of her jacket she couldnt hide much from me I
tell you only I oughtnt to have stitched it and it on her it brings a
parting and the last plumpudding too split in 2 halves see it comes out
no matter what they say her tongue is a bit too long for my taste your
blouse is open too low she says to me the pan calling the kettle
blackbottom and I had to tell her not to cock her legs up like that on
show on the windowsill before all the people passing they all look at
her like me when I was her age of course any old rag looks well on you
then a great touchmenot too in her own way at the Only Way in the
Theatre royal take your foot away out of that I hate people touching me
afraid of her life Id crush her skirt with the pleats a lot of that
touching must go on in theatres in the crush in the dark theyre always
trying to wiggle up to you that fellow in the pit at the Gaiety for
Beerbohm Tree in Trilby the last time Ill ever go there to be squashed
like that for any Trilby or her barebum every two minutes tipping me
there and looking away hes a bit daft I think I saw him after trying to
get near two stylishdressed ladies outside Switzers window at the same
little game I recognised him on the moment the face and everything but
he didnt remember me yes and she didnt even want me to kiss her at the
Broadstone going away well I hope shell get someone to dance attendance
on her the way I did when she was down with the mumps and her glands
swollen wheres this and wheres that of course she cant feel anything
deep yet I never came properly till I was what 22 or so it went into
the wrong place always only the usual girls nonsense and giggling that
Conny Connolly writing to her in white ink on black paper sealed with
sealingwax though she clapped when the curtain came down because he
looked so handsome then we had Martin Harvey for breakfast dinner and
supper I thought to myself afterwards it must be real love if a man
gives up his life for her that way for nothing I suppose there are a
few men like that left its hard to believe in it though unless it
really happened to me the majority of them with not a particle of love
in their natures to find two people like that nowadays full up of each
other that would feel the same way as you do theyre usually a bit
foolish in the head his father must have been a bit queer to go and
poison himself after her still poor old man I suppose he felt lost shes
always making love to my things too the few old rags I have wanting to
put her hair up at 15 my powder too only ruin her skin on her shes time
enough for that all her life after of course shes restless knowing shes
pretty with her lips so red a pity they wont stay that way I was too
but theres no use going to the fair with the thing answering me like a
fishwoman when I asked to go for a half a stone of potatoes the day we
met Mrs Joe Gallaher at the trottingmatches and she pretended not to
see us in her trap with Friery the solicitor we werent grand enough
till I gave her 2 damn fine cracks across the ear for herself take that
now for answering me like that and that for your impudence she had me
that exasperated of course contradicting I was badtempered too because
how was it there was a weed in the tea or I didnt sleep the night
before cheese I ate was it and I told her over and over again not to
leave knives crossed like that because she has nobody to command her as
she said herself well if he doesnt correct her faith I will that was
the last time she turned on the teartap I was just like that myself
they darent order me about the place its his fault of course having the
two of us slaving here instead of getting in a woman long ago am I ever
going to have a proper servant again of course then shed see him coming
Id have to let her know or shed revenge it arent they a nuisance that
old Mrs Fleming you have to be walking round after her putting the
things into her hands sneezing and farting into the pots well of course
shes old she cant help it a good job I found that rotten old smelly
dishcloth that got lost behind the dresser I knew there was something
and opened the area window to let out the smell bringing in his friends
to entertain them like the night he walked home with a dog if you
please that might have been mad especially Simon Dedalus son his father
such a criticiser with his glasses up with his tall hat on him at the
cricket match and a great big hole in his sock one thing laughing at
the other and his son that got all those prizes for whatever he won
them in the intermediate imagine climbing over the railings if anybody
saw him that knew us I wonder he didnt tear a big hole in his grand
funeral trousers as if the one nature gave wasnt enough for anybody
hawking him down into the dirty old kitchen now is he right in his head
I ask pity it wasnt washing day my old pair of drawers might have been
hanging up too on the line on exhibition for all hed ever care with the
ironmould mark the stupid old bundle burned on them he might think was
something else and she never even rendered down the fat I told her and
now shes going such as she was on account of her paralysed husband
getting worse theres always something wrong with them disease or they
have to go under an operation or if its not that its drink and he beats
her Ill have to hunt around again for someone every day I get up theres
some new thing on sweet God sweet God well when Im stretched out dead
in my grave I suppose Ill have some peace I want to get up a minute if
Im let wait O Jesus wait yes that thing has come on me yes now wouldnt
that afflict you of course all the poking and rooting and ploughing he
had up in me now what am I to do Friday Saturday Sunday wouldnt that
pester the soul out of a body unless he likes it some men do God knows
theres always something wrong with us 5 days every 3 or 4 weeks usual
monthly auction isnt it simply sickening that night it came on me like
that the one and only time we were in a box that Michael Gunn gave him
to see Mrs Kendal and her husband at the Gaiety something he did about
insurance for him in Drimmies I was fit to be tied though I wouldnt
give in with that gentleman of fashion staring down at me with his
glasses and him the other side of me talking about Spinoza and his soul
thats dead I suppose millions of years ago I smiled the best I could
all in a swamp leaning forward as if I was interested having to sit it
out then to the last tag I wont forget that wife of Scarli in a hurry
supposed to be a fast play about adultery that idiot in the gallery
hissing the woman adulteress he shouted I suppose he went and had a
woman in the next lane running round all the back ways after to make up
for it I wish he had what I had then hed boo I bet the cat itself is
better off than us have we too much blood up in us or what O patience
above its pouring out of me like the sea anyhow he didnt make me
pregnant as big as he is I dont want to ruin the clean sheets I just
put on I suppose the clean linen I wore brought it on too damn it damn
it and they always want to see a stain on the bed to know youre a
virgin for them all thats troubling them theyre such fools too you
could be a widow or divorced 40 times over a daub of red ink would do
or blackberry juice no thats too purply O Jamesy let me up out of this
pooh sweets of sin whoever suggested that business for women what
between clothes and cooking and children this damned old bed too
jingling like the dickens I suppose they could hear us away over the
other side of the park till I suggested to put the quilt on the floor
with the pillow under my bottom I wonder is it nicer in the day I think
it is easy I think Ill cut all this hair off me there scalding me I
might look like a young girl wouldnt he get the great suckin the next
time he turned up my clothes on me Id give anything to see his face
wheres the chamber gone easy Ive a holy horror of its breaking under me
after that old commode I wonder was I too heavy sitting on his knee I
made him sit on the easychair purposely when I took off only my blouse
and skirt first in the other room he was so busy where he oughtnt to be
he never felt me I hope my breath was sweet after those kissing comfits
easy God I remember one time I could scout it out straight whistling
like a man almost easy O Lord how noisy I hope theyre bubbles on it for
a wad of money from some fellow Ill have to perfume it in the morning
dont forget I bet he never saw a better pair of thighs than that look
how white they are the smoothest place is right there between this bit
here how soft like a peach easy God I wouldnt mind being a man and get
up on a lovely woman O Lord what a row youre making like the jersey
lily easy easy O how the waters come down at Lahore

who knows is there anything the matter with my insides or have I
something growing in me getting that thing like that every week when
was it last I Whit Monday yes its only about 3 weeks I ought to go to
the doctor only it would be like before I married him when I had that
white thing coming from me and Floey made me go to that dry old stick
Dr Collins for womens diseases on Pembroke road your vagina he called
it I suppose thats how he got all the gilt mirrors and carpets getting
round those rich ones off Stephens green running up to him for every
little fiddlefaddle her vagina and her cochinchina theyve money of
course so theyre all right I wouldnt marry him not if he was the last
man in the world besides theres something queer about their children
always smelling around those filthy bitches all sides asking me if what
I did had an offensive odour what did he want me to do but the one
thing gold maybe what a question if I smathered it all over his wrinkly
old face for him with all my compriments I suppose hed know then and
could you pass it easily pass what I thought he was talking about the
rock of Gibraltar the way he put it thats a very nice invention too by
the way only I like letting myself down after in the hole as far as I
can squeeze and pull the chain then to flush it nice cool pins and
needles still theres something in it I suppose I always used to know by
Millys when she was a child whether she had worms or not still all the
same paying him for that how much is that doctor one guinea please and
asking me had I frequent omissions where do those old fellows get all
the words they have omissions with his shortsighted eyes on me cocked
sideways I wouldnt trust him too far to give me chloroform or God knows
what else still I liked him when he sat down to write the thing out
frowning so severe his nose intelligent like that you be damned you
lying strap O anything no matter who except an idiot he was clever
enough to spot that of course that was all thinking of him and his mad
crazy letters my Precious one everything connected with your glorious
Body everything underlined that comes from it is a thing of beauty and
of joy for ever something he got out of some nonsensical book that he
had me always at myself 4 and 5 times a day sometimes and I said I
hadnt are you sure O yes I said I am quite sure in a way that shut him
up I knew what was coming next only natural weakness it was he excited
me I dont know how the first night ever we met when I was living in
Rehoboth terrace we stood staring at one another for about 10 minutes
as if we met somewhere I suppose on account of my being jewess looking
after my mother he used to amuse me the things he said with the half
sloothering smile on him and all the Doyles said he was going to stand
for a member of Parliament O wasnt I the born fool to believe all his
blather about home rule and the land league sending me that long strool
of a song out of the Huguenots to sing in French to be more classy O
beau pays de la Touraine that I never even sang once explaining and
rigmaroling about religion and persecution he wont let you enjoy
anything naturally then might he as a great favour the very 1st
opportunity he got a chance in Brighton square running into my bedroom
pretending the ink got on his hands to wash it off with the Albion milk
and sulphur soap I used to use and the gelatine still round it O I
laughed myself sick at him that day I better not make an alnight
sitting on this affair they ought to make chambers a natural size so
that a woman could sit on it properly he kneels down to do it I suppose
there isnt in all creation another man with the habits he has look at
the way hes sleeping at the foot of the bed how can he without a hard
bolster its well he doesnt kick or he might knock out all my teeth
breathing with his hand on his nose like that Indian god he took me to
show one wet Sunday in the museum in Kildare street all yellow in a
pinafore lying on his side on his hand with his ten toes sticking out
that he said was a bigger religion than the jews and Our Lords both put
together all over Asia imitating him as hes always imitating everybody
I suppose he used to sleep at the foot of the bed too with his big
square feet up in his wifes mouth damn this stinking thing anyway
wheres this those napkins are ah yes I know I hope the old press doesnt
creak ah I knew it would hes sleeping hard had a good time somewhere
still she must have given him great value for his money of course he
has to pay for it from her O this nuisance of a thing I hope theyll
have something better for us in the other world tying ourselves up God
help us thats all right for tonight now the lumpy old jingly bed always
reminds me of old Cohen I suppose he scratched himself in it often
enough and he thinks father bought it from Lord Napier that I used to
admire when I was a little girl because I told him easy piano O I like
my bed God here we are as bad as ever after 16 years how many houses
were we in at all Raymond terrace and Ontario terrace and Lombard
street and Holles street and he goes about whistling every time were on
the run again his huguenots or the frogs march pretending to help the
men with our 4 sticks of furniture and then the City Arms hotel worse
and worse says Warden Daly that charming place on the landing always
somebody inside praying then leaving all their stinks after them always
know who was in there last every time were just getting on right
something happens or he puts his big foot in it Thoms and Helys and Mr
Cuffes and Drimmies either hes going to be run into prison over his old
lottery tickets that was to be all our salvations or he goes and gives
impudence well have him coming home with the sack soon out of the
Freeman too like the rest on account of those Sinner Fein or the
freemasons then well see if the little man he showed me dribbling along
in the wet all by himself round by Coadys lane will give him much
consolation that he says is so capable and sincerely Irish he is indeed
judging by the sincerity of the trousers I saw on him wait theres
Georges church bells wait 3 quarters the hour wait two oclock well
thats a nice hour of the night for him to be coming home at to anybody
climbing down into the area if anybody saw him Ill knock him off that
little habit tomorrow first Ill look at his shirt to see or Ill see if
he has that French letter still in his pocketbook I suppose he thinks I
dont know deceitful men all their 20 pockets arent enough for their
lies then why should we tell them even if its the truth they dont
believe you then tucked up in bed like those babies in the Aristocrats
Masterpiece he brought me another time as if we hadnt enough of that in
real life without some old Aristocrat or whatever his name is
disgusting you more with those rotten pictures children with two heads
and no legs thats the kind of villainy theyre always dreaming about
with not another thing in their empty heads they ought to get slow
poison the half of them then tea and toast for him buttered on both
sides and newlaid eggs I suppose Im nothing any more when I wouldnt let
him lick me in Holles street one night man man tyrant as ever for the
one thing he slept on the floor half the night naked the way the jews
used when somebody dies belonged to them and wouldnt eat any breakfast
or speak a word wanting to be petted so I thought I stood out enough
for one time and let him he does it all wrong too thinking only of his
own pleasure his tongue is too flat or I dont know what he forgets that
wethen I dont Ill make him do it again if he doesnt mind himself and
lock him down to sleep in the coalcellar with the blackbeetles I wonder
was it her Josie off her head with my castoffs hes such a born liar too
no hed never have the courage with a married woman thats why he wants
me and Boylan though as for her Denis as she calls him that
forlornlooking spectacle you couldnt call him a husband yes its some
little bitch hes got in with even when I was with him with Milly at the
College races that Hornblower with the childs bonnet on the top of his
nob let us into by the back way he was throwing his sheeps eyes at
those two doing skirt duty up and down I tried to wink at him first no
use of course and thats the way his money goes this is the fruits of Mr
Paddy Dignam yes they were all in great style at the grand funeral in
the paper Boylan brought in if they saw a real officers funeral thatd
be something reversed arms muffled drums the poor horse walking behind
in black L Boom and Tom Kernan that drunken little barrelly man that
bit his tongue off falling down the mens W C drunk in some place or
other and Martin Cunningham and the two Dedaluses and Fanny MCoys
husband white head of cabbage skinny thing with a turn in her eye
trying to sing my songs shed want to be born all over again and her old
green dress with the lowneck as she cant attract them any other way
like dabbling on a rainy day I see it all now plainly and they call
that friendship killing and then burying one another and they all with
their wives and families at home more especially Jack Power keeping
that barmaid he does of course his wife is always sick or going to be
sick or just getting better of it and hes a goodlooking man still
though hes getting a bit grey over the ears theyre a nice lot all of
them well theyre not going to get my husband again into their clutches
if I can help it making fun of him then behind his back I know well
when he goes on with his idiotics because he has sense enough not to
squander every penny piece he earns down their gullets and looks after
his wife and family goodfornothings poor Paddy Dignam all the same Im
sorry in a way for him what are his wife and 5 children going to do
unless he was insured comical little teetotum always stuck up in some
pub corner and her or her son waiting Bill Bailey wont you please come
home her widows weeds wont improve her appearance theyre awfully
becoming though if youre goodlooking what men wasnt he yes he was at
the Glencree dinner and Ben Dollard base barreltone the night he
borrowed the swallowtail to sing out of in Holles street squeezed and
squashed into them and grinning all over his big Dolly face like a
wellwhipped childs botty didnt he look a balmy ballocks sure enough
that must have been a spectacle on the stage imagine paying 5/- in the
preserved seats for that to see him trotting off in his trowlers and
Simon Dedalus too he was always turning up half screwed singing the
second verse first the old love is the new was one of his so sweetly
sang the maiden on the hawthorn bough he was always on for flirtyfying
too when I sang Maritana with him at Freddy Mayers private opera he had
a delicious glorious voice Phoebe dearest goodbye sweetheart
_sweet_heart he always sang it not like Bartell DArcy sweet _tart_
goodbye of course he had the gift of the voice so there was no art in
it all over you like a warm showerbath O Maritana wildwood flower we
sang splendidly though it was a bit too high for my register even
transposed and he was married at the time to May Goulding but then hed
say or do something to knock the good out of it hes a widower now I
wonder what sort is his son he says hes an author and going to be a
university professor of Italian and Im to take lessons what is he
driving at now showing him my photo its not good of me I ought to have
got it taken in drapery that never looks out of fashion still I look
young in it I wonder he didnt make him a present of it altogether and
me too after all why not I saw him driving down to the Kingsbridge
station with his father and mother I was in mourning thats 11 years ago
now yes hed be 11 though what was the good in going into mourning for
what was neither one thing nor the other the first cry was enough for
me I heard the deathwatch too ticking in the wall of course he insisted
hed go into mourning for the cat I suppose hes a man now by this time
he was an innocent boy then and a darling little fellow in his lord
Fauntleroy suit and curly hair like a prince on the stage when I saw
him at Mat Dillons he liked me too I remember they all do wait by God
yes wait yes hold on he was on the cards this morning when I laid out
the deck union with a young stranger neither dark nor fair you met
before I thought it meant him but hes no chicken nor a stranger either
besides my face was turned the other way what was the 7th card after
that the 10 of spades for a journey by land then there was a letter on
its way and scandals too the 3 queens and the 8 of diamonds for a rise
in society yes wait it all came out and 2 red 8s for new garments look
at that and didnt I dream something too yes there was something about
poetry in it I hope he hasnt long greasy hair hanging into his eyes or
standing up like a red Indian what do they go about like that for only
getting themselves and their poetry laughed at I always liked poetry
when I was a girl first I thought he was a poet like lord Byron and not
an ounce of it in his composition I thought he was quite different I
wonder is he too young hes about wait 88 I was married 88 Milly is 15
yesterday 89 what age was he then at Dillons 5 or 6 about 88 I suppose
hes 20 or more Im not too old for him if hes 23 or 24 I hope hes not
that stuckup university student sort no otherwise he wouldnt go sitting
down in the old kitchen with him taking Eppss cocoa and talking of
course he pretended to understand it all probably he told him he was
out of Trinity college hes very young to be a professor I hope hes not
a professor like Goodwin was he was a potent professor of John Jameson
they all write about some woman in their poetry well I suppose he wont
find many like me where softly sighs of love the light guitar where
poetry is in the air the blue sea and the moon shining so beautifully
coming back on the nightboat from Tarifa the lighthouse at Europa point
the guitar that fellow played was so expressive will I ever go back
there again all new faces two glancing eyes a lattice hid Ill sing that
for him theyre my eyes if hes anything of a poet two eyes as darkly
bright as loves own star arent those beautiful words as loves young
star itll be a change the Lord knows to have an intelligent person to
talk to about yourself not always listening to him and Billy Prescotts
ad and Keyess ad and Tom the Devils ad then if anything goes wrong in
their business we have to suffer Im sure hes very distinguished Id like
to meet a man like that God not those other ruck besides hes young
those fine young men I could see down in Margate strand bathingplace
from the side of the rock standing up in the sun naked like a God or
something and then plunging into the sea with them why arent all men
like that thered be some consolation for a woman like that lovely
little statue he bought I could look at him all day long curly head and
his shoulders his finger up for you to listen theres real beauty and
poetry for you I often felt I wanted to kiss him all over also his
lovely young cock there so simple I wouldnt mind taking him in my mouth
if nobody was looking as if it was asking you to suck it so clean and
white he looks with his boyish face I would too in 1/2 a minute even if
some of it went down what its only like gruel or the dew theres no
danger besides hed be so clean compared with those pigs of men I
suppose never dream of washing it from 1 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 1 atom of any kind of expression in us all of
us the same 2 lumps of lard before ever Id do that to a man pfooh the
dirty brutes the mere thought is enough I kiss the feet of you senorita
theres some sense in that didnt he kiss our halldoor yes he did what a
madman nobody understands his cracked ideas but me still of course a
woman wants to be embraced 20 times a day almost to make her look young
no matter by who so long as to be in love or loved by somebody if the
fellow you want isnt there sometimes by the Lord God I was thinking
would I go around by the quays there some dark evening where nobodyd
know me and pick up a sailor off the sea thatd be hot on for it and not
care a pin whose I was only do it off up in a gate somewhere or one of
those wildlooking gipsies in Rathfarnham had their camp pitched near
the Bloomfield laundry to try and steal our things if they could I only
sent mine there a few times for the name model laundry sending me back
over and over some old ones odd stockings that blackguardlooking fellow
with the fine eyes peeling a switch attack me in the dark and ride me
up against the wall without a word or a murderer anybody what they do
themselves the fine gentlemen in their silk hats that K C lives up
somewhere this way coming out of Hardwicke lane the night he gave us
the fish supper on account of winning over the boxing match of course
it was for me he gave it I knew him by his gaiters and the walk and
when I turned round a minute after just to see there was a woman after
coming out of it too some filthy prostitute then he goes home to his
wife after that only I suppose the half of those sailors are rotten
again with disease O move over your big carcass out of that for the
love of Mike listen to him the winds that waft my sighs to thee so well
he may sleep and sigh the great Suggester Don Poldo de la Flora if he
knew how he came out on the cards this morning hed have something to
sigh for a dark man in some perplexity between 2 7s too in prison for
Lord knows what he does that I dont know and Im to be slooching around
down in the kitchen to get his lordship his breakfast while hes rolled
up like a mummy will I indeed did you ever see me running Id just like
to see myself at it show them attention and they treat you like dirt I
dont care what anybody says itd be much better for the world to be
governed by the women in it you wouldnt see women going and killing one
another and slaughtering when do you ever see women rolling around
drunk like they do or gambling every penny they have and losing it on
horses yes because a woman whatever she does she knows where to stop
sure they wouldnt be in the world at all only for us they dont know
what it is to be a woman and a mother how could they where would they
all of them be if they hadnt all a mother to look after them what I
never had thats why I suppose hes running wild now out at night away
from his books and studies and not living at home on account of the
usual rowy house I suppose well its a poor case that those that have a
fine son like that theyre not satisfied and I none was he not able to
make one it wasnt my fault we came together when I was watching the two
dogs up in her behind in the middle of the naked street that
disheartened me altogether I suppose I oughtnt to have buried him in
that little woolly jacket I knitted crying as I was but give it to some
poor child but I knew well Id never have another our 1st death too it
was we were never the same since O Im not going to think myself into
the glooms about that any more I wonder why he wouldnt stay the night I
felt all the time it was somebody strange he brought in instead of
roving around the city meeting God knows who nightwalkers and
pickpockets his poor mother wouldnt like that if she was alive ruining
himself for life perhaps still its a lovely hour so silent I used to
love coming home after dances the air of the night they have friends
they can talk to weve none either he wants what he wont get or its some
woman ready to stick her knife in you I hate that in women no wonder
they treat us the way they do we are a dreadful lot of bitches I
suppose its all the troubles we have makes us so snappy Im not like
that he could easy have slept in there on the sofa in the other room I
suppose he was as shy as a boy he being so young hardly 20 of me in the
next room hed have heard me on the chamber arrah what harm Dedalus I
wonder its like those names in Gibraltar Delapaz Delagracia they had
the devils queer names there father Vilaplana of Santa Maria that gave
me the rosary Rosales y OReilly in the Calle las Siete Revueltas and
Pisimbo and Mrs Opisso in Governor street O what a name Id go and drown
myself in the first river if I had a name like her O my and all the
bits of streets Paradise ramp and Bedlam ramp and Rodgers ramp and
Crutchetts ramp and the devils gap steps well small blame to me if I am
a harumscarum I know I am a bit I declare to God I dont feel a day
older than then I wonder could I get my tongue round any of the Spanish
como esta usted muy bien gracias y usted see I havent forgotten it all
I thought I had only for the grammar a noun is the name of any person
place or thing pity I never tried to read that novel cantankerous Mrs
Rubio lent me by Valera with the questions in it all upside down the
two ways I always knew wed go away in the end I can tell him the
Spanish and he tell me the Italian then hell see Im not so ignorant
what a pity he didnt stay Im sure the poor fellow was dead tired and
wanted a good sleep badly I could have brought him in his breakfast in
bed with a bit of toast so long as I didnt do it on the knife for bad
luck or if the woman was going her rounds with the watercress and
something nice and tasty there are a few olives in the kitchen he might
like I never could bear the look of them in Abrines I could do the
criada the room looks all right since I changed it the other way you
see something was telling me all the time Id have to introduce myself
not knowing me from Adam very funny wouldnt it Im his wife or pretend
we were in Spain with him half awake without a Gods notion where he is
dos huevos estrellados senor Lord the cracked things come into my head
sometimes itd be great fun supposing he stayed with us why not theres
the room upstairs empty and Millys bed in the back room he could do his
writing and studies at the table in there for all the scribbling he
does at it and if he wants to read in bed in the morning like me as hes
making the breakfast for 1 he can make it for 2 Im sure Im not going to
take in lodgers off the street for him if he takes a gesabo of a house
like this Id love to have a long talk with an intelligent welleducated
person Id have to get a nice pair of red slippers like those Turks with
the fez used to sell or yellow and a nice semitransparent morning gown
that I badly want or a peachblossom dressing jacket like the one long
ago in Walpoles only 8/6 or 18/6 Ill just give him one more chance Ill
get up early in the morning Im sick of Cohens old bed in any case I
might go over to the markets to see all the vegetables and cabbages and
tomatoes and carrots and all kinds of splendid fruits all coming in
lovely and fresh who knows whod be the 1st man Id meet theyre out
looking for it in the morning Mamy Dillon used to say they are and the
night too that was her massgoing Id love a big juicy pear now to melt
in your mouth like when I used to be in the longing way then Ill throw
him up his eggs and tea in the moustachecup she gave him to make his
mouth bigger I suppose hed like my nice cream too I know what Ill do
Ill go about rather gay not too much singing a bit now and then mi fa
pieta Masetto then Ill start dressing myself to go out presto non son
piu forte Ill put on my best shift and drawers let him have a good
eyeful out of that to make his micky stand for him Ill let him know if
thats what he wanted that his wife is 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 £ 1 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 1 or 2 questions Ill know by the answers when hes
like that he cant keep a thing back I know every turn in him Ill
tighten my bottom well and let out a few smutty words smellrump or lick
my shit or the first mad thing comes into my head then Ill suggest
about yes O wait now sonny my turn is coming Ill be quite gay and
friendly over it O but I was forgetting this bloody pest of a thing
pfooh you wouldnt know which to laugh or cry were such a mixture of
plum and apple no Ill have to wear the old things so much the better
itll be more pointed hell never know whether he did it or not there
thats good enough for you any old thing at all then Ill wipe him off me
just like a business his omission then Ill go out Ill have him eying up
at the ceiling where is she gone now make him want me thats the only
way a quarter after what an unearthly hour I suppose theyre just
getting up in China now combing out their pigtails for the day well
soon have the nuns ringing the angelus theyve nobody coming in to spoil
their sleep except an odd priest or two for his night office or the
alarmclock next door at cockshout clattering the brains out of itself
let me see if I can doze off 1 2 3 4 5 what kind of flowers are those
they invented like the stars the wallpaper in Lombard street was much
nicer the apron he gave me was like that something only I only wore it
twice better lower this lamp and try again so as I can get up early Ill
go to Lambes there beside Findlaters and get them to send us some
flowers to put about the place in case he brings him home tomorrow
today I mean no no Fridays an unlucky day first I want to do the place
up someway the dust grows in it I think while Im asleep then we can
have music and cigarettes I can accompany him first I must clean the
keys of the piano with milk whatll I wear shall I wear a white rose or
those fairy cakes in Liptons I love the smell of a rich big shop at 7
1/2d a lb or the other ones with the cherries in them and the pinky
sugar 11d a couple of lbs of those a nice plant for the middle of the
table Id get that cheaper in wait wheres this I saw them not long ago I
love flowers Id love to have the whole place swimming in roses God of
heaven theres nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and
the waves rushing then the beautiful country with the fields of oats
and wheat and all kinds of things and all the fine cattle going about
that would do your heart good to see rivers and lakes and flowers all
sorts of shapes and smells and colours springing up even out of the
ditches primroses and violets nature it is as for them saying theres no
God I wouldnt give a snap of my two fingers for all their learning why
dont they go and create something I often asked him atheists or
whatever they call themselves go and wash the cobbles off themselves
first then they go howling for the priest and they dying and why why
because theyre afraid of hell on account of their bad conscience ah yes
I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there
was anybody that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so
there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising
tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the
rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat
the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of
seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago
my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a
flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that
was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today
yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a
woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the
pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I
wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was
thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and
Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all
birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the
pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing
round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls
laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the
morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who
else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market
all clucking outside Larby Sharons and the poor donkeys slipping half
asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the
steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle
thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and
turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop
and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas 2 glancing eyes a lattice
hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night
and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the
watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown
torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the
glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all
the queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses and
the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and
Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put
the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a
red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well
as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again
yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and
first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could
feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and
yes I said yes I will Yes.

Trieste-Zurich-Paris

1914-1921







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