Ulysses Ulyses James Joyce
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Ulysses
2 of 1305
I
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead,
bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay
crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained
gently behind him 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.
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—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
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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.
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—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.
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—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.
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—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.
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—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!
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Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out
to him, cleft by a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and
others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody
to rid of vermin. It asks me too.
—I pinched it out of the skivvy’s room, Buck Mulligan
said. It does her all right. The aunt always keeps
plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead him not into
temptation. And her name is Ursula.
Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from
Stephen’s peering eyes.
—The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a
mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see you!
Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with
bitterness:
—It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass
of a servant.
Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen’s
and walked with him round the tower, his razor and
mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them.
—It’s not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said
kindly. God knows you have more spirit than any of
them.
Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that
of his. The cold steelpen.
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—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!
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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:
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—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
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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:
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—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
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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
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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.
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—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
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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.
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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.
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—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.
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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.
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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,
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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.
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—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
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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:
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—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.
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—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.
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28 of 1305
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?
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29 of 1305
—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:
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30 of 1305
—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?
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31 of 1305
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.
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—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.
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33 of 1305
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?
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—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,
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35 of 1305
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
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36 of 1305
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!
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37 of 1305
—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.
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38 of 1305
—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:
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39 of 1305
—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
Uebermensch. 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:
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40 of 1305
—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.
* * * * *
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41 of 1305
—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.
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42 of 1305
—Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything
about Pyrrhus?
A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong’s satchel. He
curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed
them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissue of his lips. A
sweetened boy’s breath. Welloff people, proud that their
eldest son was in the navy. Vico road, Dalkey.
—Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.
All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter.
Armstrong looked round at his classmates, silly glee in
profile. In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware
of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.
—Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy’s
shoulder with the book, what is a pier.
—A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water.
A kind of a bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.
Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two
in the back bench whispered. Yes. They knew: had never
learned nor ever been innocent. All. With envy he
watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their likes:
their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their
bracelets tittering in the struggle.
—Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed
bridge.
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43 of 1305
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.
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44 of 1305
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:
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45 of 1305
—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.
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46 of 1305
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.
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47 of 1305
A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor
called:
—Hockey!
They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches,
leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from the
lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their
boots and tongues.
Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly,
showing an open copybook. His thick hair and scraggy
neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty
glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On his cheek, dull
and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent
and damp as a snail’s bed.
He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written
on the headline. Beneath were sloping figures and at the
foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril
Sargent: his name and seal.
—Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he
said, and show them to you, sir.
Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.
—Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.
—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr
Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, sir.
—Can you do them. yourself? Stephen asked.
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48 of 1305
—No, sir.
Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of
ink, a snail’s bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him
in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the
world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed
boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood
drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true
thing in life? His mother’s prostrate body the fiery
Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the
trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of
rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being
trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A
poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath
winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with
merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped
up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.
Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He
proves by algebra that Shakespeare’s ghost is Hamlet’s
grandfather. Sargent peered askance through his slanted
glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom: the
hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.
Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice,
in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of
squares and cubes. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner:
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49 of 1305
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.
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50 of 1305
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:
Ulysses
51 of 1305
—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
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52 of 1305
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.
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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.
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—I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest
boast. I paid my way.
Good man, good man.
—I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can
you feel that? I owe nothing. Can you?
Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair
brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea.
Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell,
one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a
guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five
weeks’ board. The lump I have is useless.
—For the moment, no, Stephen answered.
Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his
savingsbox.
—I knew you couldn’t, he said joyously. But one day
you must feel it. We are a generous people but we must
also be just.
—I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us
so unhappy.
Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the
mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs:
Albert Edward, prince of Wales.
—You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his
thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations since
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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! ...
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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.
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—Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt
ventilation of this allimportant question ...
Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his
winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of
bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the
motley slush. Fair Rebel! Fair Rebel! Even money the
favourite: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers
we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets
and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher’s dame, nuzzling
thirstily her clove of orange.
Shouts rang shrill from the boys’ playfield and a
whirring whistle.
Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling
bodies in a medley, the joust of life. You mean that
knockkneed mother’s darling who seems to be slightly
crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock.
Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of
the slain, a shout of spearspikes baited with men’s bloodied
guts.
—Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.
He came to the table, pinning together his sheets.
Stephen stood up.
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—I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said.
It’s about the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it.
There can be no two opinions on the matter.
May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of
laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade.
The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which
jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European
conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of
the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the
department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion.
Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she
should be. To come to the point at issue.
—I don’t mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as
Stephen read on.
Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch’s preparation.
Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest.
Emperor’s horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary
surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a
fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant
question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the
horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns.
—I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said.
You will see at the next outbreak they will put an
embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured.
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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.
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—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.
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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
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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
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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.
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—I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the
honour of being the only country which never persecuted
the jews. Do you know that? No. And do you know
why?
He frowned sternly on the bright air.
—Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.
—Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said
solemnly.
A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging
after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly,
coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air.
—She never let them in, he cried again through his
laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of
the path. That’s why.
On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of
leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.
* * * * *
Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no
more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I
am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide,
that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs.
Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he
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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?
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Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter
of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.
Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all
vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black
adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.
See now. There all the time without you: and ever
shall be, world without end.
They came down the steps from Leahy’s terrace
prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the shelving shore
flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand. Like
me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother.
Number one swung lourdily her midwife’s bag, the other’s
gamp poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the
day. Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk
MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. One of her
sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from
nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a
trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all
link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh. That is why
mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your
omphalos. Hello! Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville.
Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.
Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked
Eve. She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish,
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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.
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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
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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.
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His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with
rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded
knees.
This wind is sweeter.
Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the
Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle
a general in the army. Come out of them, Stephen.
Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh’s
library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim
Abbas. For whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the
cathedral close. A hater of his kind ran from them to the
wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his
eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval
equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell,
Lanternjaws. Abbas father,— furious dean, what offence
laid fire to their brains? Paff! Descende, calve, ut ne amplius
decalveris. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head
see him me clambering down to the footpace (descende!),
clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, baldpoll!
A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the
altar’s horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly
in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the
fat of kidneys of wheat.
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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.
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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
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dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams
of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.
He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara’s. Am I
not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned
northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the
Pigeonhouse.
—Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?
—c’est le pigeon, Joseph.
Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me
in the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan
of Paris. My father’s a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud
with pink young tongue, plump bunny’s face. Lap, lapin.
He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of
women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie
de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.
—C’est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne
crois pas en l’existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re.
—Il croit?
—Mon pere, oui.
Schluss. He laps.
My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the
character. I want puce gloves. You were a student,
weren’t you? Of what in the other devil’s name?
Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: physiques, chimiques et
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naturelles. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet,
fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say
in the most natural tone: when I was in Paris; boul’ Mich’, I
used to. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an
alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice.
On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the
prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it:
other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c’est moi. You
seem to have enjoyed yourself.
Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like?
Forget: a dispossessed. With mother’s money order, eight
shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in
your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. Encore deux
minutes. Look clock. Must get. Ferme. Hired dog! Shoot
him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered
walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack
back. Not hurt? O, that’s all right. Shake hands. See what
I meant, see? O, that’s all right. Shake a shake. O, that’s all
only all right.
You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to
Europe after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their
creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots,
loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Euge! Pretending to speak broken
English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence,
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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,
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their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan breton. Faces of
Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled
conquistadores.
Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes
through fingers smeared with printer’s ink, sipping his
green fairy as Patrice his white. About us gobblers fork
spiced beans down their gullets. Un demi setier! A jet of
coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at
his beck. Il est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux
irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui! She thought you
wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you
know that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew
once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his
postprandial. Well: slainte! Around the slabbed tables the
tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath
hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy’s fang
thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of
hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E,
pimander, good shepherd of men. To yoke me as his
yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You’re your
father’s son. I know the voice. His fustian shirt,
sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets.
M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he
called queen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth.
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Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful
woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how
he died? Licentious men. The froeken, bonne a tout faire,
who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire,
she said, Tous les messieurs. Not this Monsieur, I said. Most
licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldn’t
let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious
thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious
people.
The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns
clear. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a flame and acrid
smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his peep of
day boy’s hat. How the head centre got away, authentic
version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil,
orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. Did,
faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises,
clutched at, gone, not here.
Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that
time, I tell you. I’ll show you my likeness one day. I was,
faith. Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard
Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell
and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them
upward in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry.
In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save
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by me. Making his day’s stations, the dingy printingcase,
his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night
in, rue de la Goutte-d’Or, damascened with flyblown faces
of the gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey
comfy without her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-
Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a
zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing’s. Spurned and
undespairing. Tell Pat you saw me, won’t you? I wanted
to get poor Pat a job one time. Mon fils, soldier of France.
I taught him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring
blades. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that. Old
Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow’s castle on the Nore.
Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the
hand.
O, O THE BOYS OF
KILKENNY ...
Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten
Kevin Egan, not he them. Remembering thee, O Sion.
He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand
slapped his boots. The new air greeted him, harping in
wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Here,
I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I? He stood
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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?
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Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely
here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known
to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch
me.
He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks,
cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his
hat. His hat down on his eyes. That is Kevin Egan’s
movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Et
vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona. Alo! Bonjour. Welcome as
the flowers in May. Under its leaf he watched through
peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. I am caught in
this burning scene. Pan’s hour, the faunal noon. Among
gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the
tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far.
And no more turn aside and brood.
His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck’s
castoffs, nebeneinander. He counted the creases of rucked
leather wherein another’s foot had nested warm. The foot
that beat the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove. But you
were delighted when Esther Osvalt’s shoe went on you:
girl I knew in Paris. Tiens, quel petit pied! Staunch friend, a
brother soul: Wilde’s love that dare not speak its name.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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II
Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of
beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards,
a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs,
fried hencods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton
kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly
scented urine.
Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the
kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the humpy
tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of
doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel
a bit peckish.
The coals were reddening.
Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right.
She didn’t like her plate full. Right. He turned from the
tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the
fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of
tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a
leg of the table with tail on high.
—Mkgnao!
—O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the
fire.
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The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly
round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over
my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black
form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white
button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes.
He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.
—Milk for the pussens, he said.
—Mrkgnao! the cat cried.
They call them stupid. They understand what we say
better than we understand them. She understands all she
wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice
never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what I look like to
her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.
—Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly.
Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid
pussens as the pussens.
Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to
like it.
—Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.
She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes,
mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite
teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed
till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the
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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:
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—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
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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
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mosques among the pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up. A
shiver of the trees, signal, the evening wind. I pass on.
Fading gold sky. A mother watches me from her doorway.
She calls her children home in their dark language. High
wall: beyond strings twanged. Night sky, moon, violet,
colour of Molly’s new garters. Strings. Listen. A girl
playing one of those instruments what do you call them:
dulcimers. I pass.
Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read:
in the track of the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He
smiled, pleasing himself. What Arthur Griffith said about
the headpiece over the Freeman leader: a homerule sun
rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the
bank of Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey
touch that: homerule sun rising up in the north-west.
He approached Larry O’Rourke’s. From the cellar
grating floated up the flabby gush of porter. Through the
open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger,
teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however: just the end
of the city traffic. For instance M’Auley’s down there: n.
g. as position. Of course if they ran a tramline along the
North Circular from the cattlemarket to the quays value
would go up like a shot.
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Baldhead over the blind. Cute old codger. No use
canvassing him for an ad. Still he knows his own business
best. There he is, sure enough, my bold Larry, leaning
against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the
aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. Simon
Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his eyes screwed up.
Do you know what I’m going to tell you? What’s that, Mr
O’Rourke? Do you know what? The Russians, they’d
only be an eight o’clock breakfast for the Japanese.
Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad
thing about poor Dignam, Mr O’Rourke.
Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting
through the doorway:
—Good day, Mr O’Rourke.
—Good day to you.
—Lovely weather, sir.
—’Tis all that.
Where do they get the money? Coming up redheaded
curates from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old
man in the cellar. Then, lo and behold, they blossom out
as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then thin of the
competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross
Dublin without passing a pub. Save it they can’t. Off the
drunks perhaps. Put down three and carry five. What is
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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.
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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.
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—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.
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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.
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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.
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All dead names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old.
Old now. It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent hag
crossed from Cassidy’s, clutching a naggin bottle by the
neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the
earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born
everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more.
Dead: an old woman’s: the grey sunken cunt of the world.
Desolation.
Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his
pocket he turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward.
Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age
crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now. Yes, I
am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong
side of the bed. Must begin again those Sandow’s
exercises. On the hands down. Blotchy brown brick
houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that? Valuation
is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North,
MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters
on a sore eye. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of
the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed
flesh. Yes, yes.
Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley
road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening
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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.
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—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.
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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.
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Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the
tray in and set it on the chair by the bedhead.
—What a time you were! she said.
She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly,
an elbow on the pillow. He looked calmly down on her
bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her
nightdress like a shegoat’s udder. The warmth of her
couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance
of the tea she poured.
A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the
dimpled pillow. In the act of going he stayed to straighten
the bedspread.
—Who was the letter from? he asked.
Bold hand. Marion.
—O, Boylan, she said. He’s bringing the programme.
—What are you singing?
—La ci darem with J. C. Doyle, she said, and Love’s Old
Sweet Song.
Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that
incense leaves next day. Like foul flowerwater.
—Would you like the window open a little?
She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking:
—What time is the funeral?
—Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn’t see the paper.
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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?
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—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.
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Must get that Capel street library book renewed or
they’ll write to Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation:
that’s the word.
—Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in
another body after death, that we lived before. They call it
reincarnation. That we all lived before on the earth
thousands of years ago or some other planet. They say we
have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives.
The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her
tea. Bette remind her of the word: metempsychosis. An
example would be better. An example?
The Bath of the Nymph over the bed. Given away with
the Easter number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in
art colours. Tea before you put milk in. Not unlike her
with her hair down: slimmer. Three and six I gave for the
frame. She said it would look nice over the bed. Naked
nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the people that lived
then.
He turned the pages back.
—Metempsychosis, he said, is what the ancient Greeks
called it. They used to believe you could be changed into
an animal or a tree, for instance. What they called nymphs,
for example.
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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.
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Dearest Papli
Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. It
suits me splendid. Everyone says I am quite the belle in
my new tam. I got mummy’s Iovely box of creams and am
writing. They are lovely. I am getting on swimming in the
photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of me and
Mrs. Will send when developed. We did great biz
yesterday. Fair day and all the beef to the heels were in.
We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a few
friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to mummy
and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the
piano downstairs. There is to be a concert in the Greville
Arms on Saturday. There is a young student comes here
some evenings named Bannon his cousins or something
are big swells and he sings Boylan’s (I was on the pop of
writing Blazes Boylan’s) song about those seaside girls. Tell
him silly Milly sends my best respects. I must now close
with fondest love
Your fond daughter, MILLY.
P. S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Byby. M.
Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too.
Her first birthday away from home. Separation.
Remember the summer morning she was born, running to
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knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old
woman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the
world. She knew from the first poor little Rudy wouldn’t
live. Well, God is good, sir. She knew at once. He would
be eleven now if he had lived.
His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse
bad writing. Hurry. Piano downstairs. Coming out of her
shell. Row with her in the XL Cafe about the bracelet.
Wouldn’t eat her cakes or speak or look. Saucebox. He
sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after
piece of kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still,
she might do worse. Music hall stage. Young student. He
drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal.
Then he read the letter again: twice.
O, well: she knows how to mind herself. But if not?
No, nothing has happened. Of course it might. Wait in
any case till it does. A wild piece of goods. Her slim legs
running up the staircase. Destiny. Ripening now.
Vain: very.
He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen
window. Day I caught her in the street pinching her
cheeks to make them red. Anemic a little. Was given milk
too long. On the ERIN’S KING that day round the Kish.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read on,
seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly.
Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won the
laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in
hand. Smart. He glanced back through what he had read
and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly
Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of
three pounds, thirteen and six.
Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom.
Invent a story for some proverb. Which? Time I used to
try jotting down on my cuff what she said dressing. Dislike
dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting her
nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her.
9.l5. Did Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta
Conroy on? 9.23. What possessed me to buy this comb?
9.24. I’m swelled after that cabbage. A speck of dust on
the patent leather of her boot.
Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her
stockinged calf. Morning after the bazaar dance when
May’s band played Ponchielli’s dance of the hours. Explain
that: morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then
night hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night.
Her head dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan
well off? He has money. Why? I noticed he had a good
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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!
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Quarter to. There again: the overtone following
through the air, third.
Poor Dignam!
* * * * *
By lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom
walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask’s the linseed
crusher, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that
address too. And past the sailors’ home. He turned from
the morning noises of the quayside and walked through
Lime street. By Brady’s cottages a boy for the skins lolled,
his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A
smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed
him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if
he smokes he won’t grow. O let him! His life isn’t such a
bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home.
Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won’t be many there.
He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of
Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols’
the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay
Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O’Neill’s. Singing with
his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In the
dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she
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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.
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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
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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
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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 ...
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—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.
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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,
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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.
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Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I’m off that,
thanks.
Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty
friendliness.
—My wife too, he said. She’s going to sing at a
swagger affair in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-
fifth.
—That so? M’Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man.
Who’s getting it up?
Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her
bedroom eating bread and. No book. Blackened court
cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady and fair
man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.
Love’s
Old
Sweet
Song
Comes lo-ove’s old ...
—It’s a kind of a tour, don’t you see, Mr Bloom said
thoughtfully. Sweeeet song. There’s a committee formed.
Part shares and part profits.
M’Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.
—O, well, he said. That’s good news.
He moved to go.
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—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
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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
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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.
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He passed the cabman’s shelter. Curious the life of
drifting cabbies. All weathers, all places, time or setdown,
no will of their own. Voglio e non. Like to give them an
odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as they
pass. He hummed:
La ci darem la mano
La la lala la la.
He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some
paces, halted in the lee of the station wall. No-one.
Meade’s timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements.
With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with
its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the
timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the
taw with a cunnythumb. A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx,
watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them.
Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her.
Open it. And once I played marbles when I went to that
old dame’s school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis’s. And
Mr? He opened the letter within the newspaper.
A flower. I think it’s a. A yellow flower with flattened
petals. Not annoyed then? What does she say?
Dear Henry
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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.
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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
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number of pins they always have. No roses without
thorns.
Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts
that night in the Coombe, linked together in the rain.
O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers.
She didn’t know what to do
To keep it up
To keep it up.
It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses
probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus bad for
stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife use. Now
could you make out a thing like that?
To keep it up.
Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget
now old master or faked for money. He is sitting in their
house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two sluts in the
Coombe would listen.
To keep it up.
Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering
about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip.
Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs.
The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper:
fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like
the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet
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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,
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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:
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—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.
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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?
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Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that.
Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades. Over after
over. Out. They can’t play it here. Duck for six wickets.
Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare street
club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in
their line. And the skulls we were acracking when
M’Carthy took the floor. Heatwave. Won’t last. Always
passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we
trace is dearer than them all.
Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel,
the gentle tepid stream. This is my body.
He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in
a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly
laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and
sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel,
bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush
floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father
of thousands, a languid floating flower.
* * * * *
Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head
into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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?
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—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?
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—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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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?
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—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
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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.
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—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?
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—Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to
the boat and he tried to drown ...
—Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ
he did!
Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.
—No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself ...
Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely:
—Reuben and the son were piking it down the quay
next the river on their way to the Isle of Man boat and the
young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the wall with
him into the Liffey.
—For God’s sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is
he dead?
—Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A
boatman got a pole and fished him out by the slack of the
breeches and he was landed up to the father on the quay
more dead than alive. Half the town was there.
—Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is ...
—And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the
boatman a florin for saving his son’s life.
A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power’s hand.
—O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a
hero. A silver florin.
—Isn’t it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly.
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—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.
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—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.
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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
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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.
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—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?
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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.
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—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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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—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
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she wanted back, waiting. It never comes. One must go
first: alone, under the ground: and lie no more in her
warm bed.
—How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly,
clasping hands. Haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays.
—Never better. How are all in Cork’s own town?
—I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter
Monday, Ned Lambert said. Same old six and eightpence.
Stopped with Dick Tivy.
—And how is Dick, the solid man?
—Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert
answered.
—By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued
wonder. Dick Tivy bald?
—Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters,
Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just
to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up.
—Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the
eldest boy in front?
—Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife’s brother. John
Henry Menton is behind. He put down his name for a
quid.
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—I’ll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor
Paddy he ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the
worst in the world.
—How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor,
what?
—Many a good man’s fault, Mr Dedalus said with a
sigh.
They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr
Bloom stood behind the boy with the wreath looking
down at his sleekcombed hair and at the slender furrowed
neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he there
when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last
moment and recognise for the last time. All he might have
done. I owe three shillings to O’Grady. Would he
understand? The mutes bore the coffin into the chapel.
Which end is his head?
After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in
the screened light. The coffin lay on its bier before the
chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners. Always in
front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore
corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners knelt
here and there in prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind
near the font and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully
his unfolded newspaper from his pocket and knelt his right
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knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on his left
knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.
A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it
came out through a door. The whitesmocked priest came
after him, tidying his stole with one hand, balancing with
the other a little book against his toad’s belly. Who’ll read
the book? I, said the rook.
They halted by the bier and the priest began to read
out of his book with a fluent croak.
Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin.
Domine-namine. Bully about the muzzle he looks. Bosses
the show. Muscular christian. Woe betide anyone that
looks crooked at him: priest. Thou art Peter. Burst
sideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With
a belly on him like a poisoned pup. Most amusing
expressions that man finds. Hhhn: burst sideways.
—Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine.
Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in
Latin. Requiem mass. Crape weepers. Blackedged
notepaper. Your name on the altarlist. Chilly place this.
Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in the
gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes
of a toad too. What swells him up that way? Molly gets
swelled after cabbage. Air of the place maybe. Looks full
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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’
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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.
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—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
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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
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morning. Pennyweight of powder in a skull. Twelve
grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure.
Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.
—Everything went off A1, he said. What?
He looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman’s
shoulders. With your tooraloom tooraloom.
—As it should be, Mr Kernan said.
—What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.
Mr Kernan assured him.
—Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John
Henry Menton asked. I know his face.
Ned Lambert glanced back.
—Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was,
is, I mean, the soprano. She’s his wife.
—O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven’t
seen her for some time. he was a finelooking woman. I
danced with her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago,
at Mat Dillon’s in Roundtown. And a good armful she
was.
He looked behind through the others.
—What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn’t he
in the stationery line? I fell foul of him one evening, I
remember, at bowls.
Ned Lambert smiled.
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—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.
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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.
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—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
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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,
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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
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better do it that way. Gravediggers in Hamlet. Shows the
profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren’t joke
about the dead for two years at least. De mortuis nil nisi
prius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his
funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary
notice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind.
New lease of life.
—How many have-you for tomorrow? the caretaker
asked.
—Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.
The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow
had ceased to trundle. The mourners split and moved to
each side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves.
The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the
brink, looping the bands round it.
Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of
March or June. He doesn’t know who is here nor care.
Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the
macintosh? Now who is he I’d like to know? Now I’d
give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up
you never dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome
all his life. Yes, he could. Still he’d have to get someone to
sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave.
We all do. Only man buries. No, ants too. First thing
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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—There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also.
John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged out the dinge
and smoothed the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He
clapped the hat on his head again.
—It’s all right now, Martin Cunningham said.
John Henry Menton jerked his head down in
acknowledgment.
—Thank you, he said shortly.
They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom,
chapfallen, drew behind a few paces so as not to overhear.
Martin laying down the law. Martin could wind a
sappyhead like that round his little finger, without his
seeing it.
Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when
it dawns on him. Get the pull over him that way.
Thank you. How grand we are this morning!
* * * * *
IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN
METROPOLIS
Before Nelson’s pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed
trolley, started for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey,
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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
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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
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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.
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—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.
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—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.
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—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
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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?
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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.
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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
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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
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—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.
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—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.
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—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.
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—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 ...
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—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.
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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?
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—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.
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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.
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—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.
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—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
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The bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in
quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was struggling
up with the second tissue.
—Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said, clutching him for an
instant and making a grimace.
—My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you
hurt? I’m in a hurry.
—Knee, Lenehan said.
He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee:
—The accumulation of the anno Domini.
—Sorry, Mr Bloom said.
He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J. J.
O’Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two
shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway
from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps:
—We are the boys of Wexford
Who fought with heart and hand.
EXIT BLOOM
—I’m just running round to Bachelor’s walk, Mr
Bloom said, about this ad of Keyes’s. Want to fix it up.
They tell me he’s round there in Dillon’s.
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He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The
editor who, leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped
his head on his hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm
amply.
—Begone! he said. The world is before you.
—Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out.
J. J. O’Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan’s hand
and read them, blowing them apart gently, without
comment.
—He’ll get that advertisement, the professor said,
staring through his blackrimmed spectacles over the
crossblind. Look at the young scamps after him.
—Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running to the
window.
A STREET CORTEGE
Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering
newsboys in Mr Bloom’s wake, the last zigzagging white
on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail of white bowknots.
—Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and
cry, Lenehan said, and you’ll kick. O, my rib risible!
Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk. Small nines. Steal
upon larks.
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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
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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
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—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 ...
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—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
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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
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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!
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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—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.
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—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
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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
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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
…. mentreché il vento, come fa, si tace.
He saw them three by three, approaching girls, in
green, in rose, in russet, entwining, per l’aer perso, in
mauve, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, gold of
oriflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti. But I old men, penitent,
leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south:
tomb womb.
—Speak up for yourself, Mr O’Madden Burke said.
SUFFICIENT FOR THE DAY
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...
J. J. O’Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage.
—My dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigarette aside,
you put a false construction on my words. I hold no brief,
as at present advised, for the third profession qua
profession but your Cork legs are running away with you.
Why not bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and
Demosthenes and Edmund Burke? Ignatius Gallaher we all
know and his Chapelizod boss, Harmsworth of the
farthing press, and his American cousin of the Bowery
guttersheet not to mention Paddy Kelly’s Budget, Pue’s
Occurrences and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle.
Why bring in a master of forensic eloquence like
Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof.
LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF
YORE
—Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the
editor cried in his face. Irish volunteers. Where are you
now? Established 1763. Dr Lucas. Who have you now like
John Philpot Curran? Psha!
—Well, J. J. O’Molloy said, Bushe K.C., for example.
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—Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes: Bushe, yes. He has
a strain of it in his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean
Seymour Bushe.
—He would have been on the bench long ago, the
professor said, only for ... But no matter.
J. J. O’Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and
slowly:
—One of the most polished periods I think I ever
listened to in my life fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe.
It was in that case of fratricide, the Childs murder case.
Bushe defended him.
And in the porches of mine ear did pour.
By the way how did he find that out? He died in his
sleep. Or the other story, beast with two backs?
—What was that? the professor asked.
ITALIA, MAGISTRA ARTIUM
—He spoke on the law of evidence, J. J. O’Molloy
said, of Roman justice as contrasted with the earlier
Mosaic code, the lex talionis. And he cited the Moses of
Michelangelo in the vatican.
—Ha.
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—A few wellchosen words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence!
Pause. J. J. O’Molloy took out his cigarettecase.
False lull. Something quite ordinary.
Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit
his cigar.
I have often thought since on looking back over that
strange time that it was that small act, trivial in itself, that
striking of that match, that determined the whole
aftercourse of both our lives.
A POLISHED PERIOD
J. J. O’Molloy resumed, moulding his words:
—He said of it: that stony effigy in frozen music, horned
and terrible, of the human form divine, that eternal symbol of
wisdom and of prophecy which, if aught that the imagination or
the hand of sculptor has wrought in marble of soultransfigured and
of soultransfiguring deserves to live, deserves to live.
His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall.
—Fine! Myles Crawford said at once.
—The divine afflatus, Mr O’Madden Burke said.
—You like it? J. J. O’Molloy asked Stephen.
Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and
gesture, blushed. He took a cigarette from the case. J. J.
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O’Molloy offered his case to Myles Crawford. Lenehan lit
their cigarettes as before and took his trophy, saying:
—Muchibus thankibus.
A MAN OF HIGH MORALE
—Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you, J.
J. O’Molloy said to Stephen. What do you think really of
that hermetic crowd, the opal hush poets: A. E. the
mastermystic? That Blavatsky woman started it. She was a
nice old bag of tricks. A. E. has been telling some yankee
interviewer that you came to him in the small hours of the
morning to ask him about planes of consciousness.
Magennis thinks you must have been pulling A. E.’s leg.
He is a man of the very highest morale, Magennis.
Speaking about me. What did he say? What did he say?
What did he say about me? Don’t ask.
—No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, waving the
cigarettecase aside. Wait a moment. Let me say one thing.
The finest display of oratory I ever heard was a speech
made by John F Taylor at the college historical society. Mr
Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had
spoken and the paper under debate was an essay (new for
those days), advocating the revival of the Irish tongue.
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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.
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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
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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.
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—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.
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—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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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—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
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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
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—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.
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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,
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aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles,
rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.
WHAT?—AND LIKEWISE—WHERE?
—But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked.
Where did they get the plums?
VIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE.
SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD
MAN MOSES.
—Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips
wide to reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: deus nobis haec
otia fecit.
—No, Stephen said. I call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or
the Parable of The Plums.
t
—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.
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HORATIO IS CYNOSURE THIS FAIR
JUNE DAY
J. J. O’Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the
statue and held his peace.
—I see, the professor said.
He halted on sir John Gray’s pavement island and
peered aloft at Nelson through the meshes of his wry
smile.
DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO
TITILLATING FOR FRISKY FRUMPS.
ANNE WIMBLES, FLO WANGLES—
YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?
—Onehandled adulterer, he said smiling grimly. That
tickles me, I must say.
—Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the
God Almighty’s truth was known.
* * * * *
Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A
sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a
christian brother. Some school treat. Bad for their
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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.
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Night I went down to the pantry in the kitchen. Don’t
like all the smells in it waiting to rush out. What was it she
wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain. Before
Rudy was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny.
Very good for the brain.
From Butler’s monument house corner he glanced
along Bachelor’s walk. Dedalus’ daughter there still outside
Dillon’s auctionrooms. Must be selling off some old
furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father. Lobbing
about waiting for him. Home always breaks up when the
mother goes. Fifteen children he had. Birth every year
almost. That’s in their theology or the priest won’t give
the poor woman the confession, the absolution. Increase
and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat you out
of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living
on the fat of the land. Their butteries and larders. I’d like
to see them do the black fast Yom Kippur. Crossbuns.
One meal and a collation for fear he’d collapse on the
altar. A housekeeper of one of those fellows if you could
pick it out of her. Never pick it out of her. Like getting
l.s.d. out of him. Does himself well. No guests. All for
number one. Watching his water. Bring your own bread
and butter. His reverence: mum’s the word.
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who’s dead, when
and what did he die of? Turn up like a bad penny.
—O, dear me, Mrs Breen said. I hope it wasn’t any
near relation.
May as well get her sympathy.
—Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He
died quite suddenly, poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe.
Funeral was this morning.
Your funeral’s tomorrow
While you’re coming through the rye.
Diddlediddle dumdum
Diddlediddle ...
—Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen’s womaneyes
said melancholily.
Now that’s quite enough about that. Just: quietly:
husband.
—And your lord and master?
Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn’t lost
them anyhow.
—O, don’t be talking! she said. He’s a caution to
rattlesnakes. He’s in there now with his lawbooks finding
out the law of libel. He has me heartscalded. Wait till I
show you.
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Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked
jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison’s. The heavy
noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom’s gullet. Want to
make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or
they’d taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A
barefoot arab stood over the grating, breathing in the
fumes. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. Pleasure or
pain is it? Penny dinner. Knife and fork chained to the
table.
Opening her handbag, chipped leather. Hatpin: ought
to have a guard on those things. Stick it in a chap’s eye in
the tram. Rummaging. Open. Money. Please take one.
Devils if they lose sixpence. Raise Cain. Husband barging.
Where’s the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Are you
feeding your little brother’s family? Soiled handkerchief:
medicinebottle. Pastille that was fell. What is she? ...
—There must be a new moon out, she said. He’s
always bad then. Do you know what he did last night?
Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed
themselves on him, wide in alarm, yet smiling.
—What? Mr Bloom asked.
Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you.
Trust me.
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—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.
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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.
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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?
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—I will, Mr Bloom said.
He watched her dodge through passers towards the
shopfronts. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue
canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison’s hugging two heavy
tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old times.
He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and
thrust his dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw
wagging as he spoke earnestly.
Meshuggah. Off his chump.
Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him
in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling
stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the two days. Watch him!
Out he goes again. One way of getting on in the world.
And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time
she must have with him.
U.P.: up. I’ll take my oath that’s Alf Bergan or Richie
Goulding. Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house I bet
anything. Round to Menton’s office. His oyster eyes
staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods.
He passed the Irish Times. There might be other
answers Iying there. Like to answer them all. Good system
for criminals. Code. At their lunch now. Clerk with the
glasses there doesn’t know me. O, leave them there to
simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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:
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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fascination: the name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny and
his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet
harness. Bolt upright lik surgeon M’Ardle. Still David
Sheehy beat him for south Meath. Apply for the Chiltern
Hundreds and retire into public life. The patriot’s banquet.
Eating orangepeels in the park. Simon Dedalus said when
they put him in parliament that Parnell would come back
from the grave and lead him out of the house of commons
by the arm.
—Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whose heads is
the head upon which the ends of the world have forgotten
to come while the other speaks with a Scotch accent. The
tentacles ...
They passed from behind Mr Bloom along the
curbstone. Beard and bicycle. Young woman.
And there he is too. Now that’s really a coincidence:
second time. Coming events cast their shadows before.
With the approval of the eminent poet, Mr Geo. Russell.
That might be Lizzie Twigg with him. A. E.: what does
that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur
Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. What was he
saying? The ends of the world with a Scotch accent.
Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism.
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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.
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He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the
window of Yeates and Son, pricing the fieldglasses. Or
will I drop into old Harris’s and have a chat with young
Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow. Probably at his lunch.
Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Goerz lenses
six guineas. Germans making their way everywhere. Sell
on easy terms to capture trade. Undercutting. Might
chance on a pair in the railway lost property office.
Astonishing the things people leave behind them in trains
and cloakrooms. What do they be thinking about?
Women too. Incredible. Last year travelling to Ennis had
to pick up that farmer’s daughter’s ba and hand it to her at
Limerick junction. Unclaimed money too. There’s a little
watch up there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses
by.
His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides.
Can’t see it. If you imagine it’s there you can almost see it.
Can’t see it.
He faced about and, standing between the awnings,
held out his right hand at arm’s length towards the sun.
Wanted to try that often. Yes: completely. The tip of his
little finger blotted out the sun’s disk. Must be the focus
where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting.
There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we
were in Lombard street west. Looking up from the back
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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
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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.
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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.
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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!
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—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
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converted him to Christianity. Couldn’t swallow it all
however.
—Roast beef and cabbage.
—One stew.
Smells of men. His gorge rose. Spaton sawdust,
sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer,
men’s beery piss, the stale of ferment.
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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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?
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—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.
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—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.
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—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.
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—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
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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
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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
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many drugs spoil the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it
with Edwards’ desiccated soup. Geese stuffed silly for
them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do ptake some ptarmigan.
Wouldn’t mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips,
evening dress, halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little
more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad.
And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect that. A miss
Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. Du, de la French.
Still it’s the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore
street ripped the guts out of making money hand over fist
finger in fishes’ gills can’t write his name on a cheque
think he was painting the landscape with his mouth
twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a kish of
brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds.
Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.
Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed.
Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun’s heat
it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched
his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns
on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky.
The bay purple by the Lion’s head. Green by Drumleck.
Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines
faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat
she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand
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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
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looks. All to see. Never speaking. I mean to say to fellows
like Flynn. Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what
would she say first? Mortal! Put you in your proper place.
Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden dishes, all
ambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled
mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar
imagine it drinking electricity: gods’ food. Lovely forms of
women sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And we
stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle,
blood, dung, earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an
engine. They have no. Never looked. I’ll look today.
Keeper won’t see. Bend down let something drop see if
she.
Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go
to do not to do there to do. A man and ready he drained
his glass to the lees and walked, to men too they gave
themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a youth
enjoyed her, to the yard.
When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne
said from his book:
—What is this he is? Isn’t he in the insurance line?
—He’s out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does
canvassing for the Freeman.
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—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.
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—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.
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—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.
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—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.
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—Tell us if you’re worth your salt and be damned to
you, Paddy Leonard said. Who gave it to you?
Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in
greeting.
—So long! Nosey Flynn said.
The others turned.
—That’s the man now that gave it to me, Bantam
Lyons whispered.
—Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne,
sir, we’ll take two of your small Jamesons after that and a
...
—Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.
—Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the
baby.
Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue
brushing his teeth smooth. Something green it would have
to be: spinach, say. Then with those Rontgen rays
searchlight you could.
At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick
knuckly cud on the cobblestones and lapped it with new
zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks having fully digested
the contents. First sweet then savoury. Mr Bloom coasted
warily. Ruminants. His second course. Their upper jaw
they move. Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.
His hand looking for the where did I put found in his
hip pocket soap lotion have to call tepid paper stuck. Ah
soap there I yes. Gate.
Safe!
* * * * *
Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred:
—And we have, have we not, those priceless pages of
Wilhelm Meister. A great poet on a great brother poet. A
hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by
conflicting doubts, as one sees in real life.
He came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather
creaking and a step backward a sinkapace on the solemn
floor.
A noiseless attendant setting open the door but slightly
made him a noiseless beck.
—Directly, said he, creaking to go, albeit lingering.
The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to grief
against hard facts. One always feels that Goethe’s
judgments are so true. True in the larger analysis.
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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Mallarme but the desirable life is revealed only to the poor
of heart, the life of Homer’s Phaeacians.
From these words Mr Best turned an unoffending face
to Stephen.
—Mallarme, don’t you know, he said, has written
those wonderful prose poems Stephen MacKenna used to
read to me in Paris. The one about Hamlet. He says: il se
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.
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—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,
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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—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.
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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:
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of
warm and brooding air.
A vestal’s lamp.
Here he ponders things that were not: what Caesar
would have lived to do had he believed the soothsayer:
what might have been: possibilities of the possible as
possible: things not known: what name Achilles bore
when he lived among women.
Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases,
embalmed in spice of words. Thoth, god of libraries, a
birdgod, moonycrowned. And I heard the voice of that
Egyptian highpriest. In painted chambers loaded with tilebooks.
They are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still:
but an itch of death is in them, to tell me in my ear a
maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will.
—Certainly, John Eglinton mused, of all great men he
is the most enigmatic. We know nothing but that he lived
and suffered. Not even so much. Others abide our
question. A shadow hangs over all the rest.
—But Hamlet is so personal, isn’t it? Mr Best pleaded. I
mean, a kind of private paper, don’t you know, of his
private life. I mean, I don’t care a button, don’t you
know, who is killed or who is guilty ...
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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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
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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
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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
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come in the latter day to doom the quick and dead when
all the quick shall be dead already.
Glo—o—ri—a in ex—cel—sis De—o.
He lifts his hands. Veils fall. O, flowers! Bells with bells
with bells aquiring.
—Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. A most
instructive discussion. Mr Mulligan, I’ll be bound, has his
theory too of the play and of Shakespeare. All sides of life
should be represented.
He smiled on all sides equally.
Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled:
—Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name.
A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features.
—To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap
that writes like Synge.
Mr Best turned to him.
—Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He’ll
see you after at the D. B. C. He’s gone to Gill’s to buy
Hyde’s Lovesongs of Connacht.
—I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said.
Was he here?
—The bard’s fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton
answered, are rather tired perhaps of our brilliancies of
theorising. I hear that an actress played Hamlet for the
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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.
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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
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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.
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—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.
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—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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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great
Our judges tell us.
Him Satan fleers,
Mocker:
And therefore he left out her name
From the first draft but he did not leave out
The presents for his granddaughter, for his
daughters,
For his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford
And in London. And therefore when he
was urged,
As I believe, to name her
He left her his
Secondbest
Bed.
Punkt.
Leftherhis
Secondbest
Leftherhis
Bestabed
Secabest
Leftabed.
Woa!
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—Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John
Eglinton observed, as they have still if our peasant plays are
true to type.
—He was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, with
a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a house in
Ireland yard, a capitalist shareholder, a bill promoter, a
tithefarmer. Why did he not leave her his best bed if he
wished her to snore away the rest of her nights in peace?
—It is clear that there were two beds, a best and a
secondbest, Mr Secondbest Best said finely.
—Separatio a mensa et a thalamo, bettered Buck Mulligan
and was smiled on.
—Antiquity mentions famous beds, Second Eglinton
puckered, bedsmiling. Let me think.
—Antiquity mentions that Stagyrite schoolurchin and
bald heathen sage, Stephen said, who when dying in exile
frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his elders, wills
to be laid in earth near the bones of his dead wife and bids
his friends be kind to an old mistress (don’t forget Nell
Gwynn Herpyllis) and let her live in his villa.
—Do you mean he died so? Mr Best asked with slight
concern. I mean ...
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—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
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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.
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—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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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!
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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—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.
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He laughed to free his mind from his mind’s bondage.
Judge Eglinton summed up.
—The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost
and the prince. He is all in all.
—He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one is the mature
man of act five. All in all. In Cymbeline, in Othello he is
bawd and cuckold. He acts and is acted on. Lover of an
ideal or a perversion, like Jose he kills the real Carmen.
His unremitting intellect is the hornmad Iago ceaselessly
willing that the moor in him shall suffer.
—Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly. O
word of fear!
Dark dome received, reverbed.
—And what a character is Iago! undaunted John
Eglinton exclaimed. When all is said Dumas fils (or is it
Dumas 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
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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.
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—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
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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.
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He broke away.
—Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Aengus of the
birds.
Come, Kinch. You have eaten all we left. Ay. I will
serve you your orts and offals.
Stephen rose.
Life is many days. This will end.
—We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. Notre
ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan must be there.
Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.
—Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters
to the youth of Ireland. I’ll be there. Come, Kinch, the
bards must drink. Can you walk straight?
Laughing, he ...
Swill till eleven. Irish nights entertainment.
Lubber ...
Stephen followed a lubber ...
One day in the national library we had a discussion.
Shakes. After. His lub back: I followed. I gall his kibe.
Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber
jester, a wellkempt head, newbarbered, out of the vaulted
cell into a shattering daylight of no thought.
What have I learned? Of them? Of me?
Walk like Haines now.
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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.
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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.
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—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)
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by
Ballocky Mulligan
He turned a happy patch’s smirk to Stephen, saying:
—The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.
He read, marcato:
—Characters:
TODY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole)
CRAB (a bushranger)
MEDICAL DICK )
and ) (two birds with one stone)
MEDICAL DAVY )
MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier)
FRESH NELLY
and
ROSALIE (the coalquay whore).
He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on,
followed by Stephen: and mirthfully he told the shadows,
souls of men:
—O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters
of Erin had to lift their skirts to step over you as you lay in
your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous
vomit!
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—The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for
whom they ever lifted them.
About to pass through the doorway, feeling one
behind, he stood aside.
Part. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates
leave his house today, if Judas go forth tonight. Why?
That lies in space which I in time must come to,
ineluctably.
My will: his will that fronts me. Seas between.
A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting.
—Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.
The portico.
Here I watched the birds for augury. Aengus of the
birds. They go, they come. Last night I flew. Easily flew.
Men wondered. Street of harlots after. A creamfruit melon
he held to me. In. You will see.
—The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with
clown’s awe. Did you see his eye? He looked upon you to
lust after you. I fear thee, ancient mariner. O, Kinch, thou
art in peril. Get thee a breechpad.
Manner of Oxenford.
Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.
A dark back went before them, step of a pard, down,
out by the gateway, under portcullis barbs.
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They followed.
Offend me still. Speak on.
Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street.
No birds. Frail from the housetops two plumes of smoke
ascended, pluming, and in a flaw of softness softly were
blown.
Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of
Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar.
Laud we the gods
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
From our bless’d altars.
* * * * *
The superior, the very reverend John Conmee S.J. reset
his smooth watch in his interior pocket as he came down
the presbytery steps. Five to three. Just nice time to walk
to Artane. What was that boy’s name again? Dignam. Yes.
Vere dignum et iustum est. Brother Swan was the person to
see. Mr Cunningham’s letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible.
Good practical catholic: useful at mission time.
A onelegged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy
jerks of his crutches, growled some notes. He jerked short
before the convent of the sisters of charity and held out a
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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
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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It was a charming day.
The lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee
breadths of cabbages, curtseying to him with ample
underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of small white
clouds going slowly down the wind. Moutonner, the
French said. A just and homely word.
Father Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of
muttoning clouds over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles
were tickled by the stubble of Clongowes field. He
walked there, reading in the evening, and heard the cries
of the boys’ lines at their play, young cries in the quiet
evening. He was their rector: his reign was mild.
Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his
rededged breviary out. An ivory bookmark told him the
page.
Nones. He should have read that before lunch. But
lady Maxwell had come.
Father Conmee read in secret Pater and Ave and crossed
his breast. Deus in adiutorium.
He walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking
and reading till he came to Res in Beati immaculati:
Principium verborum tuorum veritas: in eternum omnia indicia
iustitiae tuae.
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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.
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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.
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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:
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—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?
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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
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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.
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—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.
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—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. É 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.
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—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.
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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
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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.
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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 ...
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—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
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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!
* * * * *
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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.
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—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
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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.
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—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 ...
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—I know, M’Coy broke in. My missus sang there
once.
—Did she? Lenehan said.
A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on the
windowsash of number 7 Eccles street.
He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a
wheezy laugh.
—But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden
street had the catering and yours truly was chief
bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were there. Lashings of
stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to
which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After
liquids came solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies ...
—I know, M’Coy said. The year the missus was there
...
Lenehan linked his arm warmly.
—But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight
lunch too after all the jollification and when we sallied
forth it was blue o’clock the morning after the night
before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter’s night on
the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were
on one side of the car and I was with the wife on the
other. We started singing glees and duets: Lo, the early
beam of morning. She was well primed with a good load of
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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.
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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
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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 deshabillé.
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
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imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to
him calmly.
Mr Bloom read again: The beautiful woman.
Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh.
Flesh yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes
swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey.
Melting breast ointments (for Him! For Raoul!). Armpits’
oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime (her heaving embonpoint!).
Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions!
Young! Young!
An elderly female, no more young, left the building of
the courts of chancery, king’s bench, exchequer and
common pleas, having heard in the lord chancellor’s court
the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the admiralty division
the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the Lady
Cairns versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court
of appeal reservation of judgment in the case of Harvey
versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation.
Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop,
bulging out the dingy curtains. The shopman’s uncombed
grey head came out and his unshaven reddened face,
coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on
the floor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his
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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
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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.
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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.
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The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling
clapper of his bell but feebly:
—Bang!
Mr Dedalus stared at him.
—Watch him, he said. It’s instructive. I wonder will he
allow us to talk.
—You got more than that, father, Dilly said.
—I’m going to show you a little trick, Mr Dedalus said.
I’ll leave you all where Jesus left the jews. Look, there’s all
I have. I got two shillings from Jack Power and I spent
twopence for a shave for the funeral.
He drew forth a handful of copper coins, nervously.
—Can’t you look for some money somewhere? Dilly
said.
Mr Dedalus thought and nodded.
—I will, he said gravely. I looked all along the gutter in
O’Connell street. I’ll try this one now.
—You’re very funny, Dilly said, grinning.
—Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies.
Get a glass of milk for yourself and a bun or a something.
I’ll be home shortly.
He put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk
on.
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The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious
policemen, out of Parkgate.
—I’m sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.
The lacquey banged loudly.
Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to
himself with a pursing mincing mouth gently:
—The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they
wouldn’t do anything! O, sure they wouldn’t really! Is it
little sister Monica!
* * * * *
From the sundial towards James’s gate walked Mr
Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked for
Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James’s street, past
Shackleton’s offices. Got round him all right. How do you
do, Mr Crimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be
up in your other establishment in Pimlico. How are things
going? Just keeping alive. Lovely weather we’re having.
Yes, indeed. Good for the country. Those farmers are
always grumbling. I’ll just take a thimbleful of your best
gin, Mr Crimmins. A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible affair
that General Slocum explosion. Terrible, terrible! A
thousand casualties. And heartrending scenes. Men
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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Beingless beings. Stop! Throb always without you and the
throb always within. Your heart you sing of. I between
them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they
swirl, I. Shatter them, one and both. But stun myself too
in the blow. Shatter me you who can. Bawd and butcher
were the words. I say! Not yet awhile. A look around.
Yes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps
famous time. You say right, sir. A Monday morning, ‘twas
so, indeed.
Stephen went down Bedford row, the handle of the ash
clacking against his shoulderblade. In Clohissey’s window
a faded 186O print of Heenan boxing Sayers held his eye.
Staring backers with square hats stood round the roped
prizering. The heavyweights in tight loincloths proposed
gently each to other his bulbous fists. And they are
throbbing: heroes’ hearts.
He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.
—Twopence each, the huckster said. Four for
sixpence.
Tattered pages. The Irish Beekeeper. Life and Miracles of
the Curé of Ars. Pocket Guide to Killarney.
I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes.
Stephano Dedalo, alumno optimo, palmam ferenti.
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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.
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—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!
* * * * *
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—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!
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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.
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—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
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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.
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—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.
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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
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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
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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.
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—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.
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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 ...
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Buck Mulligan’s primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his
laughter.
—You should see him, he said, when his body loses its
balance. Wandering Aengus I call him.
—I am sure he has an 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
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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
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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!
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* * * * *
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
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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
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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.
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* * * * *
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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
* * * * *
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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On her flower frowning miss Douce said:
—Most aggravating that young brat is. If he doesn’t
conduct himself I’ll wring his ear for him a yard long.
Ladylike in exquisite contrast.
—Take no notice, miss Kennedy rejoined.
She poured in a teacup tea, then back in the teapot tea.
They cowered under their reef of counter, waiting on
footstools, crates upturned, waiting for their teas to draw.
They pawed their blouses, both of black satin, two and
nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and
seven.
Yes, bronze from anear, by gold from afar, heard steel
from anear, hoofs ring from afar, and heard steelhoofs
ringhoof ringsteel.
—Am I awfully sunburnt?
Miss bronze unbloused her neck.
—No, said miss Kennedy. It gets brown after. Did you
try the borax with the cherry laurel water?
Miss Douce halfstood to see her skin askance in the
barmirror gildedlettered where hock and claret glasses
shimmered and in their midst a shell.
—And leave it to my hands, she said.
—Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedy advised.
Bidding her neck and hands adieu miss Douce
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—Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated.
I asked that old fogey in Boyd’s for something for my skin.
Miss Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, grimaced
and prayed:
—O, don’t remind me of him for mercy’ sake!
—But wait till I tell you, miss Douce entreated.
Sweet tea miss Kennedy having poured with milk
plugged both two ears with little fingers.
—No, don’t, she cried.
—I won’t listen, she cried.
But Bloom?
Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey’s tone:
—For your what? says he.
Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak: but
said, but prayed again:
—Don’t let me think of him or I’ll expire. The hideous
old wretch! That night in the Antient Concert Rooms.
She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip, sipped,
sweet tea.
—Here he was, miss Douce said, cocking her bronze
head three quarters, ruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa!
Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy’s
throat. Miss Douce huffed and snorted down her nostrils
that quivered imperthnthn like a snout in quest.
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—O! shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever
forget his goggle eye?
Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter,
shouting:
—And your other eye!
Bloowhose dark eye read Aaron Figatner’s name. Why
do I always think Figather? Gathering figs, I think. And
Prosper Lore’s huguenot name. By Bassi’s blessed virgins
Bloom’s dark eyes went by. Bluerobed, white under,
come to me. God they believe she is: or goddess. Those
today. I could not see. That fellow spoke. A student. After
with Dedalus’ son. He might be Mulligan. All comely
virgins. That brings those rakes of fellows in: her white.
By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the
sweets.
Of sin.
In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended,
Douce with Kennedy your other eye. They threw young
heads back, bronze gigglegold, to let freefly their laughter,
screaming, your other, signals to each other, high piercing
notes.
Ah, panting, sighing, sighing, ah, fordone, their mirth
died down.
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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.
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—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.
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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.
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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?
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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?
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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.
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—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
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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 ...
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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
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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!
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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.
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—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.
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—No, now, urged Lenehan. Sonnezlacloche! O do!
There’s no-one.
She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot. Sudden
bent. Two kindling faces watched her bend.
Quavering the chords strayed from the air, found it
again, lost chord, and lost and found it, faltering.
—Go on! Do! Sonnez!
Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee.
Delayed. Taunted them still, bending, suspending, with
wilful eyes.
—Sonnez!
Smack. She set free sudden in rebound her nipped
elastic garter smackwarm against her smackable a woman’s
warmhosed thigh.
—La Cloche! cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner.
No sawdust there.
She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren’t men?), but,
lightward gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.
—You’re the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said.
Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank
off his chalice tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops.
His spellbound eyes went after, after her gliding head as it
went down the bar by mirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale,
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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.
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—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.
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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?
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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.
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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
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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.
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—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
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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
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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:
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—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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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 ...
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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!
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—Come!
It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar
silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come,
don’t spin it out too long long breath he breath long life,
soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in
the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the etherial bosom,
high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all
around about the all, the endlessnessnessness ...
—To me!
Siopold!
Consumed.
Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come.
To me, to him, to her, you too, me, us.
—Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon. Clappyclapclap.
Encore! Clapclipclap clap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon!
Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said, cried, clapped all, Ben
Dollard, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell, Pat, Mina
Kennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first
gent with tank and bronze miss Douce and gold MJiss
Mina.
Blazes Boylan’s smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor,
said before. Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray,
Horatio onehandled Nelson, reverend father Theobald
Mathew, jaunted, as said before just now. Atrot, in heat,
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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
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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
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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.
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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:
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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—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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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—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
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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
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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.
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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.
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Nations of the earth. No-one behind. She’s passed. Then
and not till then. Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor.
Coming. Krandlkrankran. I’m sure it’s the burgund. Yes.
One, two. Let my epitaph be. Kraaaaaa. Written. I have.
Pprrpffrrppffff.
Done.
* * * * *
I was just passing the time of day with old Troy of the
D. M. P. at the corner of Arbour hill there and be damned
but a bloody sweep came along and he near drove his gear
into my eye. I turned around to let him have the weight
of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony
Batter only Joe Hynes.
—Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see
that bloody chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his
brush?
—Soot’s luck, says Joe. Who’s the old ballocks you
were talking to?
—Old Troy, says I, was in the force. I’m on two minds
not to give that fellow in charge for obstructing the
thoroughfare with his brooms and ladders.
—What are you doing round those parts? says Joe.
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—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
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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.
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—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.
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There sleep the mighty dead as in life they slept, warriors
and princes of high renown. A pleasant land it is in sooth
of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the
gurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed
haddock, the grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the
pollock, the mixed coarse fish generally and other denizens
of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be enumerated.
In the mild breezes of the west and of the east the lofty
trees wave in different directions their firstclass foliage, the
wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted
planetree, the eugenic eucalyptus and other ornaments of
the arboreal world with which that region is thoroughly
well supplied. Lovely maidens sit in close proximity to the
roots of the lovely trees singing the most lovely songs
while they play with all kinds of lovely objects as for
example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings,
drafts of eels, codlings, creels of fingerlings, purple seagems
and playful insects. And heroes voyage from afar to woo
them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless princes of
unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of
smooth sleek Leinster and of Cruahan’s land and of
Armagh the splendid and of the noble district of Boyle,
princes, the sons of kings.
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And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering
roof is seen by mariners who traverse the extensive sea in
barks built expressly for that purpose, and thither come all
herds and fatlings and firstfruits of that land for O’Connell
Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain descended from
chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bring foison
of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach,
pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes,
drums of figs, drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and
tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and trays of
onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of mushrooms and
custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red
green yellow brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated
apples and chips of strawberries and sieves of gooseberries,
pulpy and pelurious, and strawberries fit for princes and
raspberries from their canes.
I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him. Come out
here, Geraghty, you notorious bloody hill and dale robber!
And by that way wend the herds innumerable of
bellwethers and flushed ewes and shearling rams and lambs
and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares
and polled calves and longwoods and storesheep and
Cuffe’s prime springers and culls and sowpigs and
baconhogs and the various different varieties of highly
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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
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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.
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—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
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537 of 1305
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.
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538 of 1305
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
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539 of 1305
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.
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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.
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541 of 1305
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.
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—Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds.
—O hell! says I.
The bloody mongrel began to growl that’d put the fear
of God in you seeing something was up but the citizen
gave him a kick in the ribs.
—Bi i dho husht, says he.
—Who? says Joe.
—Breen, says Alf. He was in John Henry Menton’s and
then he went round to Collis and Ward’s and then Tom
Rochford met him and sent him round to the subsheriff’s
for a lark. O God, I’ve a pain laughing. U. p: up. The
long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now
the bloody old lunatic is gone round to Green street to
look for a G man.
—When is long John going to hang that fellow in
Mountjoy? says Joe.
—Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf
Bergan?
—Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here,
Terry, give us a pony. That bloody old fool! Ten thousand
pounds. You should have seen long John’s eye. U. p ...
And he started laughing.
—Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that
Bergan?
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543 of 1305
—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
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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?
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545 of 1305
—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.
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In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and
when prayer by tantras had been directed to the proper
quarter a faint but increasing luminosity of ruby light
became gradually visible, the apparition of the etheric
double being particularly lifelike owing to the discharge of
jivic rays from the crown of the head and face.
Communication was effected through the pituitary body
and also by means of the orangefiery and scarlet rays
emanating from the sacral region and solar plexus.
Questioned by his earthname as to his whereabouts in the
heavenworld he stated that he was now on the path of pr l
ya or return but was still submitted to trial at the hands of
certain bloodthirsty entities on the lower astral levels. In
reply to a question as to his first sensations in the great
divide beyond he stated that previously he had seen as in a
glass darkly but that those who had passed over had
summit possibilities of atmic development opened up to
them. Interrogated as to whether life there resembled our
experience in the flesh he stated that he had heard from
more favoured beings now in the spirit that their abodes
were equipped with every modern home comfort such as
talafana, alavatar, hatakalda, wataklasat and that the highest
adepts were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very purest
nature. Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was
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547 of 1305
brought and evidently afforded relief. Asked if he had any
message for the living he exhorted all who were still at the
wrong side of Maya to acknowledge the true path for it
was reported in devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were
out for mischief on the eastern angle where the ram has
power. It was then queried whether there were any special
desires on the part of the defunct and the reply was: We
greet you, friends of earth, who are still in the body. Mind C. K.
doesn’t pile it on. It was ascertained that the reference was
to Mr Cornelius Kelleher, manager of Messrs H. J.
O’Neill’s popular funeral establishment, a personal friend
of the defunct, who had been responsible for the carrying
out of the interment arrangements. Before departing he
requested that it should be told to his dear son Patsy that
the other boot which he had been looking for was at
present under the commode in the return room and that
the pair should be sent to Cullen’s to be soled only as the
heels were still good. He stated that this had greatly
perturbed his peace of mind in the other region and
earnestly requested that his desire should be made known.
Assurances were given that the matter would be
attended to and it was intimated that this had given
satisfaction.
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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.
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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.
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—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?
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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
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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
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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:
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—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
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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.
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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-
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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
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Athanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh Rahat
Lokum Effendi, Senor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pecadillo y
Palabras y Paternoster de la Malora de la Malaria,
Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung Chang, Olaf
Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan
Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr
Kratchinabritchisitch, Borus Hupinkoff, Herr
Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli,
Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumso
rdinaryprivatdocent- generalhistoryspecialprofessordoctor
Kriegfried Ueberallgemein. All the delegates without
exception expressed themselves in the strongest possible
heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless barbarity
which they had been called upon to witness. An animated
altercation (in which all took part) ensued among the F.
O. T. E. I. as to whether the eighth or the ninth of March
was the correct date of the birth of Ireland’s patron saint.
In the course of the argument cannonballs, scimitars,
boomerangs, blunderbusses, stinkpots, meatchoppers,
umbrellas, catapults, knuckledusters, sandbags, lumps of
pig iron were resorted to and blows were freely
exchanged. The baby policeman, Constable MacFadden,
summoned by special courier from Booterstown, quickly
restored order and with lightning promptitude proposed
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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
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even more excitable foreign delegates cheered vociferously
in a medley of cries, hoch, banzai, eljen, zivio, chinchin, polla
kronia, hiphip, vive, Allah, amid which the ringing evviva of
the delegate of the land of song (a high double F recalling
those piercingly lovely notes with which the eunuch
Catalani beglamoured our greatgreatgrandmothers) was
easily distinguishable. It was exactly seventeen o’clock.
The signal for prayer was then promptly given by
megaphone and in an instant all heads were bared, the
commendatore’s patriarchal sombrero, which has been in
the possession of his family since the revolution of Rienzi,
being removed by his medical adviser in attendance, Dr
Pippi. The learned prelate who administered the last
comforts of holy religion to the hero martyr when about
to pay the death penalty knelt in a most christian spirit in a
pool of rainwater, his cassock above his hoary head, and
offered up to the throne of grace fervent prayers of
supplication. Hand by the block stood the grim figure of
the executioner, his visage being concealed in a tengallon
pot with two circular perforated apertures through which
his eyes glowered furiously. As he awaited the fatal signal
he tested the edge of his horrible weapon by honing it
upon his brawny forearm or decapitated in rapid
succession a flock of sheep which had been provided by
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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
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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,
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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 ster
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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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?
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—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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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.)
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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.
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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
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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.;
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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.
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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.
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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?
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—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,
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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.
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—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.
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—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
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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—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.
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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
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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:
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—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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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:
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—’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.
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—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 ...
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—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
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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.
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—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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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—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,
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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.
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—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
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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
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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.
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—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.
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—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.
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—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.
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—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.
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—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
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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
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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
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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 fo the sale of beer,
wine and spirits for consumption on the premises, the
celebrant blessed the house and censed the mullioned
windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises
and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and
the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and
sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed
that God might bless that house as he had blessed the
house of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and make the
angels of His light to inhabit therein. And entering he
blessed the viands and the beverages and the company of
all the blessed answered his prayers.
—Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini.
—Qui fecit coelum et terram.
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—Dominus vobiscum.
—Et cum spiritu tuo.
And he laid his hands upon that he blessed and gave
thanks and he prayed and they all with him prayed:
—Deus, cuius verbo sanctificantur omnia, benedictionem tuam
effunde super creaturas istas: et praesta ut quisquis eis secundum
legem et voluntatem Tuam cum gratiarum actione usus fuerit per
invocationem sanctissimi nominis Tui corporis sanitatem et
animae tutelam Te auctore percipiat per Christum Dominum
nostrum.
—And so say all of us, says Jack.
—Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton or
Crawford.
—Right, says Ned, taking up his John Jameson. And
butter for fish.
I was just looking around to see who the happy
thought would strike when be damned but in he comes
again letting on to be in a hell of a hurry.
—I was just round at the courthouse, says he, looking
for you. I hope I’m not ...
—No, says Martin, we’re ready.
Courthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down
with gold and silver. Mean bloody scut. Stand us a drink
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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
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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
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he on his high horse about the jews and the loafers calling
for a speech and Jack Power trying to get him to sit down
on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with a
patch over his eye starts singing If the man in the moon was a
jew, jew, jew and a slut shouts out of her:
—Eh, mister! Your fly is open, mister!
And says he:
—Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx and
Mercadante and Spinoza. And the Saviour was a jew and
his father was a jew. Your God.
—He had no father, says Martin. That’ll do now. Drive
ahead.
—Whose God? says the citizen.
—Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your God was a
jew. Christ was a jew like me.
Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.
—By Jesus, says he, I’ll brain that bloody jewman for
using the holy name.
By Jesus, I’ll crucify him so I will. Give us that
biscuitbox here.
—Stop! Stop! says Joe.
A large and appreciative gathering of friends and
acquaintances from the metropolis and greater Dublin
assembled in their thousands to bid farewell to Nagyasagos
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uram Lipoti Virag, late of Messrs Alexander Thom’s,
printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure
for the distant clime of Szazharminczbrojugulyas-Dugulas
(Meadow of Murmuring Waters). The ceremony which
went off with great 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 Rakoczsy’s March. Tarbarrels
and bonfires were lighted along the coastline of the four
seas on the summits of the Hill of Howth, Three Rock
Mountain, Sugarloaf, Bray Head, the mountains of
Mourne, the Galtees, the Ox and Donegal and Sperrin
peaks, the Nagles and the Bograghs, the Connemara hills,
the reeks of M Gillicuddy, Slieve Aughty, Slieve Bernagh
and Slieve Bloom. Amid cheers that rent the welkin,
responded to by answering cheers from a big muster of
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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, kedves baráton! 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
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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
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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.,
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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
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upon in the glory of the brightness, having raiment as of
the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they
durst not look upon Him. And there came a voice out of
heaven, calling: Elijah! Elijah! And He answered with a
main cry: Abba! Adonai! And they beheld Him even Him,
ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the
glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over
Donohoe’s in Little Green street like a shot off a shovel.
* * * * *
The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its
mysterious embrace. Far away in the west the sun was
setting and the last glow of all too fleeting day lingered
lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud promontory of
dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on
the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last
but not least, on the quiet church whence there streamed
forth at times upon the stillness the voice of prayer to her
who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the
stormtossed heart of man, Mary, star of the sea.
The three girl friends were seated on the rocks,
enjoying the evening scene and the air which was fresh
but not too chilly. Many a time and oft were they wont to
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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.
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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!)
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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?
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—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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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hope, her own colour and lucky too for a bride to have a
bit of blue somewhere on her because the green she wore
that day week brought grief because his father brought
him in to study for the intermediate exhibition and
because she thought perhaps he might be out because
when she was dressing that morning she nearly slipped up
the old pair on her inside out and that was for luck and
lovers’ meeting if you put those things on inside out or if
they got untied that he was thinking about you so long as
it wasn’t of a Friday.
And yet and yet! That strained look on her face! A
gnawing sorrow is there all the time. Her very soul is in
her eyes and she would give worlds to be in the privacy of
her own familiar chamber where, giving way to tears, she
could have a good cry and relieve her pentup
feelingsthough not too much because she knew how to
cry nicely before the mirror. You are lovely, Gerty, it said.
The paly light of evening falls upon a face infinitely sad
and wistful. Gerty MacDowell yearns in vain. Yes, she had
known from the very first that her daydream of a marriage
has been arranged and the weddingbells ringing for Mrs
Reggy Wylie T. C. D. (because the one who married the
elder brother would be Mrs Wylie) and in the fashionable
intelligence Mrs Gertrude Wylie was wearing a sumptuous
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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
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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
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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.
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—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.
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—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
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fane beside the waves, after the storms of this weary world,
kneeling before the feet of the immaculate, reciting the
litany of Our Lady of Loreto, beseeching her to intercede
for them, the old familiar words, holy Mary, holy virgin of
virgins. How sad to poor Gerty’s ears! Had her father only
avoided the clutches of the demon drink, by taking the
pledge or those powders the drink habit cured in Pearson’s
Weekly, she might now be rolling in her carriage, second
to none. Over and over had she told herself that as she
mused by the dying embers in a brown study without the
lamp because she hated two lights or oftentimes gazing out
of the window dreamily by the hour at the rain falling on
the rusty bucket, thinking. But that vile decoction which
has ruined so many hearths and homes had cist its shadow
over her childhood days. Nay, she had even witnessed in
the home circle deeds of violence caused by intemperance
and had seen her own father, a prey to the fumes of
intoxication, forget himself completely for if there was one
thing of all things that Gerty knew it was that the man
who lifts his hand to a woman save in the way of kindness,
deserves to be branded as the lowest of the low.
And still the voices sang in supplication to the Virgin
most powerful, Virgin most merciful. And Gerty, rapt in
thought, scarce saw or heard her companions or the twins
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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,
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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to come back because they were afraid the tide might
come in on them and be drowned.
—Jacky! Tommy!
Not they! What a great notion they had! So Cissy said
it was the very last time she’d ever bring them out. She
jumped up and called them and she ran down the slope
past him, tossing her hair behind her which had a good
enough colour if there had been more of it but with all
the thingamerry she was always rubbing into it she
couldn’t get it to grow long because it wasn’t natural so
she could just go and throw her hat at it. She ran with
long gandery strides it was a wonder she didn’t rip up her
skirt at the side that was too tight on her because there was
a lot of the tomboy about Cissy Caffrey and she was a
forward piece whenever she thought she had a good
opportunity to show and just because she was a good
runner she ran like that so that he could see all the end of
her petticoat running and her skinny shanks up as far as
possible. It would have served her just right if she had
tripped up over something accidentally on purpose with
her high crooked French heels on her to make her look
tall and got a fine tumble. Tableau! That would have been
a very charming expose for a gentleman like that to
witness.
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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
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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.
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—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
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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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,
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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 deshabillé.
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
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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.
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Ah!
Devils they are when that’s coming on them. Dark
devilish appearance. Molly often told me feel things a ton
weight. Scratch the sole of my foot. O that way! O, that’s
exquisite! Feel it myself too. Good to rest once in a way.
Wonder if it’s bad to go with them then. Safe in one way.
Turns milk, makes fiddlestrings snap. Something about
withering plants I read in a garden. Besides they say if the
flower withers she wears she’s a flirt. All are. Daresay she
felt 1. When you feel like that you often meet what you
feel. Liked me or what? Dress they look at. Always know
a fellow courting: collars and cuffs. Well cocks and lions
do the same and stags. Same time might prefer a tie
undone or something. Trousers? Suppose I when I was?
No. Gently does it. Dislike rough and tumble. Kiss in the
dark and never tell. Saw something in me. Wonder what.
Sooner have me as I am than some poet chap with
bearsgrease plastery hair, lovelock over his dexter optic.
To aid gentleman in literary. Ought to attend to my
appearance my age. Didn’t let her see me in profile. Still,
you never know. Pretty girls and ugly men marrying.
Beauty and the beast. Besides I can’t be so if Molly. Took
off her hat to show her hair. Wide brim. Bought to hide
her face, meeting someone might know her, bend down
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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among the five young trees a hoisted lintstock lit the lamp
at Leahy’s terrace. By screens of lighted windows, by equal
gardens a shrill voice went crying, wailing: Evening
Telegraph, stop press edition! Result of the Gold Cup race! and
from the door of Dignam’s house a boy ran out and called.
Twittering the bat flew here, flew there. Far out over the
sands the coming surf crept, grey. Howth settled for
slumber, tired of long days, of yumyum rhododendrons
(he was old) and felt gladly the night breeze lift, ruffle his
fell of ferns. He lay but opened a red eye unsleeping, deep
and slowly breathing, slumberous but awake. And far on
Kish bank the anchored lightship twinkled, winked at Mr
Bloom.
Life those chaps out there must have, stuck in the same
spot. Irish Lights board. Penance for their sins.
Coastguards too. Rocket and breeches buoy and lifeboat.
Day we went out for the pleasure cruise in the Erin’s
King, throwing them the sack of old papers. Bears in the
zoo. Filthy trip. Drunkards out to shake up their livers.
Puking overboard to feed the herrings. Nausea. And the
women, fear of God in their faces. Milly, no sign of funk.
Her blue scarf loose, laughing. Don’t know what death is
at that age. And then their stomachs clean. But being lost
they fear. When we hid behind the tree at Crumlin. I
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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Cuckoo
Cuckoo
Cuckoo.
* * * * *
Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil
Holles Eamus.
Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening
and wombfruit. Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn,
quickening and wombfruit. Send us bright one, light one,
Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit.
Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa!
Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa!
Universally that person’s acumen is esteemed very little
perceptive concerning whatsoever matters are being held
as most profitably by mortals with sapience endowed to be
studied who is ignorant of that which the most in doctrine
erudite and certainly by reason of that in them high mind’s
ornament deserving of veneration constantly maintain
when by general consent they affirm that other
circumstances being equal by no exterior splendour is the
prosperity of a nation more efficaciously asserted than by
the measure of how far forward may have progressed the
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tribute of its solicitude for that proliferent continuance
which of evils the original if it be absent when fortunately
present constitutes the certain sign of omnipotent nature’s
incorrupted benefaction. For who is there who anything
of some significance has apprehended but is conscious that
that exterior splendour may be the surface of a
downwardtending lutulent reality or on the contrary
anyone so is there unilluminated as not to perceive that as
no nature’s boon can contend against the bounty of
increase so it behoves every most just citizen to become
the exhortator and admonisher of his semblables and to
tremble lest what had in the past been by the nation
excellently commenced might be in the future not with
similar excellence accomplished if an inverecund habit
shall have gradually traduced the honourable by ancestors
transmitted customs to that thither of profundity that that
one was audacious excessively who would have the
hardihood to rise affirming that no more odious offence
can for anyone be than to oblivious neglect to consign that
evangel simultaneously command and promise which on
all mortals with prophecy of abundance or with
diminution’s menace that exalted of reiteratedly
procreating function ever irrevocably enjoined?
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It is not why therefore we shall wonder if, as the best
historians relate, among the Celts, who nothing that was
not in its nature admirable admired, the art of medicine
shall have been highly honoured. Not to speak of hostels,
leperyards, sweating chambers, plaguegraves, their greatest
doctors, the O’Shiels, the O’Hickeys, the O’Lees, have
sedulously set down the divers methods by which the sick
and the relapsed found again health whether the malady
had been the trembling withering or loose boyconnell
flux. Certainly in every public work which in it anything
of gravity contains preparation should be with importance
commensurate and therefore a plan was by them adopted
(whether by having preconsidered or as the maturation of
experience it is difficult in being said which the discrepant
opinions of subsequent inquirers are not up to the present
congrued to render manifest) whereby maternity was so far
from all accident possibility removed that whatever care
the patient in that all hardest of woman hour chiefly
required and not solely for the copiously opulent but also
for her who not being sufficiently moneyed scarcely and
often not even scarcely could subsist valiantly and for an
inconsiderable emolument was provided.
To her nothing already then and thenceforward was
anyway able to be molestful for this chiefly felt all citizens
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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 sacre
pigeon, ventre de Dieu! Entweder transubstantiality ODER
consubstantiality but in no case subsubstantiality. And all
cried out upon it for a very scurvy word. A pregnancy
without joy, he said, a birth without pangs, a body
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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was new got to town from Mullingar with the stage where
his coz and Mal M’s brother will stay a month yet till Saint
Swithin and asks what in the earth he does there, he
bound home and he to Andrew Horne’s being stayed for
to crush a cup of wine, so he said, but would tell him of a
skittish heifer, big of her age and beef to the heel, and all
this while poured with rain and so both together on to
Horne’s. There Leop. Bloom of Crawford’s journal sitting
snug with a covey of wags, likely brangling fellows, Dixon
jun., scholar of my lady of Mercy’s, Vin. Lynch, a Scots
fellow, Will. Madden, T. Lenehan, very sad about a racer
he fancied and Stephen D. Leop. Bloom there for a
languor he had but was now better, be having dreamed
tonight a strange fancy of his dame Mrs Moll with red
slippers on in a pair of Turkey trunks which is thought by
those in ken to be for a change and Mistress Purefoy there,
that got in through pleading her belly, and now on the
stools, poor body, two days past her term, the midwives
sore put to it and can’t deliver, she queasy for a bowl of
riceslop that is a shrewd drier up of the insides and her
breath very heavy more than good and should be a
bullyboy from the knocks, they say, but God give her
soon issue. ‘Tis her ninth chick to live, I hear, and Lady
day bit off her last chick’s nails that was then a
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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
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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
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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
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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
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doctors who were no better off than himself. So be off
now, says he, and do all my cousin german the lord Harry
tells you and take a farmer’s blessing, and with that he
slapped his posteriors very soundly. But the slap and the
blessing stood him friend, says Mr Vincent, for to make up
he taught him a trick worth two of the other so that maid,
wife, abbess and widow to this day affirm that they would
rather any time of the month whisper in his ear in the dark
of a cowhouse or get a lick on the nape from his long holy
tongue than lie with the finest strapping young ravisher in
the four fields of all Ireland. Another then put in his word:
And they dressed him, says he, in a point shift and
petticoat with a tippet and girdle and ruffles on his wrists
and clipped his forelock and rubbed him all over with
spermacetic oil and built stables for him at every turn of
the road with a gold manger in each full of the best hay in
the market so that he could doss and dung to his heart’s
content. By this time the father of the faithful (for so they
called him) was grown so heavy that he could scarce walk
to pasture. To remedy which our cozening dames and
damsels brought him his fodder in their apronlaps and as
soon as his belly was full he would rear up on his hind
uarters to show their ladyships a mystery and roar and
bellow out of him in bulls’ language and they all after him.
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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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
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will be a new day and, thousand thunders, I know of a
marchand de capotes, Monsieur Poyntz, from whom I can
have for a livre as snug a cloak of the French fashion as
ever kept a lady from wetting. Tut, tut! cries Le
Fecondateur, tripping in, my friend Monsieur Moore, that
most accomplished traveller (I have just cracked a half
bottle AVEC LUI in a circle of the best wits of the town),
is my authority that in Cape Horn, ventre biche, they have a
rain that will wet through any, even the stoutest cloak. A
drenching of that violence, he tells me, sans blague, has sent
more than one luckless fellow in good earnest posthaste to
another world. Pooh! A livre! cries Monsieur Lynch. The
clumsy things are dear at a sou. One umbrella, were it no
bigger than a fairy mushroom, is worth ten such stopgaps.
No woman of any wit would wear one. My dear Kitty
told me today that she would dance in a deluge before
ever she would starve in such an ark of salvation for, as she
reminded me (blushing piquantly and whispering in my
ear though there was none to snap her words but giddy
butterflies), dame Nature, by the divine blessing, has
implanted it in our hearts and it has become a household
word that il y a deux choses for which the innocence of our
original garb, in other circumstances a breach of the
proprieties, is the fittest, nay, the only garment. The first,
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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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!
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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
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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
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and of his recent loss. He would have withdrawn from the
feast had not the noise of voices allayed the smart. Madden
had lost five drachmas on Sceptre for a whim of the rider’s
name: Lenehan as much more. He told them of the race.
The flag fell and, huuh! off, scamper, the mare ran out
freshly with 0. Madden up. She was leading the field. All
hearts were beating. Even Phyllis could not contain
herself. She waved her scarf and cried: Huzzah! Sceptre
wins! But in the straight on the run home when all were
in close order the dark horse Throwaway drew level,
reached, outstripped her. All was lost now. Phyllis was
silent: her eyes were sad anemones. Juno, she cried, I am
undone. But her lover consoled her and brought her a
bright casket of gold in which lay some oval sugarplums
which she partook. A tear fell: one only. A whacking fine
whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane. Four winners yesterday
and three today. What rider is like him? Mount him on
the camel or the boisterous buffalo the victory in a hack
canter is still his. But let us bear it as was the ancient wont.
Mercy on the luckless! Poor Sceptre! he said with a light
sigh. She is not the filly that she was. Never, by this hand,
shall we behold such another. By gad, sir, a queen of
them. Do you remember her, Vincent? I wish you could
have seen my queen today, Vincent said. How young she
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was and radiant (Lalage were scarce fair beside her) in her
yellow shoes and frock of muslin, I do not know the right
name of it. The chestnuts that shaded us were in bloom:
the air drooped with their persuasive odour and with
pollen floating by us. In the sunny patches one might
easily have cooked on a stone a batch of those buns with
Corinth fruit in them that Periplipomenes sells in his
booth near the bridge. But she had nought for her teeth
but the arm with which I held her and in that she nibbled
mischievously when I pressed too close. A week ago she
lay ill, four days on the couch, but today she was free,
blithe, mocked at peril. She is more taking then. Her
posies tool Mad romp that she is, she had pulled her fill as
we reclined together. And in your ear, my friend, you will
not think who met us as we left the field. Conmee
himself! He was walking by the hedge, reading, I think a
brevier book with, I doubt not, a witty letter in it from
Glycera or Chloe to keep the page. The sweet creature
turned all colours in her confusion, feigning to reprove a
slight disorder in her dress: a slip of underwood clung
there for the very trees adore her. When Conmee had
passed she glanced at her lovely echo in that little mirror
she carries. But he had been kind. In going by he had
blessed us. The gods too are ever kind, Lenehan said. If I
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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,
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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!
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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,
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the wellremembered grove of lilacs at Roundtown, purple
and white, fragrant slender spectators of the game but with
much real interest in the pellets as they run slowly forward
over the sward or collide and stop, one by its fellow, with
a brief alert shock. And yonder about that grey urn where
the water moves at times in thoughtful irrigation you saw
another as fragrant sisterhood, Floey, Atty, Tiny and their
darker friend with I know not what of arresting in her
pose then, Our Lady of the Cherries, a comely brace of
them pendent from an ear, bringing out the foreign
warmth of the skin so daintily against the cool ardent fruit.
A lad of four or five in linseywoolsey (blossomtime but
there will be cheer in the kindly hearth when ere long the
bowls are gathered and hutched) is standing on the urn
secured by that circle of girlish fond hands. He frowns a
little just as this young man does now with a perhaps too
conscious enjoyment of the danger but must needs glance
at whiles towards where his mother watches from the
PIAZZETTA giving upon the flowerclose with a faint
shadow of remoteness or of reproach (alles Vergangliche) in
her glad look.
Mark this farther and remember. The end comes
suddenly. Enter that antechamber of birth where the
studious are assembled and note their faces. Nothing, as it
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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,
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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
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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,
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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
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be printed and bound at the Druiddrum press by two
designing females. Calf covers of pissedon green. Last
word in art shades. Most beautiful book come out of
Ireland my time. Silentium! Get a spurt on. Tention.
Proceed to nearest canteen and there annex liquor stores.
March! Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are (atitudes!)
parching. Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs battleships,
buggery and bishops. Whether on the scaffold high. Beer,
beef, trample the bibles. When for Irelandear. Trample the
trampellers. Thunderation! Keep the durned millingtary
step. We fall. Bishops boosebox. Halt! Heave to. Rugger.
Scrum in. No touch kicking. Wow, my tootsies! You
hurt? Most amazingly sorry!
Query. Who’s astanding this here do? Proud possessor
of damnall. Declare misery. Bet to the ropes. Me nantee
saltee. Not a red at me this week gone. Yours? Mead of
our fathers for the 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
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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
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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
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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
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one largesize grandacious thirst to terminate one expensive
inaugurated libation? Give’s a breather. Landlord, landlord,
have you good wine, staboo? Hoots, mon, a wee drap to
pree. Cut and come again. Right. Boniface! Absinthe the
lot. Nos omnes biberimus viridum toxicum diabolus capiat
posterioria nostria. Closingtime, gents. Eh? Rome boose for
the Bloom toff. I hear you say onions? Bloo? Cadges ads.
Photo’s papli, by all that’s gorgeous. Play low, pardner.
Slide. Bonsoir la compagnie. And snares of the poxfiend.
Where’s the buck and Namby Amby? Skunked? Leg bail.
Aweel, ye maun e’en gang yer gates. Checkmate. King to
tower. Kind Kristyann wil yu help yung man hoose frend
tuk bungellow kee tu find plais whear tu lay crown of his
hed 2 night. Crickey, I’m about sprung. Tarnally dog
gone my shins if this beent the bestest puttiest longbreak
yet. Item, curate, couple of cookies for this child. Cot’s
plood and prandypalls, none! Not a pite of sheeses? Thrust
syphilis down to hell and with him those other licensed
spirits. Time, gents! Who wander through the world.
Health all! a la 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?
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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.
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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
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grandest thing yet and don’t you forget it. Shout salvation
in King Jesus. You’ll need to rise precious early you sinner
there, if you want to diddle the Almighty God. Pflaaaap!
Not half. He’s got a coughmixture with a punch in it for
you, my friend, in his back pocket. Just you try it on.
* * * * *
The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which
stretches an uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks, red and
green will-o’-the-wisps and danger signals. Rows of grimy houses
with gaping doors. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins. Round
Rabaiotti’s halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble.
They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps of coral and
copper snow. Sucking, they scatter slowly. Children. The
swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the murk,
white and blue under a lighthouse. Whistles call and answer.
THE CALLS: Wait, my love, and I’ll be with you.
THE ANSWERS: Round behind the stable.
(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, his shapeless mouth
dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus’ dance. A chain of
children ‘s hands imprisons him.)
THE CHILDREN: Kithogue! Salute!
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THE IDIOT: (Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles)
Grhahute!
THE CHILDREN: Where’s the great light?
THE IDIOT: (Gobbing) Ghaghahest.
(They release him. He jerks on. A pigmy woman swings on a
rope slung between two railings, counting. A form sprawled
against a dustbin and muffled by its arm and hat snores, groans,
grinding growling teeth, and snores again. On a step a gnome
totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and
bones. A crone standing by with a smoky oillamp rams her last
bottle in the maw of his sack. He heaves his booty, tugs askew his
peaked cap and hobbles off mutely. The crone makes back for her
lair, swaying her lamp. A bandy child, asquat on the doorstep
with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in spurts, clutches
her skirt, scrambles up. A drunken navvy grips with both hands
the railings of an area, lurching heavily. At a comer two night
watch in shouldercapes, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom
tall. A plate crashes: a woman screams: a child wails. Oaths of a
man roar, mutter, cease. Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens.
In a room lit by a candle stuck in a bottleneck a slut combs out
the tatts from the hair of a scrofulous child. Cissy Caffrey’s voice,
still young, sings shrill from a lane.)
CISSY CAFFREY:
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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)
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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
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walking with two fellows the one time, Kilbride, the
enginedriver, and lancecorporal Oliphant.
STEPHEN: (Ttriumphaliter) 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.
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(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,
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struck by the stare of truculent Wellington, but in the convex
mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of
Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
At Antonio Pabaiotti’s door Bloom halts, sweated under the
bright arclamp. He disappears. In a moment he reappears and
hurries on.)
BLOOM: Fish and taters. N. g. Ah!
(He disappears into Olhausen’s, the porkbutcher’s, under the
downcoming rollshutter. A few moments later he emerges from
under the shutter, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. In each
hand he holds a parcel, one containing a lukewarm pig’s crubeen,
the other a cold sheep’s trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper. He
gasps, standing upright. Then bending to one side he presses a
parcel against his ribs and groans.)
BLOOM: Stitch in my side. Why did I run?
(He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards
the lampset siding. The glow leaps again.)
BLOOM: What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.
(He stands at Cormack’s corner, watching)
BLOOM: Aurora borealis or a steel foundry? Ah, the
brigade, of course. South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might
be his house. Beggar’s bush. We’re safe. (He hums
cheerfully) London’s burning, London’s burning! On fire,
on fire! (He catches sight of the navvy lurching through the crowd
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at the farther side of Talbot street) I’ll miss him. Run. Quick.
Better cross here.
(He darts to cross the road. Urchins shout.)
THE URCHINS: Mind out, mister! (Two cyclists, with
lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him, grazing him, their
bells rattling)
THE BELLS: Haltyaltyaltyall.
BLOOM: (Halts erect, stung by a spasm) Ow!
(He looks round, darts forward suddenly. Through rising fog a
dragon sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down
upon him, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on
the wire. The motorman bangs his footgong.)
THE GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.
(The brake cracks violently. Bloom, raising a policeman’s
whitegloved hand, blunders stifflegged out of the track. The
motorman, thrown forward, pugnosed, on the guidewheel, yells as
he slides past over chains and keys.)
THE MOTORMAN: Hey, shitbreeches, are you
doing the hat trick?
BLOOM: (Bloom trickleaps to the curbstone and halts again.
He brushes a mudflake from his cheek with a parcelled hand.)
No thoroughfare. Close shave that but cured the stitch.
Must take up Sandow’s exercises again. On the hands
down. Insure against street accident too. The Providential.
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(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.)
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BLOOM: I beg. (He swerves, sidles, stepaside, slips past
and on.)
BLOOM: Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a
signpost planted by the Touring Club at Stepaside who
procured that public boon? I who lost my way and
contributed to the columns of the Irish Cyclist the letter
headed In darkest Stepaside. Keep, keep, keep to the right.
Rags and bones at midnight. A fence more likely. First
place murderer makes for. Wash off his sins of the world.
(Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey, runs full tilt
against Bloom.)
BLOOM: O
(Shocked, on weak hams, he halts. Tommy and Jacky vanish
there, there. Bloom pats with parcelled hands watch fobpocket,
bookpocket, pursepoket, sweets of sin, potato soap.)
BLOOM: Beware of pickpockets. Old thieves’ dodge.
Collide. Then snatch your purse.
(The retriever approaches sniffing, nose to the ground. A
sprawled form sneezes. A stooped bearded figure appears garbed
in the long caftan of an elder in Zion and a smokingcap with
magenta tassels. Horned spectacles hang down at the wings of the
nose. Yellow poison streaks are on the drawn face.)
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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.
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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.
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(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
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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!
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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.)
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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.
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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.
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(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?
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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.
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MRS BREEN: (In a onepiece evening frock executed in
moonlight blue, a tinsel sylph’s diadem on her brow with her
dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm
softly, breathing quickly) Voglio e non. You’re hot! You’re
scalding! The left hand nearest the heart.
BLOOM: When you made your present choice they
said it was beauty and the beast. I can never forgive you
for that. (His clenched fist at his brow) Think what it means.
All you meant to me then. (Hoarsely) Woman, it’s
breaking me!
(Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with Wisdom Hely’s
sandwich- boards, shuffles past them in carpet slippers, his dull
beard thrust out, muttering to right and left. Little Alf Bergan,
cloaked in the pall of the ace of spades, dogs him to left and right,
doubled in laughter.)
ALF BERGAN: (Points jeering at the sandwichboards) U.
p: Up.
MRS BREEN: (To Bloom) High jinks below stairs. (She
gives him the glad eye) Why didn’t you kiss the spot to make
it well? You wanted to.
BLOOM: (Shocked) Molly’s best friend! Could you?
MRS BREEN: (Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers a
pigeon kiss) Hnhn. The answer is a lemon. Have you a little
present for me there?
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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: (Ooints 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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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biz for cheapjacks, organs. What do ye lack? Soon got,
soon gone. Might have lost my life too with that
mangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut only for
presence of mind. Can’t always save you, though. If I had
passed Truelock’s window that day two minutes later
would have been shot. Absence of body. Still if bullet only
went through my coat get damages for shock, five
hundred pounds. What was he? Kildare street club toff.
God help his gamekeeper.
(He gazes ahead, reading on the wall a scrawled chalk legend
Wet Dream and a phallic design.) Odd! Molly drawing on
the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown. What’s that like?
(Gaudy dollwomen loll in the lighted doorways, in window
embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes. The odour of the
sicksweet weed floats towards him in slow round ovalling
wreaths.)
THE WREATHS: Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin.
BLOOM: My spine’s a bit limp. Go or turn? And this
food? Eat it and get all pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste of
money. One and eightpence too much. (The retriever drives
a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand, wagging his tail.)
Strange how they take to me. Even that brute today.
Better speak to him first. Like women they like rencontres.
Stinks like a polecat. Chacun son gout. He might be mad.
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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.
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BLOOM: The friend of man. Trained by kindness.
(He points. Bob Doran, toppling from a high barstool, sways
over the munching spaniel.)
BOB DORAN: Towser. Give us the paw. Give the
paw.
(The bulldog growls, his scruff standing, a gobbet of pig’s
knuckle between his molars through which rabid scumspittle
dribbles. Bob Doran fills silently into an area.)
SECOND WATCH: Prevention of cruelty to animals.
BLOOM: (Enthusiastically) A noble work! I scolded that
tramdriver on Harold’s cross bridge for illusing the poor
horse with his harness scab. Bad French I got for my pains.
Of course it was frosty and the last tram. All tales of circus
life are highly demoralising.
(Signor Maffei, passionpale, in liontamer’s costume with
diamond studs in his shirtfront, steps forward, holding a circus
paperhoop, a curling carriagewhip and a revolver with which he
covers the gorging boarhound.)
SIGNOR MAFFEI: (With a sinister smile) Ladies and
gentlemen, my educated greyhound. It was I broke in the
bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for
carnivores. Lash under the belly with a knotted thong.
Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to
heel, no matter how fractious, even Leo ferox there, the
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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
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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
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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
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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.)
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MYLES CRAWFORD: (His cock’s wattles wagging)
Hello, seventyseven eightfour. Hello. Freeman’s Urinal and
Weekly Arsewipe here. Paralyse Europe. You which?
Bluebags? Who writes? Is it Bloom?
(Mr Philip Beaufoy, palefaced, stands in the witnessbox, in
accurate morning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief
showing, creased lavender trousers and patent boots. He carries a
large portfolio labelled Matcham’s Masterstrokes.)
BEAUFOY: (Drawls) No, you aren’t. Not by a long
shot if I know it. I don’t see it that’s all. No born
gentleman, no-one with the most rudimentary promptings
of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly loathsome
conduct. One of those, my lord. A plagiarist. A soapy
sneak masquerading as a litterateur. It’s perfectly obvious
that with the most inherent baseness he has cribbed some
of my bestselling copy, really gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem,
the love passages in which are beneath suspicion. The
Beaufoy books of love and great possessions, with which
your lordship is doubtless familiar, are a household word
throughout the kingdom.
BLOOM: (Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum) That
bit about the laughing witch hand in hand I take
exception to, if I may ...
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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
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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.
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MARY DRISCOLL: (Excitedly) As God is looking
down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them
oysters!
FIRST WATCH: The offence complained of? Did
something happen?
MARY DRISCOLL: He surprised me in the rere of
the premises, Your honour, when the missus was out
shopping one morning with a request for a safety pin. He
held me and I was discoloured in four places as a result.
And he interfered twict with my clothing.
BLOOM: She counterassaulted.
MARY DRISCOLL: (Scornfully) I had more respect for
the scouringbrush, so I had. I remonstrated with him,
Your lord, and he remarked: keep it quiet.
(General laughter.)
GEORGE FOTTRELL: (Clerk of the crown and peace,
resonantly) Order in court! The accused will now make a
bogus statement.
(Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a fullblown waterlily,
begins a long unintelligible speech. They would hear what counsel
had to say in his stirring address to the grand jury. He was down
and out but, though branded as a black sheep, if he might say so,
he meant to reform, to retrieve the memory of the past in a purely
sisterly way and return to nature as a purely domestic animal. A
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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.
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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829 of 1305
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
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of the wastepipe and the ballstop in my bath cistern were
frozen. Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss
culled on the heights, as he said, in my honour. I had it
examined by a botanical expert and elicited the
information that it was ablossom of the homegrown potato
plant purloined from a forcingcase of the model farm.
MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Shame on him!
(A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward)
THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (Screaming)
Stop thief! Hurrah there, Bluebeard! Three cheers for Ikey
Mo!
SECOND WATCH: (Produces handcuffs) Here are the
darbies.
MRS BELLINGHAM: He addressed me in several
handwritings with fulsome compliments as a Venus in furs
and alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman
Palmer while in the same breath he expressed himself as
envious of his earflaps and fleecy sheepskins and of his
fortunate proximity to my person, when standing behind
my chair wearing my livery and the armorial bearings of
the Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable, a buck’s head
couped or. He lauded almost extravagantly my nether
extremities, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up to
the limit, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden
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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,
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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
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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?
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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.)
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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!
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(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
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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!
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BLOOM: The voice is the voice of Esau.
SECOND WATCH: (Blesses himself) How is that
possible?
FIRST WATCH: It is not in the penny catechism.
PADDY DIGNAM: By metempsychosis. Spooks.
A VOICE: O rocks.
PADDY DIGNAM: (Earnestly) Once I was in the
employ of Mr J. H. Menton, solicitor, commissioner for
oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor’s Walk. Now I am
defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied. Hard lines.
The poor wife was awfully cut up. How is she bearing it?
Keep her off that bottle of sherry. (He looks round him) A
lamp. I must satisfy an animal need. That buttermilk didn’t
agree with me.
(The portly figure of John O’Connell, caretaker, stands forth,
holding a bunch of keys tied with crape. Beside him stands Father
Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in a surplice and
bandanna nightcap, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies.)
FATHER COFFEY: (Yawns, then chants with a hoarse
croak) Namine. Jacobs. Vobiscuits. Amen.
JOHN O’CONNELL: (Foghorns stormily through his
megaphone) Dignam, Patrick T, deceased.
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PADDY DIGNAM: (With pricked up ears, winces)
Overtones. (He wriggles forward and places an ear to the
ground) My master’s voice!
JOHN O’CONNELL: Burial docket letter number U.
P. eightyfive thousand. Field seventeen. House of Keys.
Plot, one hundred and one.
(Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his tail
stiffpointcd, his ears cocked.)
PADDY DIGNAM: Pray for the repose of his soul.
(He worms down through a coalhole, his brown habit trailing
its tether over rattling pebbles. After him toddles an obese
grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a grey carapace.
Dignam’s voice, muffled, is heard baying under ground:
Dignam’s dead and gone below. Tom Rochford,
robinredbreasted, in cap and breeches, jumps from his
twocolumned machine.)
TOM ROCHFORD: (A hand to his breastbone, bows)
Reuben J. A florin I find him. (He fixes the manhole with a
resolute stare) My turn now on. Follow me up to Carlow.
(He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the air and is engulfed
in the coalhole. Two discs on the columns wobble, eyes of nought.
All recedes. Bloom plodges forward again through the sump.
Kisses chirp amid the rifts of fog a piano sounds. He stands before
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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!
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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 ...
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(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?
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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!
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(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
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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
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846 of 1305
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
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847 of 1305
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!
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848 of 1305
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
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849 of 1305
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!
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850 of 1305
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.
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851 of 1305
BLOOM: My beloved subjects, a new era is about to
dawn. I, Bloom, tell you verily it is even now at hand.
Yea, on the word of a Bloom, ye shall ere long enter into
the golden city which is to be, the new Bloomusalem in
the Nova Hibernia of the future.
(Thirtytwo workmen, wearing rosettes, from all the counties of
Ireland, under the guidance of Derwan the builder, construct the
new Bloomusalem. It is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in
the shape of a huge pork kidney, containing forty thousand
rooms. In the course of its extension several buildings and
monuments are demolished. Government offices are temporarily
transferred to railway sheds. Numerous houses are razed to the
ground. The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all
marked in red with the letters: L. B. several paupers fill from a
ladder. A part of the walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal
sightseers, collapses.)
THE SIGHTSEERS: (Dying) Morituri te salutant. (They
die)
(A man in a brown macintosh springs up through a trapdoor.
He points an elongated finger at Bloom.)
THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Don’t you
believe a word he says. That man is Leopold M’Intosh, the
notorious fireraiser. His real name is Higgins.
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852 of 1305
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
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Lady Gwendolen Dubedat bursts through the throng, leaps on his
horse and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation. A
magnesium flashlight photograph is taken. Babes and sucklings
are held up.)
THE WOMEN: Little father! Little father!
THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS:
Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home,
Cakes in his pocket for Leo alone.
(Bloom, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the
stomach.)
BABY BOARDMAN: (Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from
his mouth) Hajajaja.
BLOOM: (Shaking hands with a blind stripling) My more
than Brother! (Placing his arms round the shoulders of an old
couple) Dear old friends! (He plays pussy fourcorners with
ragged boys and girls) Peep! Bopeep! (He wheels twins in a
perambulator) Ticktacktwo wouldyousetashoe? (He performs
juggler’s tricks, draws red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and
violet silk handkerchiefs from his mouth) Roygbiv. 32 feet per
second. (He consoles a widow) Absence makes the heart
grow younger. (He dances the Highland fling with grotesque
antics) Leg it, ye devils! (He kisses the bedsores of a palsied
veteran) Honourable wounds! (He trips up a fit policeman) U.
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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
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this our loyal city of Dublin in the year I of the
Paradisiacal Era.
PADDY LEONARD: What am I to do about my rates
and taxes?
BLOOM: Pay them, my friend.
PADDY LEONARD: Thank you.
NOSEY FLYNN: Can I raise a mortgage on my fire
insurance?
BLOOM: (Obdurately) Sirs, take notice that by the law
of torts you are bound over in your own recognisances for
six months in the sum of five pounds.
J. J. O’MOLLOY: A Daniel did I say? Nay! A Peter
O’Brien!
NOSEY FLYNN: Where do I draw the five pounds?
PISSER BURKE: For bladder trouble?
BLOOM:
Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims
Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims
Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims.
Aq. dis. ter in die.
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CHRIS CALLINAN: What is the parallax of the
subsolar ecliptic of Aldebaran?
BLOOM: Pleased to hear from you, Chris. K. II.
JOE HYNES: Why aren’t you in uniform?
BLOOM: When my progenitor of sainted memory
wore the uniform of the Austrian despot in a dank prison
where was yours?
BEN DOLLARD: Pansies?
BLOOM: Embellish (beautify) suburban gardens.
BEN DOLLARD: When twins arrive?
BLOOM: Father (pater, dad) starts thinking.
LARRY O’ROURKE: An eightday licence for my
new premises. You remember me, sir Leo, when you
were in number seven. I’m sending around a dozen of
stout for the missus.
BLOOM: (Coldly) You have the advantage of me. Lady
Bloom accepts no presents.
CROFTON: This is indeed a festivity.
BLOOM: (Solemnly) You call it a festivity. I call it a
sacrament.
ALEXANDER KEYES: When will we have our own
house of keys?
BLOOM: I stand for the reform of municipal morals
and the plain ten commandments. New worlds for old.
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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.)
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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in legible letters on his shirtfront: Nasodoro, Goldfinger,
Chrysostomos, Maindoree, Silversmile, Silberselber, Vifargent,
Panargyros. They are immediately appointed to positions of high
public trust in several different countries as managing directors of
banks, traffic managers of railways, chairmen of limited liability
companies, vicechairmen of hotel syndicates.)
A VOICE: Bloom, are you the Messiah ben Joseph or
ben David?
BLOOM: (Darkly) You have said it.
BROTHER BUZZ: Then perform a miracle like
Father Charles.
BANTAM LYONS: Prophesy who will win the Saint
Leger.
(Bloom walks on a net, covers his left eye with his left ear,
passes through several walls, climbs Nelson’s Pillar, hangs from
the top ledge by his eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters (shells
included), heals several sufferers from king’s evil, contracts his face
so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord Beaconsfield,
Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides,
Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth,
Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson
Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously
in different directions, bids the tide turn back, eclipses the sun by
extending his little finger.)
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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.
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CRAB: (In bushranger’s kit) What did you do in the
cattlecreep behind Kilbarrack?
A FEMALE INFANT: (Shakes a rattle) And under
Ballybough bridge?
A HOLLYBUSH: And in the devil’s glen?
BLOOM: (Blushes furiously all over from frons to nates,
three tears filling from his left eye) Spare my past.
THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: (In bodycoats,
kneebreeches, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs) Sjambok him!
(Bloom with asses’ ears seats himself in the pillory with crossed
arms, his feet protruding. He whistles Don Giovanni, a cenar
teco. Artane orphans, joining hands, caper round him. Girls of
the Prison Gate Mission, joining hands, caper round in the
opposite direction.)
THE ARTANE ORPHANS:
You hig, you hog, you dirty dog!
You think the ladies love you!
THE PRISON GATE GIRLS:
If you see Kay
Tell him he may
See you in tea
Tell him from me.
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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!
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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
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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
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and glancing at herself in the gilt mirror over the mantelpiece. A
tag of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket. Lynch
indicates mockingly the couple at the piano.)
KITTY: (Coughs behind her hand) She’s a bit imbecillic.
(She signs with a waggling forefinger) Blemblem. (Lynch lifts up
her skirt and white petticoat with his wand she settles them down
quickly.) Respect yourself. (She hiccups, then bends quickly her
sailor hat under which her hair glows, red with henna) O,
excuse!
ZOE: More limelight, Charley. (She goes to the chandelier
and turns the gas full cock)
KITTY: (Peers at the gasjet) What ails it tonight?
LYNCH: (Deeply) Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.
ZOE: Clap on the back for Zoe.
(The wand in Lynch’s hand flashes: a brass poker. Stephen
stands at the pianola on which sprawl his hat and ashplant. With
two fingers he repeats once more the series of empty fifths. Florry
Talbot, a blond feeble goosefat whore in a tatterdemalion gown of
mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the sofacorner, her limp
forearm pendent over the bolster, listening. A heavy stye droops
over her sleepy eyelid.)
KITTY: (Hiccups again with a kick of her horsed foot) O,
excuse!
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ZOE: (Promptly) Your boy’s thinking of you. Tie a
knot on your shift.
(Kitty Ricketts bends her head. Her boa uncoils, slides, glides
over her shoulder, back, arm, chair to the ground. Lynch lifts the
curled caterpillar on his wand. She snakes her neck, nestling.
Stephen glances behind at the squatted figure with its cap back to
the front.)
STEPHEN: As a matter of fact it is of no importance
whether Benedetto Marcello found it or made it. The rite
is the poet’s rest. It may be an old hymn to Demeter or
also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini. It is susceptible
of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and
mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping
round David’s that is Circe’s or what am I saying Ceres’
altar and David’s tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist
about the alrightness of his almightiness. Mais nom de nom,
that is another pair of trousers. Jetez la gourme. Faut que
jeunesse se passe. (He stops, points at Lynch’s cap, smiles,
laughs) Which side is your knowledge bump?
THE CAP: (With saturnine spleen) Bah! It is because it
is. Woman’s reason. Jewgreek is greekjew. Extremes meet.
Death is the highest form of life. Bah!
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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.)
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FLORRY: They say the last day is coming this
summer.
KITTY: No!
ZOE: (Explodes in laughter) Great unjust God!
FLORRY: (Offended) Well, it was in the papers about
Antichrist. O, my foot’s tickling.
(Ragged barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past,
yelling.)
THE NEWSBOYS: Stop press edition. Result of the
rockinghorse races. Sea serpent in the royal canal. Safe
arrival of Antichrist.
(Stephen turns and sees Bloom.)
STEPHEN: A time, times and half a time.
(Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a clutching hand open
on his spine, stumps forward. Across his loins is slung a pilgrim’s
wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured
bills. Aloft over his shoulder he bears a long boatpole from the
hook of which the sodden huddled mass of his only son, saved
from Liffey waters, hangs from the slack of its breeches. A
hobgoblin in the image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked,
hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper
nose, tumbles in somersaults through the gathering darkness.)
ALL: What?
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THE HOBGOBLIN: (His jaws chattering, capers to and
fro, goggling his eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with
outstretched clutching arms, then all at once thrusts his lipless face
through the fork of his thighs) Il vient! C’est moi! L’homme qui
rit! L’homme primigene! (He whirls round and round with
dervish howls) Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux! (He crouches
juggling. Tiny roulette planets fly from his hands.) Les jeux sont
faits! (The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks) Rien va
plus! (The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and away.
He springs off into vacuum.)
FLORRY: (Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly)
The end of the world!
(A female tepid effluvium leaks out from her. Nebulous
obscurity occupies space. Through the drifting fog without the
gramophone blares over coughs and feetshuffling.)
THE GRAMOPHONE: Jerusalem!
Open your gates and sing
Hosanna ...
(A rocket rushes up the sky and bursts. A white star fills from
it, proclaiming the consummation of all things and second coming
of Elijah. Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to
nadir the End of the World, a twoheaded octopus in gillie’s kilts,
busby and tartan filibegs, whirls through the murk, head over
heels, in the form of the Three Legs of Man.)
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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?
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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
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our sisters dear. (He winks at his audience) Our Mr
President, he twig the whole lot and he aint saying
nothing.
KITTY-KATE: I forgot myself. In a weak moment I
erred and did what I did on Constitution hill. I was
confirmed by the bishop and enrolled in the brown
scapular. My mother’s sister married a Montmorency. It
was a working plumber was my ruination when I was
pure.
ZOE-FANNY: I let him larrup it into me for the fun
of it.
FLORRY-TERESA: It was in consequence of a
portwine beverage on top of Hennessy’s three star. I was
guilty with Whelan when he slipped into the bed.
STEPHEN: In the beginning was the word, in the end
the world without end. Blessed be the eight beatitudes.
(The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello,
Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch in white surgical
students’ gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in
noisy marching)
THE BEATITUDES: (Incoherently) Beer beef battledog
buybull businum barnum buggerum bishop.
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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.)
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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
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a nixie’s green. She puffs calmly at her cigarette.) Can you see
the beautyspot of my behind?
LYNCH: I’m not looking
ZOE: (Makes sheep’s eyes) No? You wouldn’t do a less
thing. Would you suck a lemon?
(Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning
at Bloom, then twists round towards him, pulling her slip free of
the poker. Blue fluid again flows over her flesh. Bloom stands,
smiling desirously, twirling his thumbs. Kitty Ricketts licks her
middle finger with her spittle and, gazing in the mirror, smooths
both eyebrows. Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly
down through the chimneyflue and struts two steps to the left on
gawky pink stilts. He is sausaged into several overcoats and wears
a brown macintosh under which he holds a roll of parchment. In
his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O’connor
Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. On his head is perched an Egyptian
pshent. Two quills project over his ears.)
VIRAG: (Heels together, bows) My name is Virag Lipoti,
of Szombathely. (He coughs thoughtfully, drily) Promiscuous
nakedness is much in evidence hereabouts, eh?
Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not
wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a
particular devotee. The injection mark on the thigh I hope
you perceived? Good.
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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
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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
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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
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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.)
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BLOOM: I wanted then to have now concluded.
Nightdress was never. Hence this. But tomorrow is a new
day will be. Past was is today. What now is will then
morrow as now was be past yester.
VIRAG: (Prompts in a pig’s whisper) Insects of the day
spend their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by
the smell of the inferiorly pulchritudinous fumale
possessing extendified pudendal nerve in dorsal region.
Pretty Poll! (His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally) They had a
proverb in the Carpathians in or about the year five
thousand five hundred and fifty of our era. One
tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than
half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. Bear’s
buzz bothers bees. But of this apart. At another time we
may resume. We were very pleased, we others. (He coughs
and, bending his brow, rubs his nose thoughtfully with a scooping
hand) You shall find that these night insects follow the
light. An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable
eye. For all these knotty points see the seventeenth book
of my Fundamentals of Sexology or the Love Passion
which Doctor L.B. says is the book sensation of the year.
Some, to example, there are again whose movements are
automatic. Perceive. That is his appropriate sun. Nightbird
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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
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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:
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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.)
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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
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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.
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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?
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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.
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LYNCH: Three wise virgins.
VIRAG: (Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over
his bony epileptic lips) She sold lovephiltres, whitewax,
orangeflower. Panther, the Roman centurion, polluted her
with his genitories. (He sticks out a flickering phosphorescent
scorpion tongue, his hand on his fork) Messiah! He burst her
tympanum. (With gibbering baboon’s cries he jerks his hips in
the cynical spasm) Hik! Hek! Hak! Hok! Huk! Kok! Kuk!
(Ben Jumbo Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled,
hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat-
papped, stands forth, his loins and genitals tightened into a pair
of black bathing bagslops.)
BEN DOLLARD: (Nakkering castanet bones in his huge
padded paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone) When love
absorbs my ardent soul.
(The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through
the ringkeepers and the ropes and mob him with open arms.)
THE VIRGINS: (Gushingly) Big Ben! Ben my Chree!
A VOICE: Hold that fellow with the bad breeches.
BEN DOLLARD: (Smites his thigh in abundant laughter)
Hold him now.
HENRY: (Caressing on his breast a severed female head,
murmurs) Thine heart, mine love. (He plucks his lutestrings)
When first I saw ...
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VIRAG: (Sloughing his skins, his multitudinous plumage
moulting) Rats! (He yawns, showing a coalblack throat, and
closes his jaws by an upward push of his parchmentroll) After
having said which I took my departure. Farewell. Fare
thee well. Dreck!
(Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a
pocketcomb and gives a cow’s lick to his hair. Steered by his
rapier, he glides to the door, his wild harp slung behind him.
Virag reaches the door in two ungainly stilthops, his tail cocked,
and deftly claps sideways on the wall a pusyellow flybill, butting
it with his head.)
THE FLYBILL: K. II. Post No Bills. Strictly
confidential. Dr Hy Franks.
HENRY: All is lost now.
(Virag unscrews his head in a trice and holds it under his
arm.)
VIRAG’S HEAD: Quack!
(Exeunt severally.)
STEPHEN: (Over his shoulder to zoe) You would have
preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant
error. But beware Antisthenes, the dog sage, and the last
end of Arius Heresiarchus. The agony in the closet.
LYNCH: All one and the same God to her.
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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
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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:)
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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!
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(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.
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Seems new. Aphro. That priest. Must come. Better late
than never. Try truffles at Andrews.
(The door opens. Bella Cohen, a massive whoremistress,
enters. She is dressed in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round
the hem with tasselled selvedge, and cools herself flirting a black
horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen. On her left hand are
wedding and keeper rings. Her eyes are deeply carboned. She has
a sprouting moustache. Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated
and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. She has large pendant
beryl eardrops.)
BELLA: My word! I’m all of a mucksweat.
(She glances round her at the couples. Then her eyes rest on
Bloom with hard insistence. Her large fan winnows wind towards
her heated faceneck and embonpoint. Her falcon eyes glitter.)
THE FAN: (Flirting quickly, then slowly) Married, I see.
BLOOM: Yes. Partly, I have mislaid ...
THE FAN: (Half opening, then closing) And the missus is
master. Petticoat government.
BLOOM: (Looks down with a sheepish grin) That is so.
THE FAN: (Folding together, rests against her left eardrop)
Have you forgotten me?
BLOOM: Yes. Yo.
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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!
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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
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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!
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BELLO: Dungdevourer!
BLOOM: (With sinews semiflexed) Magmagnificence!
BELLO: Down! (He taps her on the shoulder with his fan)
Incline feet forward! Slide left foot one pace back! You
will fall. You are falling. On the hands down!
BLOOM: (Her eyes upturned in the sign of admiration,
closing, yaps) Truffles!
(With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting,
snuffling, rooting at his feet: then lies, shamming dead, with eyes
shut tight, trembling eyelids, bowed upon the ground in the
attitude of most excellent master.)
BELLO: (With bobbed hair, purple gills, fit moustache rings
round his shaven mouth, in mountaineer’s puttees, green
silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and alpine hat with moorcock’s
feather, his hands stuck deep in his breeches pockets, places his
heel on her neck and grinds it in) Footstool! Feel my entire
weight. Bow, bondslave, before the throne of your
despot’s glorious heels so glistening in their proud
erectness.
BLOOM: (Enthralled, bleats) I promise never to
disobey.
BELLO: (Laughs loudly) Holy smoke! You little know
what’s in store for you. I’m the Tartar to settle your little
lot and break you in! I’ll bet Kentucky cocktails all round I
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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
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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,
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a rollingpin stuck with raw pastry in her bare red arm and hand,
appears at the door.)
MRS KEOGH: (Ferociously) Can I help? (They hold and
pinion Bloom.)
BELLO: (Squats with a grunt on Bloom’s upturned face,
puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg) I see Keating Clay is
elected vicechairman of the Richmond asylum and by the
by Guinness’s preference shares are at sixteen three
quaffers. Curse me for a fool that didn’t buy that lot Craig
and Gardner told me about. Just my infernal luck, curse it.
And that Goddamned outsider Throwaway at twenty to
one. (He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom’s ear) Where’s
that Goddamned cursed ashtray?
BLOOM: (Goaded, buttocksmothered) O! O! Monsters!
Cruel one!
BELLO: Ask for that every ten minutes. Beg. Pray for
it as you never prayed before. (He thrusts out a figged fist and
foul cigar) Here, kiss that. Both. Kiss. (He throws a leg astride
and, pressing with horseman’s knees, calls in a hard voice) Gee
up! A cockhorse to Banbury cross. I’ll ride him for the
Eclipse stakes. (He bends sideways and squeezes his mount’s
testicles roughly, shouting) Ho! Off we pop! I’ll nurse you in
proper fashion. (He horserides cockhorse, leaping in the saddle)
The lady goes a pace a pace and the coachman goes a trot
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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,
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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
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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.
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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
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toilet paper presented to him by a nasty harlot, stimulated
by gingerbread and a postal order?
BELLO: (Whistles loudly) Say! What was the most
revolting piece of obscenity in all your career of crime?
Go the whole hog. Puke it out! Be candid for once.
(Mute inhuman faces throng forward, leering, vanishing,
gibbering, Booloohoom. Poldy Kock, Bootlaces a penny
Cassidy’s hag, blind stripling, Larry Rhinoceros, the girl, the
woman, the whore, the other, the ...)
BLOOM: Don’t ask me! Our mutual faith. Pleasants
street. I only thought the half of the ... I swear on my
sacred oath ...
BELLO: (Peremptorily) Answer. Repugnant wretch! I
insist on knowing. Tell me something to amuse me, smut
or a bloody good ghoststory or a line of poetry, quick,
quick, quick! Where? How? What time? With how many?
I give you just three seconds. One! Two! Thr ...
BLOOM: (Docile, gurgles) I rererepugnosed in
rerererepugnant
BELLO: (Imperiously) O, get out, you skunk! Hold
your tongue! Speak when you’re spoken to.
BLOOM: (Bows) Master! Mistress! Mantamer!
(He lifts his arms. His bangle bracelets fill.)
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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
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and another gentleman out of the Hanaper and Petty Bag
office) is on the lookout for a maid of all work at a short
knock. Swell the bust. Smile. Droop shoulders. What
offers? (He points) For that lot. Trained by owner to fetch
and carry, basket in mouth. (He bares his arm and plunges it
elbowdeep in Bloom’s vulva) There’s fine depth for you!
What, boys? That give you a hardon? (He shoves his arm in
a bidder’s face) Here wet the deck and wipe it round!
A BIDDER: A florin.
(Dillon’s lacquey rings his handbell.)
THE LACQUEY: Barang!
A VOICE: One and eightpence too much.
CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: Must be virgin.
Good breath. Clean.
BELLO: (Gives a rap with his gavel) Two bar.
Rockbottom figure and cheap at the price. Fourteen hands
high. Touch and examine his points. Handle him. This
downy skin, these soft muscles, this tender flesh. If I had
only my gold piercer here! And quite easy to milk. Three
newlaid gallons a day. A pure stockgetter, due to lay
within the hour. His sire’s milk record was a thousand
gallons of whole milk in forty weeks. Whoa my jewel!
Beg up! Whoa! (He brands his initial C on Bloom’s croup) So!
Warranted Cohen! What advance on two bob, gentlemen?
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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
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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.
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(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 ...
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BELLO: (Cuttingly) Their heelmarks will stamp the
Brusselette carpet you bought at Wren’s auction. In their
horseplay with Moll the romp to find the buck flea in her
breeches they will deface the little statue you carried home
in the rain for art for art’ sake. They will violate the secrets
of your bottom drawer. Pages will be torn from your
handbook of astronomy to make them pipespills. And they
will spit in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton
Leedom’s.
BLOOM: Ten and six. The act of low scoundrels. Let
me go. I will return. I will prove ...
A VOICE: Swear!
(Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, a bowieknife
between his teeth.)
BELLO: As a paying guest or a kept man? Too late.
You have made your secondbest bed and others must lie
in it. Your epitaph is written. You are down and out and
don’t you forget it, old bean.
BLOOM: Justice! All Ireland versus one! Has nobody
...? (He bites his thumb)
BELLO: Die and be damned to you if you have any
sense of decency or grace about you. I can give you a rare
old wine that’ll send you skipping to hell and back. Sign a
will and leave us any coin you have! If you have none see
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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.
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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
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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
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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:
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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.
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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:
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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.)
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THE NANNYGOAT: (Bleats) Megeggaggegg!
Nannannanny!
BLOOM: (Hatless, flushed, covered with burrs of
thistledown and gorsespine) Regularly engaged.
Circumstances alter cases. (He gazes intently downwards on
the water) Thirtytwo head over heels per second. Press
nightmare. Giddy Elijah. Fall from cliff. Sad end of
government printer’s clerk. (Through silversilent summer air
the dummy of Bloom, rolled in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from
the Lion’s Head cliff into the purple waiting waters.)
THE DUMMYMUMMY: Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg!
(Far out in the bay between bailey and kish lights the Erin’s
King sails, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her
funnel towards the land.)
COUNCILLOR NANNETII: (Alone on deck, in dark
alpaca, yellowkitefaced, his hand in his waistcoat opening,
declaims) When my country takes her place among the
nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph
be written. I have ...
BLOOM: Done. Prff!
THE NYMPH: (Loftily) We immortals, as you saw
today, have not such a place and no hair there either. We
are stonecold and pure. We eat electric light. (She arches her
body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger in her mouth)
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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.
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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:
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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?
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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!
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BLOOM: (Contemptuously) Clean your nailless middle
finger first, your bully’s cold spunk is dripping from your
cockscomb. Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself.
BELLA: I know you, canvasser! Dead cod!
BLOOM: I saw him, kipkeeper! Pox and gleet vendor!
BELLA: (Turns to the piano) Which of you was playing
the dead march from Saul?
ZOE: Me. Mind your cornflowers. (She darts to the
piano and bangs chords on it with crossed arms) The cat’s
ramble through the slag. (She glances back) Eh? Who’s
making love to my sweeties? (She darts back to the table)
What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is my own.
(Kitty, disconcerted, coats her teeth with the silver paper.
Bloom approaches Zoe.)
BLOOM: (Gently) Give me back that potato, will you?
ZOE: Forfeits, a fine thing and a superfine thing.
BLOOM: (With feeling) It is nothing, but still, a relic of
poor mamma.
ZOE:
Give a thing and take it back
God’ll ask you where is that
You’ll say you don’t know
God’ll send you down below.
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BLOOM: There is a memory attached to it. I should
like to have it.
STEPHEN: To have or not to have that is the
question.
ZOE: Here. (She hauls up a reef of her slip, revealing her
bare thigh, and unrolls the potato from the top of her stocking)
Those that hides knows where to find.
BELLA: (Frowns) Here. This isn’t a musical peepshow.
And don’t you smash that piano. Who’s paying here?
(She goes to the pianola. Stephen fumbles in his pocket and,
taking out a banknote by its corner, hands it to her.)
STEPHEN: (With exaggerated politeness) This silken
purse I made out of the sow’s ear of the public. Madam,
excuse me. If you allow me. (He indicates vaguely Lynch and
Bloom) We are all in the same sweepstake, Kinch and
Lynch. Dans ce bordel ou tenons nostre 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.
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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)
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FLORRY: And me?
LYNCH: Hoopla! (He lifts her, carries her and bumps her
down on the sofa.)
STEPHEN:
The fox crew, the cocks flew,
The bells in heaven
Were striking eleven.
‘Tis time for her poor soul
To get out of heaven.
BLOOM: (Quietly lays a half sovereign on the table between
bella and florry) So. Allow me. (He takes up the poundnote)
Three times ten. We’re square.
BELLA: (Admiringly) You’re such a slyboots, old cocky.
I could kiss you.
ZOE: (Points) Him? Deep as a drawwell. (Lynch bends
Kitty back over the sofa and kisses her. Bloom goes with the
poundnote to Stephen.)
BLOOM: This is yours.
STEPHEN: How is that? Les distrait or absentminded
beggar. (He fumbles again in his pocket and draws out a handful
of coins. An object fills.) That fell.
BLOOM: (Stooping, picks up and hands a box of matches)
This.
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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.
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STEPHEN: (Brings the match near his eye) Lynx eye.
Must get glasses. Broke them yesterday. Sixteen years ago.
Distance. The eye sees all flat. (He draws the match away. It
goes out.) Brain thinks. Near: far. Ineluctable modality of
the visible. (He frowns mysteriously) Hm. Sphinx. The beast
that has twobacks at midnight. Married.
ZOE: It was a commercial traveller married her and
took her away with him.
FLORRY: (Nods) Mr Lambe from London.
STEPHEN: Lamb of London, who takest away the sins
of our world.
LYNCH: (Embracing Kitty on the sofa, chants deeply)
Dona nobis pacem.
(The cigarette slips from Stephen ‘s fingers. Bloom picks it up
and throws it in the grate.)
BLOOM: Don’t smoke. You ought to eat. Cursed dog
I met. (To Zoe) You have nothing?
ZOE: Is he hungry?
STEPHEN: (Extends his hand to her smiling and chants to
the air of the bloodoath in the Dusk of the Gods)
Hangende Hunger,
Fragende Frau,
Macht uns alle kaputt.
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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.
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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)
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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)
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(Over the well of the car Blazes Boylan leans, his boater straw
set sideways, a red flower in his mouth. Lenehan in yachtsman’s
cap and white shoes officiously detaches a long hair from Blazes
Boylan’s coat shoulder.)
LENEHAN: Ho! What do I here behold? Were you
brushing the cobwebs off a few quims?
BOYLAN: (Seated, smiles) Plucking a turkey.
LENEHAN: A good night’s work.
BOYLAN: (Holding up four thick bluntungulated fingers,
winks) Blazes Kate! Up to sample or your money back. (He
holds out a forefinger) Smell that.
LENEHAN: (Smells gleefully) Ah! Lobster and
mayonnaise. Ah!
ZOE AND FLORRY: (Laugh together) Ha ha ha ha.
BOYLAN: (Jumps surely from the car and calls loudly for all
to hear) Hello, Bloom! Mrs Bloom dressed yet?
BLOOM: (In flunkey’s prune plush coat and kneebreeches,
buff stockings and powdered wig) I’m afraid not, sir. The last
articles ...
BOYLAN: (Tosses him sixpence) Here, to buy yourself a
gin and splash. (He hangs his hat smartly on a peg of Bloom’s
antlered head) Show me in. I have a little private business
with your wife, you understand?
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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 ...?
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KITTY: (From the sofa) Tell us, Florry. Tell us. What.
(Florry whispers to her. Whispering lovewords murmur,
liplapping loudly, poppysmic plopslop.)
MINA KENNEDY: (Her eyes upturned) O, it must be
like the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches! O, he
simply idolises every bit of her! Stuck together! Covered
with kisses!
LYDIA DOUCE: (Her mouth opening) Yumyum. O,
he’s carrying her round the room doing it! Ride a
cockhorse. You could hear them in Paris and New York.
Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream.
KITTY: (Laughing) Hee hee hee.
BOYLAN’S VOICE: (Sweetly, hoarsely, in the pit of his
stomach) Ah! Gooblazqruk brukarchkrasht!
MARION’S VOICE: (Hoarsely, sweetly, rising to her
throat) O! Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck?
BLOOM: (His eyes wildly dilated, clasps himself) Show!
Hide! Show! Plough her! More! Shoot!
BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: Ho ho! Ha ha!
Hee hee!
LYNCH: (Points) The mirror up to nature. (He laughs)
Hu hu hu hu hu!
(Stephen and Bloom gaze in the mirror. The face of William
Shakespeare, beardless, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis,
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crowned by the reflection of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the
hall.)
SHAKESPEARE: (In dignified ventriloquy) ‘Tis the loud
laugh bespeaks the vacant mind. (To Bloom) Thou
thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible. Gaze. (He crows
with a black capon’s laugh) Iagogo! How my Oldfellow
chokit his Thursdaymornun. Iagogogo!
BLOOM: (Smiles yellowly at the three whores) When will
I hear the joke?
ZOE: Before you’re twice married and once a
widower.
BLOOM: Lapses are condoned. Even the great
Napoleon when measurements were taken next the skin
after his death ...
(Mrs Dignam, widow woman, her snubnose and cheeks
flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney’s tawny sherry, hurries
by in her weeds, her bonnet awry, rouging and powdering her
cheeks, lips and nose, a pen chivvying her brood of cygnets.
Beneath her skirt appear her late husband’s everyday trousers and
turnedup boots, large eights. She holds a Scottish widows’
insurance policy and a large marquee umbrella under which her
brood run with her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his collar
loose, a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy
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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.
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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: (Oommelling on the sofa) Rmm Rmm Rmm
Rrrrrrmmmm.
STEPHEN: (Gabbles with marionette jerks) Thousand
places of entertainment to expense your evenings with
lovely ladies saling gloves and other things perhaps hers
heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very eccentric
where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about
princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there
parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the
same if talking a poor english how much smart they are on
things love and sensations voluptuous. Misters very selects
for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with
mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every
night. Perfectly shocking terrific of religion’s things
mockery seen in universal world. All chic womans which
arrive full of modesty then disrobe and squeal loud to see
vampire man debauch nun very fresh young with dessous
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troublants. (He clacks his tongue loudly) Ho, la la! Ce pif qu’il
a!
LYNCH: Vive le vampire!
THE WHORES: Bravo! Parleyvoo!
STEPHEN: (Grimacing with head back, laughs loudly,
clapping himself) Great success of laughing. Angels much
prostitutes like and holy apostles big damn ruffians.
Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds
very amiable costumed. Or do you are fond better what
belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans? (He
points about him with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the
whores reply to) Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or
lifesize tompeeptom of virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss
five ten times. Enter, gentleman, to see in mirror every
positions trapezes all that machine there besides also if
desire act awfully bestial butcher’s boy pollutes in warm
veal liver or omlet on the belly 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)
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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
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king at arms! Haihoop! (He makes the beagle’s call, giving
tongue) Bulbul! Burblblburblbl! Hai, boy!
(The fronds and spaces of the wallpaper file rapidly across
country. A stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having
buried his grandmother, runs swift for the open, brighteyed,
seeking badger earth, under the leaves. The pack of staghounds
follows, nose to the ground, sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying,
burblbrbling to be blooded. Ward Union huntsmen and
huntswomen live with them, hot for a kill. From Six Mile Point,
Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty
sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips,
bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes
waving torches. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and anchor
players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse
bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.)
THE CROWD:
Card of the races. Racing card!
Ten to one the field!
Tommy on the clay here! Tommy on the
clay!
Ten to one bar one! Ten to one bar one!
Try your luck on Spinning Jenny!
Ten to one bar one!
Sell the monkey, boys! Sell the monkey!
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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.)
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THE GREEN LODGES: Soft day, sir John! Soft day,
your honour!
(Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey pass
beneath the windows, singing in discord.)
STEPHEN: Hark! Our friend noise in the street.
ZOE: (Holds up her hand) Stop!
PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND
CISSY CAFFREY:
Yet I’ve a sort a
Yorkshire relish for ...
ZOE: That’s me. (She claps her hands) Dance! Dance!
(She runs to the pianola) Who has twopence?
BLOOM: Who’ll ...?
LYNCH: (Handing her coins) Here.
STEPHEN: (Cracking his fingers impatiently) Quick!
Quick! Where’s my augur’s rod? (He runs to the piano and
takes his ashplant, beating his foot in tripudium)
ZOE: (Turns the drumhandle) There.
(She drops two pennies in the slot. Gold, pink and violet
lights start forth. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz.
Professor Goodwin, in a bowknotted periwig, in court dress,
wearing a stained inverness cape, bent in two from incredible age,
totters across the room, his hands fluttering. He sits tinily on the
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pianostool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the
keyboard, nodding with damsel’s grace, his bowknot bobbing)
ZOE: (Twirls round herself, heeltapping) Dance. Anybody
here for there? Who’ll dance? Clear the table.
(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the
prelude of My Girl’s a Yorkshire Girl. Stephen throws his
ashplant on the table and seizes Zoe round the waist. Florry and
Bella push the table towards the fireplace. Stephen, arming Zoe
with exaggerated grace, begins to waltz her round the room.
Bloom stands aside. Her sleeve filling from gracing arms reveals a
white fleshflower of vaccination. Between the curtains Professor
Maginni inserts a leg on the toepoint of which spins a silk hat.
With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his crown and
jauntyhatted skates in. He wears a slate frockcoat with claret silk
lapels, a gorget of cream tulle, a green lowcut waistcoat, stock
collar with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers, patent pumps
and canary gloves. In his buttonhole is an immense dahlia. He
twirls in reversed directions a clouded cane, then wedges it tight in
his oxter. He places a hand lightly on his breastbone, bows, and
fondles his flower and buttons.)
MAGINNI: The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics.
No connection with Madam Legget Byrne’s or
Levenston’s. Fancy dress balls arranged. Deportment. The
Katty Lanner step. So. Watch me! My terpsichorean
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abilities. (He minuets forward three paces on tripping bee’s feet)
Tout le monde en avant! Révérence! Tout le monde en
place!</p>
(The prelude ceases. Professor Goodwin, beating vague arms
shrivels, sinks, his live cape filling about the stool. The air in
firmer waltz time sounds. Stephen and Zoe circle freely. The
lights change, glow, fide gold rosy violet.)
THE PIANOLA:
Two young fellows were talking about
their girls, girls, girls,
Sweethearts they’d left behind ...
(From a corner the morning hours run out, goldhaired,
slimsandalled, in girlish blue, waspwaisted, with innocent hands.
Nimbly they dance, twirling their skipping ropes. The hours of
noon follow in amber gold. Laughing, linked, high haircombs
flashing, they catch the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting their
arms.)
MAGINNI: (Clipclaps glovesilent hands) 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.)
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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!
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(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:
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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!
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SIMON: Think of your mother’s people!
STEPHEN: Dance of death.
(Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey’s bell, horse, nag, steer,
piglings, Conmee on Christass, lame crutch and leg sailor in
cockboat armfolded ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe through
and through. Baraabum! On nags hogs bellhorses Gadarene
swine Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two
trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling
gum he’s a champion. Fuseblue peer from barrel rev. evensong
Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly
with snowcake no fancy clothes. Then in last switchback
lumbering up and down bump mashtub sort of viceroy and reine
relish for tublumber bumpshire rose. Baraabum!)
(The couples fall aside. Stephen whirls giddily. Room whirls
back. Eyes closed he totters. Red rails fly spacewards. Stars all
around suns turn roundabout. Bright midges dance on walls. He
stops dead.)
STEPHEN: Ho!
(Stephen’s mother, emaciated, rises stark through the floor, in
leper grey with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a torn bridal
veil, her face worn and noseless, green with gravemould. Her hair
is scant and lank. She fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on
Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word. A
choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly.)
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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.
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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!
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STEPHEN: (Panting) His noncorrosive sublimate! The
corpsechewer! Raw head and bloody bones.
THE MOTHER: (Her face drawing near and nearer,
sending out an ashen breath) Beware! (She raises her blackened
withered right arm slowly towards Stephen’s breast with
outstretched finger) Beware God’s hand! (A green crab with
malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen’s
heart.)
STEPHEN: (Strangled with rage) Shite! (His features grow
drawn grey and old)
BLOOM: (At the window) What?
STEPHEN: Ah non, par exemple! The intellectual
imagination! With me all or not at all. Non serviam!
FLORRY: Give him some cold water. Wait. (She
rushes out)
THE MOTHER: (Wrings her hands slowly, moaning
desperately) O Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on him!
Save him from hell, O Divine Sacred Heart!
STEPHEN: No! No! No! Break my spirit, all of you, if
you can! I’ll bring you all to heel!
THE MOTHER: (In the agony of her deathrattle) Have
mercy on Stephen, Lord, for my sake! Inexpressible was
my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on
Mount Calvary.
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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.
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BELLA: (Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points)
Who’s to pay for that? Ten shillings. You’re a witness.
BLOOM: (Snatches up Stephen’s ashplant) Me? Ten
shillings? Haven’t you lifted enough off him? Didn’t he ...?
BELLA: (Loudly) Here, none of your tall talk. This isn’t
a brothel. A ten shilling house.
BLOOM: (His head under the lamp, pulls the chain.
Puling, the gasjet lights up a crushed mauve purple shade. He
raises the ashplant.) Only the chimney’s broken. Here is all
he ...
BELLA: (Shrinks back and screams) Jesus! Don’t!
BLOOM: (Warding off a blow) To show you how he hit
the paper. There’s not sixpenceworth of damage done.
Ten shillings!
FLORRY: (With a glass of water, enters) Where is he?
BELLA: Do you want me to call the police?
BLOOM: O, I know. Bulldog on the premises. But
he’s a Trinity student. Patrons of your establishment.
Gentlemen that pay the rent. (He makes a masonic sign)
Know what I mean? Nephew of the vice-chancellor. You
don’t want a scandal.
BELLA: (Angrily) Trinity. Coming down here ragging
after the boatraces and paying nothing. Are you my
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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
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bloodhounds, led by Hornblower of Trinity brandishing a
dogwhip in tallyho cap and an old pair of grey trousers, follow
from fir, picking up the scent, nearer, baying, panting, at fault,
breaking away, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping at
his tail. He walks, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back. He is
pelted with gravel, cabbagestumps, biscuitboxes, eggs, potatoes,
dead codfish, woman’s slipperslappers. After him freshfound the
hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65
C, 66 C, night watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.
B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry
O’rourke, Joe Cuffe Mrs O’dowd, Pisser Burke, The Nameless
One, Mrs Riordan, The Citizen, Garryowen,
Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore,
Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron,
Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bartell d’Arcy, Joe Hynes, red
Murray, editor Brayden, T. M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon,
John Howard Parnell, the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor
Joly, Mrs Breen, Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, Mina Purefoy,
the Westland Row postmistress, C. P. M’Coy, friend of Lyons,
Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet,
Footballboots, pugnosed driver, rich protestant lady, Davy Byrne,
Mrs Ellen M’Guinness, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell,
Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley,
Crofton out of the Collector-general’s, Dan Dawson, dental
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surgeon Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Bob Doran, Mrs Kennefick,
Mrs Wyse Nolan, John Wyse Nolan,
handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwidebehindinClonskeatram
, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad,
Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the
managing clerk of Drimmie’s, Wetherup, colonel Hayes,
Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses Herzog,
Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Galbraith, the
constable off Eccles Street corner, old doctor Brady with
stethoscope, the mystery man on the beach, a retriever, Mrs
Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers.)
THE HUE AND CRY: (Helterskelterpelterwelter) He’s
Bloom! Stop Bloom! Stopabloom! Stopperrobber! Hi! Hi!
Stophim on the corner!
(At the corner of Beaver Street beneath the scaffolding Bloom
panting stops on the fringe of the noisy quarrelling knot, a lot not
knowing a jot what hi! hi! row and wrangle round the whowhat
brawlaltogether.)
STEPHEN: (With elaborate gestures, breathing deeply and
slowly) You are my guests. Uninvited. By virtue of the
fifth of George and seventh of Edward. History to blame.
Fabled by mothers of memory.
PRIVATE CARR: (To Cissy Caffrey) Was he insulting
you?
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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
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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
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walks upright upon this oblate orange? (He points his finger)
I’m not afraid of what I can talk to if I see his eye.
Retaining the perpendicular.
(He staggers a pace back)
BLOOM: (Propping him) Retain your own.
STEPHEN: (Laughs emptily) My centre of gravity is
displaced. I have forgotten the trick. Let us sit down
somewhere and discuss. Struggle for life is the law of
existence but but human philirenists, notably the tsar and
the king of England, have invented arbitration. (He taps his
brow) But in here it is I must kill the priest and the king.
BIDDY THE CLAP: Did you hear what the professor
said? He’s a professor out of the college.
CUNTY KATE: I did. I heard that.
BIDDY THE CLAP: He expresses himself with such
marked refinement of phraseology.
CUNTY KATE: Indeed, yes. And at the same time
with such apposite trenchancy.
PRIVATE CARR: (Pulls himself free and comes forward)
What’s that you’re saying about my king?
(Edward the Seventh appears in an archway. He wars a white
jersey on which an image of the Sacred Heart is stitched with the
insignia of Garter and Thistle, Golden Fleece, Elephant of
Denmark, Skinner’s and Probyn’s horse, Lincoln’s Inn bencher
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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!
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EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Levitates over heaps of
slain, in the garb and with the halo of Joking Jesus, a white
jujube in his phosphorescent face)
My methods are new and are causing
surprise.
To make the blind see I throw dust in their
eyes.
STEPHEN: Kings and unicorns! (He fills back a pace)
Come somewhere and we’ll ... What was that girl saying?
...
PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry, give him a kick
in the knackers. Stick one into Jerry.
BLOOM: (To the privates, softly) He doesn’t know what
he’s saying. Taken a little more than is good for him.
Absinthe. Greeneyed monster. I know him. He’s a
gentleman, a poet. It’s all right.
STEPHEN: (Nods, smiling and laughing) Gentleman,
patriot, scholar and judge of impostors.
PRIVATE CARR: I don’t give a bugger who he is.
PRIVATE COMPTON: We don’t give a bugger who
he is.
STEPHEN: I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull.
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(Kevin Egan of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and
peep-o’-day boy’s hat signs to Stephen.)
KEVIN EGAN: H’lo! Bonjour! The vieille ogresse with
the dents jaunes.
(Patrice Egan peeps from behind, his rabbitface nibbling a
quince leaf.)
PATRICE: Socialiste!
DON EMILE PATRIZ1O FRANZ RUPERT POPE
HENNESSY: (In medieval hauberk, two wild geese volant on
his helm, with noble indignation points a mailed hand against the
privates) Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos
of johnyellows todos covered of gravy!
BLOOM: (To Stephen) Come home. You’ll get into
trouble.
STEPHEN: (Swaying) I don’t avoid it. He provokes my
intelligence.
BIDDY THE CLAP: One immediately observes that
he is of patrician lineage.
THE VIRAGO: Green above the red, says he. Wolfe
Tone.
THE BAWD: The red’s as good as the green. And
better. Up the soldiers! Up King Edward!
A ROUGH: (Laughs) Ay! Hands up to De Wet.
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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.
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(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!
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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?
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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
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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.
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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
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overcoats and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. A
chasm opens with a noiseless yawn. Tom Rochford, winner, in
athlete’s singlet and breeches, arrives at the head of the national
hurdle handicap and leaps into the void. He is followed by a race
of runners and leapers. In wild attitudes they spring from the
brink. Their bodies plunge. Factory lasses with fancy clothes toss
redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. Society ladies lift their skirts above
their heads to protect themselves. Laughing witches in red cutty
sarks ride through the air on broomsticks. Quakerlyster plasters
blisters. It rains dragons’ teeth. Armed heroes spring up from
furrows. They exchange in amity the pass of knights of the red
cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against
Henry Grattan, Smith O’Brien against Daniel O’Connell,
Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M’Carthy against
Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John O’Leary
against Lear O’Johnny, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord
Gerald Fitzedward, The O’Donoghue of the Glens against The
Glens of The O’Donoghue. On an eminence, the centre of the
earth, rises the feldaltar of Saint Barbara. Black candles rise from
its gospel and epistle horns. From the high barbacans of the tower
two shafts of light fall on the smokepalled altarstone. On the
altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, naked,
fettered, a chalice resting on her swollen belly. Father Malachi
O’Flynn in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his two left feet
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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.)
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PRIVATE CARR: (With ferocious articulation) I’ll do
him in, so help me fucking Christ! I’ll wring the bastard
fucker’s bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!
OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (Thrusts a dagger towards
Stephen’s hand) Remove him, acushla. At 8.35 a.m. you
will be in heaven and Ireland will be free. (She prays) O
good God, take him!
(THE RETRIEVER, NOSING ON THE FRINGE
OF THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY.)
BLOOM: (Runs to lynch) Can’t you get him away?
LYNCH: He likes dialectic, the universal language.
Kitty! (To Bloom) Get him away, you. He won’t listen to
me.
(He drags Kitty away.)
STEPHEN: (Points) exit Judas. Et laqueo se suspendit.
BLOOM: (Runs to Stephen) Come along with me now
before worse happens. Here’s your stick.
STEPHEN: Stick, no. Reason. This feast of pure
reason.
CISSY CAFFREY: (Pulling Private Carr) Come on,
you’re boosed. He insulted me but I forgive him. (Shouting
in his ear) I forgive him for insulting me.
BLOOM: (Over Stephen’s shoulder) Yes, go. You see
he’s incapable.
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PRIVATE CARR: (Breaks loose) I’ll insult him.
(He rushes towards Stephen, fist outstretched, and strikes him
in the face. Stephen totters, collapses, falls, stunned. He lies
prone, his face to the sky, his hat rolling to the wall. Bloom
follows and picks it up.)
MAJOR TWEEDY: (Loudly) Carbine in bucket! Cease
fire! Salute!
THE RETRIEVER: (Barking furiously) Ute ute ute ute
ute ute ute ute.
THE CROWD: Let him up! Don’t strike him when
he’s down! Air! Who? The soldier hit him. He’s a
professor. Is he hurted? Don’t manhandle him! He’s
fainted!
A HAG: What call had the redcoat to strike the
gentleman and he under the influence. Let them go and
fight the Boers!
THE BAWD: Listen to who’s talking! Hasn’t the
soldier a right to go with his girl? He gave him the
coward’s blow.
(They grab at each other’s hair, claw at each other and spit)
THE RETRIEVER: (Barking) Wow wow wow.
BLOOM: (Shoves them back, loudly) Get back, stand
back!
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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.
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PRIVATE CARR: (Staggering as he is pulled away) God
fuck old Bennett. He’s a whitearsed bugger. I don’t give a
shit for him.
FIRST WATCH: (Takes out his notebook) What’s his
name?
BLOOM: (Peering over the crowd) I just see a car there. If
you give me a hand a second, sergeant ...
FIRST WATCH: Name and address.
(Corny Kelleker, weepers round his hat, a death wreath in his
hand, appears among the bystanders.)
BLOOM: (Quickly) O, the very man! (He whispers)
Simon Dedalus’ son. A bit sprung. Get those policemen to
move those loafers back.
SECOND WATCH: Night, Mr Kelleher.
CORNY KELLEHER: (To the watch, with drawling eye)
That’s all right. I know him. Won a bit on the races. Gold
cup. Throwaway. (He laughs) Twenty to one. Do you
follow me?
FIRST WATCH: (Turns to the crowd) Here, what are
you all gaping at? Move on out of that.
(The crowd disperses slowly, muttering, down the lane.)
CORNY KELLEHER: Leave it to me, sergeant.
That’ll be all right. (He laughs, shaking his head) We were
often as bad ourselves, ay or worse. What? Eh, what?
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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.
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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.)
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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 ...
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(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
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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.)
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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.)
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III
Preparatory to anything else Mr Bloom brushed off the
greater bulk of the shavings and handed Stephen the hat
and ashplant and bucked him up generally in orthodox
Samaritan fashion which he very badly needed. His
(Stephen’s) mind was not exactly what you would call
wandering but a bit unsteady and on his expressed desire
for some beverage to drink Mr Bloom in view of the hour
it was and there being no pump of Vartry water available
for their ablutions let alone drinking purposes hit upon an
expedient by suggesting, off the reel, the propriety of the
cabman’s shelter, as it was called, hardly a stonesthrow
away near Butt bridge where they might hit upon some
drinkables in the shape of a milk and soda or a mineral.
But how to get there was the rub. For the nonce he was
rather nonplussed but inasmuch as the duty plainly
devolved upon him to take some measures on the subject
he pondered suitable ways and means during which
Stephen repeatedly yawned. So far as he could see he was
rather pale in the face so that it occurred to him as highly
advisable to get a conveyance of some description which
would answer in their then condition, both of them being
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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
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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
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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
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hour the finis might have been that he might have been a
candidate for the accident ward or, failing that, the
bridewell and an appearance in the court next day before
Mr Tobias or, he being the solicitor rather, old Wall, he
meant to say, or Mahony which simply spelt ruin for a
chap when it got bruited about. The reason he mentioned
the fact was that a lot of those policemen, whom he
cordially disliked, were admittedly unscrupulous in the
service of the Crown and, as Mr Bloom put it, recalling a
case or two in the A division in Clanbrassil street, prepared
to swear a hole through a ten gallon pot. Never on the
spot when wanted but in quiet parts of the city, Pembroke
road for example, the
guardians of the law were well in evidence, the obvious
reason being they were paid to protect the upper classes.
Another thing he commented on was equipping soldiers
with firearms or sidearms of any description liable to go off
at any time which was tantamount to inciting them against
civilians should by any chance they fall out over anything.
You frittered away your time, he very sensibly maintained,
and health and also character besides which, the
squandermania of the thing, fast women of the demimonde
ran away with a lot of l s. d. into the bargain and the
greatest danger of all was who you got drunk with though,
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touching the much vexed question of stimulants, he
relished a glass of choice old wine in season as both
nourishing and bloodmaking and possessing aperient
virtues (notably a good burgundy which he was a staunch
believer in) still never beyond a certain point where he
invariably drew the line as it simply led to trouble all
round to say nothing of your being at the tender mercy of
others practically. Most of all he commented adversely on
the desertion of Stephen by all his pubhunting confreres but
one, a most glaring piece of ratting on the part of his
brother medicos under all the circs.
—And that one was Judas, Stephen said, who up to
then had said nothing whatsoever of any kind.
Discussing these and kindred topics they made a beeline
across the back of the Customhouse and passed under the
Loop Line bridge where a brazier of coke burning in front
of a sentrybox or something like one attracted their rather
lagging footsteps. Stephen of his own accord stopped for
no special reason to look at the heap of barren
cobblestones and by the light emanating from the brazier
he could just make out the darker figure of the
corporation watchman inside the gloom of the sentrybox.
He began to remember that this had happened or had
been mentioned as having happened before but it cost him
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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Subsequently being not quite so down in the mouth
after the two and six he got he informed Stephen about a
fellow by the name of Bags Comisky that he said Stephen
knew well out of Fullam’s, the shipchandler’s, bookkeeper
there that used to be often round in Nagle’s back with
O’Mara and a little chap with a stutter the name of Tighe.
Anyhow he was lagged the night before last and fined ten
bob for a drunk and disorderly and refusing to go with the
constable.
210
Mr Bloom in the meanwhile kept dodging about in the
vicinity of the cobblestones near the brazier of coke in
front of the corporation watchman’s sentrybox who
evidently a glutton for work, it struck him, was having a
quiet forty winks for all intents and purposes on his own
private account while Dublin slept. He threw an odd eye
at the same time now and then at Stephen’s anything but
immaculately attired interlocutor as if he had seen that
nobleman somewhere or other though where he was not
in a position to truthfully state nor had he the remotest
idea when. Being a levelheaded individual who could give
points to not a few in point of shrewd observation he also
remarked on his very dilapidated hat and slouchy wearing
apparel generally testifying to a chronic impecuniosity.
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Palpably he was one of his hangerson but for the matter of
that it was merely a question of one preying on his
nextdoor neighbour all round, in every deep, so to put it,
a deeper depth and for the matter of that if the man in the
street chanced to be in the dock himself penal servitude
with or without the option of a fine would be a very rara
avis altogether. In any case he had a consummate amount
of cool assurance intercepting people at that hour of the
night or morning. Pretty thick that was certainly.
The pair parted company and Stephen rejoined Mr
Bloom who, with his practised eye, was not without
perceiving that he had succumbed to the blandiloquence
of the other parasite. Alluding to the encounter he said,
laughingly, Stephen, that is:
—He is down on his luck. He asked me to ask you to
ask somebody named Boylan, a billsticker, to give him a
job as a sandwichman.
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced
little interest, Mr Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of
a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger,
rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored
alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of
repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
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—Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say.
Now you mention it his face was familiar to me. But,
leaving that for the moment, how much did you part
with, he queried, if I am not too inquisitive?
—Half a crown, Stephen responded. I daresay he needs
it to sleep somewhere.
—Needs! Mr Bloom ejaculated, professing not the least
surprise at the intelligence, I can quite credit the assertion
and I guarantee he invariably does. Everyone according to
his needs or everyone according to his deeds. But, talking
about things in general, where, added he with a smile, will
you sleep yourself? Walking to Sandycove is out of the
question. And even supposing you did you won’t get in
after what occurred at Westland Row station. Simply fag
out there for nothing. I don’t mean to presume to dictate
to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your
father’s house?
—To seek misfortune, was Stephen’s answer.
—I met your respected father on a recent occasion, Mr
Bloom diplomatically returned, today in fact, or to be
strictly accurate, on yesterday. Where does he live at
present? I gathered in the course of conversation that he
had moved.
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—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
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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
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which he could not too highly praise, so that frankly he
was utterly at a loss to fathom what earthly reason could
be at the back of it except he put it down to sheer
cussedness or jealousy, pure and simple.
—Except it simply amounts to one thing and he is
what they call picking your brains, he ventured to throw
o.ut.
The guarded glance of half solicitude half curiosity
augmented by friendliness which he gave at Stephen’s at
present morose expression of features did not throw a
flood of light, none at all in fact on the problem as to
whether he had let himself be badly bamboozled to judge
by two or three lowspirited remarks he let drop or the
other way about saw through the affair and for some
reason or other best known to himself allowed matters to
more or less. Grinding poverty did have that effect and he
more than conjectured that, high educational abilities
though he possessed, he experienced no little difficulty in
making both ends meet.
Adjacent to the men’s public urinal they perceived an
icecream car round which a group of presumably Italians
in heated altercation were getting rid of voluble
expressions in their vivacious language in a particularly
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animated way, there being some little differences between
the parties.
—Puttana madonna, che ci dia i quattrini! Ho ragione? Culo
rotto!
—Intendiamoci. Mezzo sovrano piu ...
—Dice lui, pero!
—Mezzo.
—Farabutto! Mortacci sui!
—Ma ascolta! Cinque la testa piu ...
Mr Bloom and Stephen entered the cabman’s shelter,
an unpretentious wooden structure, where, prior to then,
he had rarely if ever been before, the former having
previously whispered to the latter a few hints anent the
keeper of it said to be the once famous Skin-the-Goat
Fitzharris, the invincible, though he could not vouch for
the actual facts which quite possibly there was not one
vestige of truth in. A few moments later saw our two
noctambules safely seated in a discreet corner only to be
greeted by stares from the decidedly miscellaneous
collection of waifs and strays and other nondescript
specimens of the genus homo already there engaged in
eating and drinking diversified by conversation for whom
they seemingly formed an object of marked curiosity.
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—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 a propos of the battle royal in the street
which was still raging fast and furious:
—A beautiful language. I mean for singing purposes.
Why do you not write your poetry in that language? Bella
Poetria! It is so melodious and full. Belladonna. Voglio.
Stephen, who was trying his dead best to yawn if he
could, suffering from lassitude generally, replied:
—To fill the ear of a cow elephant. They were
haggling over money.
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—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-â-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:
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—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.
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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.
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—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
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and a bit of perfect poetry in its own small way. Never
about the runaway wife coming back, however much
devoted to the absentee. The face at the window! Judge of
his astonishment when he finally did breast the tape and
the awful truth dawned upon him anent his better half,
wrecked in his affections. You little expected me but I’ve
come to stay and make a fresh start. There she sits, a
grasswidow, at the selfsame fireside. Believes me dead,
rocked in the cradle of the deep. And there sits uncle
Chubb or Tomkin, as the case might be, the publican of
the Crown and Anchor, in shirtsleeves, eating rumpsteak
and onions. No chair for father. Broo! The wind! Her
brandnew arrival is on her knee, post mortem child. With a
high ro! and a randy ro! and my galloping tearing tandy,
O! Bow to the inevitable. Grin and bear it. I remain with
much love your brokenhearted husband D B Murphy.
The sailor, who scarcely seemed to be a Dublin
resident, turned to one of the jarvies with the request:
—You don’t happen to have such a thing as a spare
chaw about you?
The jarvey addressed as it happened had not but the
keeper took a die of plug from his good jacket hanging on
a nail and the desired object was passed from hand to
hand.
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—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
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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.
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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.
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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,
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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
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up, for the matter of a couple of paltry pounds was
debarred from seeing more of the world they lived in
instead of being always and ever cooped up since my old
stick-in-the-mud took me for a wife. After all, hang it,
they had their eleven and more humdrum months of it
and merited a radical change of venue after the grind of city
life in the summertime for choice when dame Nature is at
her spectacular best constituting nothing short of a new
lease of life. There were equally excellent opportunities for
vacationists in the home island, delightful sylvan spots for
rejuvenation, offering a plethora of attractions as well as a
bracing tonic for the system in and around Dublin and its
picturesque environs even, Poulaphouca to which there
was a steamtram, but also farther away from the madding
crowd in Wicklow, rightly termed the garden of Ireland,
an ideal neighbourhood for elderly wheelmen so long as it
didn’t come down, and in the wilds of Donegal where if
report spoke true the coup d’oeil was exceedingly grand
though the lastnamed locality was not easily getatable so
that the influx of visitors was not as yet all that it might be
considering the signal benefits to be derived from it while
Howth with its historic associations and otherwise, Silken
Thomas, Grace O’Malley, George IV, rhododendrons
several hundred feet above sealevel was a favourite haunt
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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.
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Whilst speaking he produced a dangerouslooking
claspknife quite in keeping with his character and held it
in the striking position.
—In a knockingshop it was count of a tryon between
two smugglers. Fellow hid behind a door, come up behind
him. Like that. Prepare to meet your God, says he. Chuk! It
went into his back up to the butt.
His heavy glance drowsily roaming about kind of
defied their further questions even should they by any
chance want to.
—That’s a good bit of steel, repeated he, examining his
formidable stiletto.
After which harrowing denouement sufficient to appal
the stoutest he snapped the blade to and stowed the
weapon in question away as before in his chamber of
horrors, otherwise pocket.
—They’re great for the cold steel, somebody who was
evidently quite in the dark said for the benefit of them all.
That was why they thought the park murders of the
invincibles was done by foreigners on account of them
using knives.
At this remark passed obviously in the spirit of where
ignorance is bliss Mr B. and Stephen, each in his own
particular way, both instinctively exchanged meaning
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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tattooed in blue Chinese ink intended to represent an
anchor.
—There was lice in that bunk in Bridgwater, he
remarked, sure as nuts. I must get a wash tomorrow or
next day. It’s them black lads I objects to. I hate those
buggers. Suck your blood dry, they does.
Seeing they were all looking at his chest he
accommodatingly dragged his shirt more open so that on
top of the timehonoured symbol of the mariner’s hope
and rest they had a full view of the figure 16 and a young
man’s sideface looking frowningly rather.
—Tattoo, the exhibitor explained. That was done
when we were Iying becalmed off Odessa in the Black Sea
under Captain Dalton. Fellow, the name of Antonio, done
that. There he is himself, a Greek.
—Did it hurt much doing it? one asked the sailor.
That worthy, however, was busily engaged in
collecting round the. Someway in his. Squeezing or.
—See here, he said, showing Antonio. There he is
cursing the mate. And there he is now, he added, the same
fellow, pulling the skin with his fingers, some special
knack evidently, and he laughing at a yarn.
And in point of fact the young man named Antonio’s
livid face did actually look like forced smiling and the
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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
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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
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amusement the group of gazers round skipper Murphy’s
nautical chest and then there was no more of her.
—The gunboat, the keeper said.
—It beats me, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen,
medically I am speaking, how a wretched creature like
that from the Lock hospital reeking with disease can be
barefaced enough to solicit or how any man in his sober
senses, if he values his health in the least. Unfortunate
creature! Of course I suppose some man is ultimately
responsible for her condition. Still no matter what the
cause is from ...
Stephen had not noticed her and shrugged his
shoulders, merely remarking:
—In this country people sell much more than she ever
had and do a roaring trade. Fear not them that sell the
body but have not power to buy the soul. She is a bad
merchant. She buys dear and sells cheap.
The elder man, though not by any manner of means an
old maid or a prude, said it was nothing short of a crying
scandal that ought to be put a stop to instanter to say that
women of that stamp (quite apart from any oldmaidish
squeamishness on the subject), a necessary evil, w ere not
licensed and medically inspected by the proper authorities,
a thing, he could truthfully state, he, as a paterfamilias, was
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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
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1031 of 1305
his sublunary depth still he felt bound to enter a demurrer
on the head of simple, promptly rejoining:
—Simple? I shouldn’t think that is the proper word. Of
course, I grant you, to concede a point, you do knock
across a simple soul once in a blue moon. But what I am
anxious to arrive at is it is one thing for instance to invent
those rays Rontgen did or the telescope like Edison,
though I believe it was before his time Galileo was the
man, I mean, and the same applies to the laws, for
example, of a farreaching natural phenomenon such as
electricity but it’s a horse of quite another colour to say
you believe in the existence of a supernatural God.
—O that, Stephen expostulated, has been proved
conclusively by several of the bestknown passages in Holy
Writ, apart from circumstantial evidence.
On this knotty point however the views of the pair,
poles apart as they were both in schooling and everything
else with the marked difference in their respective ages,
clashed.
—Has been? the more experienced of the two
objected, sticking to his original point with a smile of
unbelief. I’m not so sure about that. That’s a matter for
everyman’s opinion and, without dragging in the sectarian
side of the business, I beg to differ with you in toto there.
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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.
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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.
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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
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1035 of 1305
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
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1036 of 1305
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.
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—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 890 today,
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1038 of 1305
shortly prior to our meeting if I can so call it, and I was
just looking at those antique statues there. The splendid
proportions of hips, bosom. You simply don’t knock
against those kind of women here. An exception here and
there. Handsome yes, pretty in a way you find but what
I’m talking about is the female form. Besides they have so
little taste in dress, most of them, which greatly enhances a
woman’s natural beauty, no matter what you say.
Rumpled stockings, it may be, possibly is, a foible of mine
but still it’s a thing I simply hate to see.
Interest, however, was starting to flag somewhat all
round and then the others got on to talking about
accidents at sea, ships lost in a fog, goo collisions with
icebergs, all that sort of thing. Shipahoy of course had his
own say to say. He had doubled the cape a few odd times
and weathered a monsoon, a kind of wind, in the China
seas and through all those perils of the deep there was one
thing, he declared, stood to him or words to that effect, a
pious medal he had that saved him.
So then after that they drifted on to the wreck off
Daunt’s rock, wreck of that illfated Norwegian barque
nobody could think of her name for the moment till the
jarvey who had really quite a look of Henry Campbell
remembered it Palme on Booterstown strand. That was the
Ulysses
1039 of 1305
talk of the town that year (Albert William Quill wrote a
fine piece of original verse of 910 distinctive merit on the
topic for the Irish Times), breakers running over her and
crowds and crowds on the shore in commotion petrified
with horror. Then someone said something about the case
of the s. s. Lady Cairns of Swansea run into by the Mona
which was on an opposite tack in rather muggyish weather
and lost with all hands on deck. No aid was given. Her
master, the Mona’s, said he was afraid his collision
bulkhead would give way. She had no water, it appears, in
her hold.
At this stage an incident happened. It having become
necessary for him to unfurl a reef the sailor vacated his
seat.
—Let me cross your bows mate, he said to his
neighbour who was just gently dropping off into a
peaceful doze.
He made tracks heavily, slowly with a dumpy sort of a
gait to the door, stepped heavily down the one step there
was out of the shelter and bore due left. While he was in
the act of getting his bearings Mr Bloom who noticed
when he stood up that he had two flasks of presumably
ship’s rum sticking one out of each pocket for the private
consumption of his burning interior, saw him produce a
Ulysses
1040 of 1305
bottle and uncork it or unscrew and, applying its nozz1e
to his lips, take a good old delectable swig out of it with a
gurgling noise. The irrepressible Bloom, who also had a
shrewd suspicion that the old stager went out on a
manoeuvre after the counterattraction in the shape of a
female who however had disappeared to all intents and
purposes, could by straining just perceive him, when duly
refreshed by his rum puncheon exploit, gaping up at the
piers and girders of the Loop line rather out of his depth as
of course it was all radically altered since his last visit and
greatly improved. Some person or persons invisible
directed him to the male urinal erected by the cleansing
committee all over the place for the purpose but after a
brief space of time during which silence reigned supreme
the sailor, evidently giving it a wide berth, eased himself
closer at hand, the noise of his bilgewater some little time
subsequently splashing on the ground where it apparently
awoke a horse of the cabrank. A hoof scooped anyway for
new foothold after sleep and harness jingled. Slightly
disturbed in his sentrybox by the brazier of live coke the
watcher of the corporation stones who, though now
broken down and fast breaking up, was none other in
stern reality than the Gumley aforesaid, now practically on
the parish rates, given the temporary job by Pat Tobin in
Ulysses
1041 of 1305
all human probability from dictates of humanity knowing
him before shifted about and shuffled in his box before
composing his limbs again in to the arms of Morpheus, a
truly amazing piece of hard lines in its most virulent form
on a fellow most respectably connected and familiarised
with decent home comforts all his life who came in for a
cool 100 pounds a year at one time which of course the
doublebarrelled ass proceeded to make general ducks and
drakes of. And there he was at the end of his tether after
having often painted the town tolerably pink without a
beggarly stiver. He drank needless to be told and it
pointed only once more a moral when he might quite
easily be in a large way of business if—a big if, however—
he had contrived to cure himself of his particular partiality.
All meantime were loudly lamenting the falling off in
Irish shipping, coastwise and foreign as well, which was all
part and parcel of the same thing. A Palgrave Murphy boat
was put off the ways at Alexandra basin, the only launch
that year. Right enough the harbours were there only no
ships ever called.
There were wrecks and wreckers, the keeper said, who
was evidently au fait.
What he wanted to ascertain was why that ship ran
bang against the only rock in Galway bay when the
Ulysses
1042 of 1305
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!
Ulysses
1043 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1044 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1045 of 1305
—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
Ulysses
1046 of 1305
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
Ulysses
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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,
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temperamental, no economising or any idea of the sort,
always snapping at the bone for the shadow. So similarly
he had a very shrewd suspicion that Mr Johnny Lever got
rid of some l s d. in the course of his perambulations
round the docks in the congenial atmosphere of the Old
Ireland tavern, come back to Erin and so on. Then as for
the other he had heard not so long before the same
identical lingo as he told Stephen how he simply but
effectually silenced the offender.
—He took umbrage at something or other, that
muchinjured but on the whole eventempered person
declared, I let slip. He called me a jew and in a heated
fashion offensively. So I without deviating from plain facts
in the least told him his God, I mean Christ, was a jew too
and all his family like me though in reality I’m not. That
was one for him. A soft answer turns away wrath. He
hadn’t a word to say for himself as everyone saw. Am I
not right?
He turned a long you are wrong gaze on Stephen of
timorous dark pride at the soft impeachment with a glance
also of entreaty for he seemed to glean in a kind of a way
that it wasn’t all exactly.
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—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.
Ulysses
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—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
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economic, not touching religion, domain the priest spells
poverty. Spain again, you saw in the war, compared with
goahead America. Turks. It’s in the dogma. Because if
they didn’t believe they’d go straight to heaven when they
die they’d try to live better, at least so I think. That’s the
juggle on which the p.p’s raise the wind on false pretences.
I’m, he resumed with dramatic force, as good an Irishman
as that rude person I told you about at the outset and I
want to see everyone, concluded he, all creeds and classes
pro rata having a comfortable tidysized income, in no
niggard fashion either, something in the neighbourhood of
300 pounds per annum. That’s the vital issue at stake and
it’s feasible and would be provocative of friendlier
intercourse between man and man. At least that’s my idea
for what it’s worth. I call that patriotism. Ubi patria, as we
learned a smattering of in our classical days in Alma Mater,
vita bene. Where you can live well, the sense is, if you
work.
Over his untastable apology for a cup of coffee,
listening to this synopsis of things in general, Stephen
stared at nothing in particular. He could hear, of course,
all kinds of words changing colour like those crabs about
Ringsend in the morning burrowing quickly into all
colours of different sorts of the same sand where they had
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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.
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—But I suspect, Stephen interrupted, that Ireland must
be important because it belongs to me.
—What belongs, queried Mr Bloom bending, fancying
he was perhaps under some misapprehension. Excuse me.
Unfortunately, I didn’t catch the latter portion. What was
it you ...?
Stephen, patently crosstempered, repeated and shoved
aside his mug of coffee or whatever you like to call it none
too politely, adding: 1170
—We can’t change the country. Let us change the
subject.
At this pertinent suggestion Mr Bloom, to change the
subject, looked down but in a quandary, as he couldn’t tell
exactly what construction to put on belongs to which
sounded rather a far cry. The rebuke of some kind was
clearer than the other part. Needless to say the fumes of
his recent orgy spoke then with some asperity in a curious
bitter way foreign to his sober state. Probably the homelife
to which Mr B attached the utmost importance had not
been all that was needful or he hadn’t been familiarised
with the right sort of people. With a touch of fear for the
young man beside him whom he furtively scrutinised with
an air of some consternation remembering he had just
come back from Paris, the eyes more especially reminding
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him forcibly of father and sister, failing to throw much
light on the subject, however, he brought to mind
instances of cultured fellows that promised so brilliantly
nipped in the bud of premature decay and nobody to
blame but themselves. For instance there was the case of
O’Callaghan, for one, the halfcrazy faddist, respectably
connected though of inadequate means, with his mad
vagaries among whose other gay doings when rotto and
making himself a nuisance to everybody all round he was
in the habit of ostentatiously sporting in public a suit of
brown paper (a fact). And then the usual denouement after
the fun had gone on fast and furious he got 1190 landed
into hot water and had to be spirited away by a few
friends, after a strong hint to a blind horse from John
Mallon of Lower Castle Yard, so as not to be made
amenable under section two of the criminal law
amendment act, certain names of those subpoenaed being
handed in but not divulged for reasons which will occur
to anyone with a pick of brains. Briefly, putting two and
two together, six sixteen which he pointedly turned a deaf
ear to, Antonio and so forth, jockeys and esthetes and the
tattoo which was all the go in the seventies or thereabouts
even in the house of lords because early in life the
occupant of the throne, then heir apparent, the other
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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
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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
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aimlessly over the respective captions which came under
his special province the allembracing give us this day our
daily press. First he got a bit of a start but it turned out to
be only something about somebody named H. du Boyes,
agent for typewriters or something like that. Great battle,
Tokio. Lovemaking in Irish, 200 pounds damages.
Gordon Bennett. Emigration Swindle. Letter from His
Grace. William . Ascot meeting, the Gold Cup. Victory of
outsider Throwaway recalls Derby of ‘92 when Capt.
Marshall’s dark horse Sir Hugo captured the blue ribband at
long odds. New York disaster. Thousand lives lost. Foot
and Mouth. Funeral of the late Mr Patrick Dignam.
So to change the subject he read about Dignam R. I. P.
which, he reflected, was anything but a gay sendoff. Or a
change of address anyway.
—This morning (Hynes put it in of course) the remains of
the late Mr Patrick Dignam were removed from his residence, no
9 Newbridge Avenue, Sandymount, for interment in Glasnevin.
The deceased gentleman was a most popular and genial
personality in city life and his demise after a brief illness came as a
great shock to citizens of all classes by whom he is deeply
regretted. The obsequies, at which many friends of the deceased
were present, were carried out (certainly Hynes wrote it with a
nudge from Corny) by Messrs H. J. O’Neill and Son, 164
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North Strand Road. The mourners included: Patk. Dignam
(son), Bernard Corrigan (brother-in-law), Jno. Henry Menton,
solr, Martin Cunningham, John Power, .)eatondph 1/8 ador
dorador douradora (must be where he called Monks the
dayfather about Keyes’s ad) Thomas Kernan, Simon Dedalus,
Stephen Dedalus B. ,4., Edw. J. Lambert, Cornelius T.
Kelleher, Joseph M’C Hynes, L. Boom, CP M’Coy,—
M’lntosh and several others.
Nettled not a little by L. Boom (as it incorrectly stated)
and the line of bitched type but tickled to death
simultaneously by C. P. M’Coy and Stephen Dedalus B.
A. who were conspicuous, needless to say, by their total
absence (to say nothing of M’Intosh) L. Boom pointed it
out to his companion B. A. engaged in stifling another
yawn, half nervousness, not forgetting the usual crop of
nonsensical howlers of misprints.
—Is that first epistle to the Hebrews, he asked as soon
as his bottom jaw would let him, in? Text: open thy
mouth and put thy foot in it.
—It is. Really, Mr Bloom said (though first he fancied
he alluded to the archbishop till he added about foot and
mouth with which there could be no possible connection)
overjoyed to set his mind at rest and a bit flabbergasted at
Myles Crawford’s after all managing to. There.
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While the other was reading it on page two Boom (to
give him for the nonce his new misnomer) whiled away a
few odd leisure moments in fits and starts with the account
of the third event at Ascot on page three, his side. Value
1000 sovs with 3000 sovs in specie added. For entire colts
and fillies. Mr F. Alexander’s Throwaway, b. h. by
Rightaway, 5 yrs, 9 st 4 lbs (W. Lane) 1, lord Howard de
Walden’s Zinfandel (M. Cannon) z, Mr W. Bass’s Sceptre 3.
Betting 5 to 4 on Zinfandel, 20 to 1 Throwaway (off).
Sceptre a shade heavier, 5 to 4 on Zinfandel, 20 to 1
Throwaway (off). Throwaway and Zinfandel stood close
order. It was anybody’s race then the rank outsider drew
to the fore, got long lead, beating lord Howard de
Walden’s chestnut colt and Mr W. Bass’s bay filly Sceptre
on a 2 1/2 mile course. Winner trained by Braime so that
Lenehan’s version of the business was all pure buncombe.
Secured the verdict cleverly by a length. 1000 sovs with
3000 in specie. Also ran: J de Bremond’s (French horse
Bantam Lyons was anxiously inquiring after not in yet but
expected any minute) Maximum II. Different ways of
bringing off a coup. Lovemaking damages. Though that
halfbaked Lyons ran off at a tangent in his impetuosity to
get left. Of course gambling eminently lent itself to that
sort of thing though as the event turned out the poor fool
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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
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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,
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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
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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
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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
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the scene, strong to the verge of weakness, falling a victim
to her siren charms and forgetting home ties, the usual
sequel, to bask in the loved one’s smiles. The eternal
question of the life connubial, needless to say, cropped up.
Can real love, supposing there happens to be another chap
in the case, exist between married folk? Poser. Though it
was no concern of theirs absolutely if he regarded her with
affection, carried away by a wave of folly. A magnificent
specimen of manhood he was truly augmented obviously
by gifts of a high order, as compared with the other
military supernumerary that is (who was just the usual
everyday farewell, my gallant captain kind of an individual in
the light dragoons, the l8th hussars to be accurate) and
inflammable doubtless (the fallen leader, that is, not the
other) in his own peculiar way which she of course,
woman, quickly perceived as highly likely to carve his way
to fame which he almost bid fair to do till the priests and
ministers of the gospel as a whole, his erstwhile staunch
adherents, and his beloved evicted tenants for whom he
had done yeoman service in the rural parts of the country
by taking up the cudgels on their behalf in a way that
exceeded their most sanguine expectations, very effectually
cooked his matrimonial goose, thereby heaping coals of
fire on his head much in the same way as the fabled ass’s
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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
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before. Possible, especially there, it was as she lived there.
So, Spain.
Carefully avoiding a book in his pocket Sweets of,
which reminded him by the by of that Cap l street library
book out of date, he took out his pocketbook and, turning
over the various contents it contained rapidly finally he.
—Do you consider, by the by, he said, thoughtfully
selecting a faded photo which he laid on the table, that a
Spanish type?
Stephen, obviously addressed, looked down on the
photo showing a large sized lady with her fleshy charms
on evidence in an open fashion as she was in the full
bloom of womanhood in evening dress cut ostentatiously
low for the occasion to give a liberal display of bosom,
with more than vision of breasts, her full lips parted and
some perfect teeth, standing near, ostensibly with gravity,
a piano on the rest of which was In Old Madrid, a ballad,
pretty in its way, which was then all the vogue. Her (the
lady’s) eyes, dark, large, looked at Stephen, about to smile
about something to be admired, Lafayette of
Westmoreland street, Dublin’s premier photographic artist,
being responsible for the esthetic execution.
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—Mrs Bloom, my wife the prima donna Madam Marion
Tweedy, Bloom indicated. Taken a few years since. In or
about ninety six. Very like her then.
Beside the young man he looked also at the photo of
the lady now his 1440 legal wife who, he intimated, was
the accomplished daughter of Major Brian Tweedy and
displayed at an early age remarkable proficiency as a singer
having even made her bow to the public when her years
numbered barely sweet sixteen. As for the face it was a
speaking likeness in expression but it did not do justice to
her figure which came in for a lot of notice usually and
which did not come out to the best advantage in that
getup. She could without difficulty, he said, have posed
for the ensemble, not to dwell on certain opulent curves
of the. He dwelt, being a bit of an artist in his spare time,
on the female form in general developmentally because, as
it so happened, no later than that afternoon he had seen
those Grecian statues, 1450 perfectly developed as works
of art, in the National Museum. Marble could give the
original, shoulders, back, all the symmetry, all the rest.
Yes, puritanisme, it does though Saint Joseph’s sovereign
thievery alors (Bandez!) Figne toi trop. Whereas no photo
could because it simply wasn’t art in a word.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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it all off as a jest, laughing 1530 immoderately, pretending
to understand everything, the why and the wherefore, and
in reality not knowing their own minds, it being a case for
the two parties themselves unless it ensued that the
legitimate husband happened to be a party to it owing to
some anonymous letter from the usual boy Jones, who
happened to come across them at the crucial moment in a
loving position locked in one another’s arms, drawing
attention to their illicit proceedings and leading up to a
domestic rumpus and the erring fair one begging
forgiveness of her lord and master upon her knees and
promising to sever the connection and not receive his
visits any more if only the aggrieved husband would
overlook the matter and let bygones be bygones with tears
in her eyes though possibly with her tongue in her fair
cheek at the same time as quite possibly there were several
others. He personally, being of a sceptical bias, believed
and didn’t make the smallest bones about saying so either
that man or men in the plural were always hanging around
on the waiting list about a lady, even supposing she was
the best wife in the world and they got on fairly well
together for the sake of argument, when, neglecting her
duties, she chose to be tired of wedded life and was on for
a little flutter in polite debauchery to press their attentions
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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cafes. To which impromptu the neverfailing Bloom
replied without a moment’s hesitation, saying straight off:
—To sweep the floor in the morning.
So saying he skipped around, nimbly considering,
frankly at the same time apologetic to get on his
companion’s right, a habit of his, by the bye, his right side
being, in classical idiom, his tender Achilles. The night air
was certainly now a treat to breathe though Stephen was a
bit weak on his pins.
—It will (the air) do you good, Bloom said, meaning
also the walk, in a moment. The only thing is to walk
then you’ll feel a different man. Come. It’s not far. Lean
on me.
Accordingly he passed his left arm in Stephen’s right
and led him on accordingly.
—Yes, Stephen said uncertainly because he thought he
felt a strange kind of flesh of a different man approach
him, sinewless and wobbly and all that.
Anyhow they passed the sentrybox with stones, brazier
etc. where the municipal supernumerary, ex Gumley, was
still to all intents and purposes wrapped in the arms of
Murphy, as the adage has it, dreaming of fresh fields and
pastures new. And apropos of coffin of stones the analogy
was not at all bad as it was in fact a stoning to death on the
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part of seventytwo out of eighty odd constituencies that
ratted at the time of the split and chiefly the belauded
peasant class, probably the selfsame evicted tenants he had
put in their holdings.
So they turned on to chatting about music, a form of
art for which Bloom, as a pure amateur, possessed the
greatest love, as they made tracks arm in arm across
Beresford place. Wagnerian music, though confessedly
grand in its way, was a bit too heavy for Bloom and hard
to follow at the first go-off but the music of Mercadante’s
Huguenots, Meyerbeer’s Seven Last Words on the Cross and
Mozart’s Twelfth Mass he simply revelled in, the Gloria in
that being, to his mind, the acme of first class music as
such, literally knocking everything else into a cocked hat.
He infinitely preferred the sacred music of the catholic
church to anything the opposite shop could offer in that
line such as those Moody and Sankey hymns or Bid me to
live and i will live thy protestant to be. He also yielded to
none in his admiration of Rossini’s Stabat Mater, a work
simply abounding in immortal numbers, in which his wife,
Madam Marion Tweedy, made a hit, a veritable sensation,
he might safely say, greatly adding to her other laureis and
putting the others totally in the shade, in the jesuit fathers’
church in upper Gardiner street, the sacred edifice being
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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
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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
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the while the lord of his creation sat on the perch, busy
with his thoughts. But such a good poor brute he was
sorry he hadn’t a lump of sugar but, as he wisely reflected,
you could scarcely be prepared for every emergency that
might crop up. He was just a big nervous foolish noodly
kind of a horse, without a second care in the world. But
even a dog, he reflected, take that mongrel in Barney
Kiernan’s, of the same size, would be a holy horror to
face. But it was no animal’s fault in particular if he was
built that way like the camel, ship of the desert, distilling
grapes into potheen in his hump. Nine tenths of them all
could be caged or trained, nothing beyond the art of man
barring the bees. Whale with a harpoon hairpin, alligator
tickle the small of his back and he sees the joke, chalk a
circle for a rooster, tiger my eagle eye. These timely
reflections anent the brutes of the field occupied his mind
somewhat distracted from Stephen’s words while the ship
of the street was manoeuvring and Stephen went on about
the highly interesting old.
—What’s this I was saying? Ah, yes! My wife, he
intimated, plunging in medias res, would have the greatest
of pleasure in making your acquaintance as she is
passionately attached to music of any kind.
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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
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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 mean.s
to be sneezed at, going hand in hand with his tuition fees.
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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
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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,
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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.
* * * * *
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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.
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Did Bloom discover common factors of similarity
between their respective like and unlike reactions to
experience?
Both were sensitive to artistic impressions, musical in
preference to plastic or pictorial. Both preferred a
continental to an insular manner of life, a cisatlantic to a
transatlantic place of residence. Both indurated by early
domestic training and an inherited tenacity of heterodox
resistance professed their disbelief in many orthodox
religious, national, social and ethical doctrines. Both
admitted the alternately stimulating and obtunding
influence of heterosexual magnetism.
Were their views on some points divergent?
Stephen dissented openly from Bloom’s views on the
importance of dietary and civic selfhelp while Bloom
dissented tacitly from Stephen’s views on the eternal
affirmation of the spirit of man in literature. Bloom
assented covertly to Stephen’s rectification of the
anachronism involved in assigning the date of the
conversion of the Irish nation to christianity from druidism
by Patrick son of Calpornus, son of Potitus, son of
Odyssus, sent by pope Celestine I in the year 432 in the
reign of Leary to the year 260 or thereabouts in the reign
of Cormac MacArt (died 266 A.D.), suffocated by
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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
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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
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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
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graduated machine for periodical selfweighing in the
premises of Francis Froedman, pharmaceutical chemist of
19 Frederick street, north, on the last feast of the
Ascension, to wit, the twelfth day of May of the bissextile
year one thousand nine hundred and four of the christian
era (jewish era five thousand six hundred and sixtyfour,
mohammadan era one thousand three hundred and
twentytwo), golden number 5, epact 13, solar cycle 9,
dominical letters C B, Roman indiction 2, Julian period
6617, MCMIV.
Did he rise uninjured by concussion?
Regaining new stable equilibrium he rose uninjured
though concussed by the impact, raised the latch of the
area door by the exertion of force at its freely moving
flange and by leverage of the first kind applied at its
fulcrum, gained retarded access to the kitchen through the
subadjacent scullery, ignited a lucifer match by friction, set
free inflammable coal gas by turningon the ventcock, lit a
high flame which, by regulating, he reduced to quiescent
candescence and lit finally a portable candle.
What discrete succession of images did Stephen
meanwhile perceive?
Reclined against the area railings he perceived through
the transparent kitchen panes a man regulating a gasflame
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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
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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?
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Under a row of five coiled spring housebells a
curvilinear rope, stretched between two holdfasts athwart
across the recess beside the chimney pier, from which
hung four smallsized square handkerchiefs folded
unattached consecutively in adjacent rectangles and one
pair of ladies’ grey hose with Lisle suspender tops and feet
in their habitual position clamped by three erect wooden
pegs two at their outer extremities and the third at their
point of junction.
What did Bloom see on the range?
On the right (smaller) hob a blue enamelled saucepan:
on the left (larger) hob a black iron kettle.
What did Bloom do at the range?
He removed the saucepan to the left hob, rose and
carried the iron kettle to the sink in order to tap the
current by turning the faucet to let it flow.
Did it flow?
Yes. From Roundwood reservoir in county Wicklow
of a cubic capacity of 2400 million gallons, percolating
through a subterranean aqueduct of filter mains of single
and double pipeage constructed at an initial plant cost of 5
pounds per linear yard by way of the Dargle, Rathdown,
Glen of the Downs and Callowhill to the 26 acre reservoir
at Stillorgan, a distance of 22 statute miles, and thence,
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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
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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
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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
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derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling from
level to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic,
photophobe), numerically, if not literally, the inhabitants
of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90 percent of the
human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine
marshes, pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools
in the waning moon.
Having set the halffilled kettle on the now burning
coals, why did he return to the stillflowing tap?
To wash his soiled hands with a partially consumed
tablet of Barrington’s lemonflavoured soap, to which paper
still adhered, (bought thirteen hours previously for
fourpence and still unpaid for), in fresh cold
neverchanging everchanging water and dry them, face and
hands, in a long redbordered holland cloth passed over a
wooden revolving roller.
What reason did Stephen give for declining Bloom’s
offer?
That he was hydrophobe, hating partial contact by
immersion or total by submersion in cold water, (his last
bath having taken place in the month of October of the
preceding year), disliking the aqueous substances of glass
and crystal, distrusting aquacities of thought and language.
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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
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chimneyflue, ignition was communicated from the faggots
of precombustible fuel to polyhedral masses of bituminous
coal, containing in compressed mineral form the foliated
fossilised decidua of primeval forests which had in turn
derived their vegetative existence from the sun, primal
source of heat (radiant), transmitted through omnipresent
luminiferous diathermanous ether. Heat (convected), a
mode of motion developed by such combustion, was
constantly and increasingly conveyed from the source of
calorification to the liquid contained in the vessel, being
radiated through the uneven unpolished dark surface of
the metal iron, in part reflected, in part absorbed, in part
transmitted, gradually raising the temperature of the water
from normal to boiling point, a rise in temperature
expressible as the result of an expenditure of 72 thermal
units needed to raise 1 pound of water from 50 degrees to
212 degrees Fahrenheit.
What announced the accomplishment of this rise in
temperature?
A double falciform ejection of water vapour from
under the kettlelid at both sides simultaneously.
For what personal purpose could Bloom have applied
the water so boiled?
To shave himself.
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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.
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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
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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,
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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?
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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
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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/-
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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?
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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,
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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.
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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
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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?
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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
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with zoological biscuits, globemap playing balls,
historically costumed dolls.
What also stimulated him in his cogitations?
The financial success achieved by Ephraim Marks and
Charles A. James, the former by his 1d bazaar at 42
George’s street, south, the latter at his 6 1/2d shop and
world’s fancy fair and waxwork exhibition at 30 Henry
street, admission 2d, children 1d: and the infinite
possibilities hitherto unexploited of the modern art of
advertisement if condensed in triliteral monoideal symbols,
vertically of maximum visibility (divined), horizontally of
maximum legibility (deciphered) and of magnetising
efficacy to arrest involuntary attention, to interest, to
convince, to decide.
Such as?
K. II. Kino’s 11/- Trousers. House of Keys. Alexander
J. Keyes.
Such as not?
Look at this long candle. Calculate when it burns out
and you receive gratis 1 pair of our special non-compo
boots, guaranteed 1 candle power. Address: Barclay and
Cook, 18 Talbot street.
Bacilikil (Insect Powder).
Veribest (Boot Blacking).
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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
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enters. Restless. Solitary. She sits. She goes to window.
She stands. She sits. Twilight. She thinks. On solitary hotel
paper she writes. She thinks. She writes. She sighs. Wheels
and hoofs. She hurries out. He comes from his dark
corner. He seizes solitary paper. He holds it towards fire.
Twilight. He reads. Solitary.
What?
In sloping, upright and backhands: Queen’s Hotel,
Queen’s Hotel, Queen’s Hotel. Queen’s Ho...
What suggested scene was then reconstructed by
Bloom?
The Queen’s Hotel, Ennis, county Clare, where
Rudolph Bloom (Rudolf Virag) died on the evening of
the 27 June 1886, at some hour unstated, in consequence
of an overdose of monkshood (aconite) selfadministered in
the form of a neuralgic liniment composed of 2 parts of
aconite liniment to I of chloroform liniment (purchased by
him at 10.20 a.m. on the morning of 27 June 1886 at the
medical hall of Francis Dennehy, 17 Church street, Ennis)
after having, though not in consequence of having,
purchased at 3.15 p.m. on the afternoon of 27 June 1886 a
new boater straw hat, extra smart (after having, though not
in consequence of having, purchased at the hour and in
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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
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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
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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).
Ulysses
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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
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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?
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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: Kkifeloch, harimon rakatejch m’baad l’zamatejch
(thy temple amid thy hair is as a slice of pomegranate).
How was a glyphic comparison of the phonic symbols
of both languages made in substantiation of the oral
comparison?
By juxtaposition. On the penultimate blank page of a
book of inferior literary style, entituled Sweets of Sin
(produced by Bloom and so manipulated that its front
cover carne in contact with the surface of the table) with a
pencil (supplied by Stephen) Stephen wrote the Irish
characters for gee, eh, dee, em, simple and modified, and
Bloom in turn wrote the Hebrew characters ghimel, aleph,
daleth and (in the absence of mem) a substituted qoph,
explaining their arithmetical values as ordinal and cardinal
numbers, videlicet 3, 1, 4, and 100.
Was the knowledge possessed by both of each of these
languages, the extinct and the revived, theoretical or
practical?
Theoretical, being confined to certain grammatical
rules of accidence and syntax and practically excluding
vocabulary.
Ulysses
1133 of 1305
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?
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1134 of 1305
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?
Ulysses
1135 of 1305
He saw in a quick young male familiar form the
predestination of a future.
What were Stephen’s and Bloom’s quasisimultaneous
volitional quasisensations of concealed identities?
Visually, Stephen’s: The traditional figure of hypostasis,
depicted by Johannes Damascenus, Lentulus Romanus and
Epiphanius Monachus as leucodermic, sesquipedalian with
winedark hair. Auditively, Bloom’s: The traditional accent
of the ecstasy of catastrophe.
What future careers had been possible for Bloom in the
past and with what exemplars?
In the church, Roman, Anglican or Nonconformist:
exemplars, the very reverend John Conmee S. J., the
reverend T. Salmon, D. D., provost of Trinity college, Dr
Alexander J. Dowie. At the bar, English or Irish:
exemplars, Seymour Bushe, K. C., Rufus Isaacs, K. C. On
the stage modern or Shakespearean: exemplars, Charles
Wyndham, high comedian Osmond Tearle (died 1901),
exponent of Shakespeare.
Did the host encourage his guest to chant in a
modulated voice a strange legend on an allied theme?
Reassuringly, their place, where none could hear them
talk, being secluded, reassured, the decocted beverages,
allowing for subsolid residual sediment of a mechanical
Ulysses
1136 of 1305
mixture, water plus sugar plus cream plus cocoa, having
been consumed.
Recite the first (major) part of this chanted legend.
Little Harry Hughes and his schoolfellows all
Went out for to play ball.
And the very first ball little Harry Hughes
played
He drove it o’er the jew’s garden wall.
And the very second ball little Harry Hughes
played
He broke the jew’s windows all.
How did the son of Rudolph receive this first part?
With unmixed feeling. Smiling, a jew he heard with
pleasure and saw the unbroken kitchen window.
Recite the second part (minor) of the legend.
Then out there came the jew’s daughter
And she all dressed in green.
‘Come back, come back,you pretty little boy,
And play your ball again.’
‘I can’t come back and I won’t come back
Without my schoolfellows all.
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1137 of 1305
For if my master he did hear
He’d make it a sorry ball.’
She took him by the lilywhite hand
And led him along the hall
Until she led him to a room
Where none could hear him call.
She took a penknife out of her pocket
And cut off his little head.
And now he’ll play his ball no more
For he lies among the dead.
How did the father of Millicent receive this second
part?
With mixed feelings. Unsmiling, he heard and saw
with wonder a jew’s daughter, all dressed in green.
Condense Stephen’s commentary.
One of all, the least of all, is the victim predestined.
Once by inadvertence twice by design he challenges his
destiny. It comes when he is abandoned and challenges
him reluctant and, as an apparition of hope and youth,
holds him unresisting. It leads him to a strange habitation,
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1138 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1139 of 1305
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?
Ulysses
1140 of 1305
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?
Ulysses
1141 of 1305
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?
Ulysses
1142 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1143 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1144 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1145 of 1305
National Library of Ireland, 10 Kildare street, the National
Maternity Hospital, 29, 30 and 31 Holles street, a public
garden, the vicinity of a place of worship, a conjunction of
two or more public thoroughfares, the point of bisection
of a right line drawn between their residences (if both
speakers were resident in different places).
What rendered problematic for Bloom the realisation of
these mutually selfexcluding propositions?
The irreparability of the past: once at a performance of
Albert Hengler’s circus in the Rotunda, Rutland square,
Dublin, an intuitive particoloured clown in quest of
paternity had penetrated from the ring to a place in the
auditorium where Bloom, solitary, was seated and had
publicly declared to an exhilarated audience that he
(Bloom) was his (the clown’s) papa. The imprevidibility of
the future: once in the summer of 1898 he (Bloom) had
marked a florin (2/-) with three notches on the milled
edge and tendered it m payment of an account due to and
received by J. and T. Davy, family grocers, 1 Charlemont
Mall, Grand Canal, for circulation on the waters of civic
finance, for possible, circuitous or direct, return.
Was the clown Bloom’s son?
No.
Had Bloom’s coin returned?
Ulysses
1146 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1147 of 1305
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:
Ulysses
1148 of 1305
With what intonation secreto of what commemorative
psalm?
The 113th, modus peregrinus: In exitu Israel de Egypto:
domus Jacob de populo barbaro.
What did each do at the door of egress?
Bloom set the candlestick on the floor. Stephen put the
hat on his head.
For what creature was the door of egress a door of
ingress?
For a cat.
What spectacle confronted them when they, first the
host, then the guest, emerged silently, doubly dark, from
obscurity by a passage from the rere of the house into the
penumbra of the garden?
The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue
fruit.
With what meditations did Bloom accompany his
demonstration to his companion of various constellations?
Meditations of evolution increasingly vaster: of the
moon invisible in incipient lunation, approaching perigee:
of the infinite lattiginous scintillating uncondensed milky
way, discernible by daylight by an observer placed at the
lower end of a cylindrical vertical shaft 5000 ft deep sunk
from the surface towards the centre of the earth: of Sirius
Ulysses
1149 of 1305
(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
Ulysses
1150 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1151 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1152 of 1305
And the problem of possible redemption?
The minor was proved by the major.
Which various features of the constellations were in
turn considered?
The various colours significant of various degrees of
vitality (white, yellow, crimson, vermilion, cinnabar): their
degrees of brilliancy: their magnitudes revealed up to and
including the 7th: their positions: the waggoner’s star:
Walsingham way: the chariot of David: the annular
cinctures of Saturn: the condensation of spiral nebulae into
suns: the interdependent gyrations of double suns: the
independent synchronous discoveries of Galileo, Simon
Marius, Piazzi, Le Verrier, Herschel, Galle: the
systematisations attempted by Bode and Kepler of cubes of
distances and squares of times of revolution: the almost
infinite compressibility of hirsute comets and their vast
elliptical egressive and reentrant orbits from perihelion to
aphelion: the sidereal origin of meteoric stones: the Libyan
floods on Mars about the period of the birth of the
younger astroscopist: the annual recurrence of meteoric
showers about the period of the feast of S. Lawrence
(martyr, lo August): the monthly recurrence known as the
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1153 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1154 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1155 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1156 of 1305
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,
Ulysses
1157 of 1305
more sibilant, who in the ultimate hours of the previous
day had augmented by diuretic consumption an insistent
vesical pressure.
What different problems presented themselves to each
concerning the invisible audible collateral organ of the
other?
To Bloom: the problems of irritability, tumescence,
rigidity, reactivity, dimension, sanitariness, pilosity.
To Stephen: the problem of the sacerdotal integrity of
Jesus circumcised (I January, holiday of obligation to hear
mass and abstain from unnecessary servile work) and the
problem as to whether the divine prepuce, the carnal
bridal ring of the holy Roman catholic apostolic church,
conserved in Calcata, were deserving of simple hyperduly
or of the fourth degree of latria accorded to the abscission
of such divine excrescences as hair and toenails.
What celestial sign was by both simultaneously
observed?
A star precipitated with great apparent velocity across
the firmament from Vega in the Lyre above the zenith
beyond the stargroup of the Tress of Berenice towards the
zodiacal sign of Leo.
How did the centripetal remainer afford egress to the
centrifugal departer?
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1158 of 1305
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:
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1159 of 1305
Heigho, heigho,
Heigho, heigho.
Where were the several members of the company
which with Bloom that day at the bidding of that peal had
travelled from Sandymount in the south to Glasnevin in
the north?
Martin Cunningham (in bed), Jack Power (in bed),
Simon Dedalus (in bed), Ned Lambert (in bed), Tom
Kernan (in bed), Joe Hynes (in bed), John Henry Menton
(in bed), Bernard Corrigan (in bed), Patsy Dignam (in
bed), Paddy Dignam (in the grave).
Alone, what did Bloom hear?
The double reverberation of retreating feet on the
heavenborn earth, the double vibration of a jew’s harp in
the resonant lane.
Alone, what did Bloom feel?
The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees
below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit,
Centigrade or Reaumur: the incipient intimations of
proximate dawn.
Of what did bellchime and handtouch and footstep and
lonechill remind him?
Ulysses
1160 of 1305
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?
Ulysses
1161 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1162 of 1305
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
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1163 of 1305
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,
Ulysses
1164 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1165 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1166 of 1305
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,
Ulysses
1167 of 1305
marginal annotations, minimising victories,
aggrandising defeats of the protagonist).
Soll und Haben by Gustav Freytag (black
boards, Gothic characters, cigarette coupon
bookmark at p. 24).
Hozier’s History of the Russo-Turkish War
(brown cloth, a volumes, with gummed
label, Garrison Library, Governor’s Parade,
Gibraltar, on verso of cover).
Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland by William
Allingham (second edition, green cloth, gilt
trefoil design, previous owner’s name on
recto of flyleaf erased).
A Handbook of Astronomy (cover, brown
leather, detached, S plates, antique
letterpress long primer, author’s footnotes
nonpareil, marginal clues brevier, captions
small pica).
The Hidden Life of Christ (black boards).
In the Track of the Sun (yellow cloth,
titlepage missing, recurrent title
intestation).
Physical Strength and How to Obtain It by
Eugen Sandow (red cloth).
Short but yet Plain Elements of Geometry
written in French by F. Ignat. Pardies and
rendered into English by John Harris D. D.
London, printed for R. Knaplock at the
Bifhop’s Head, MDCCXI, with dedicatory
Ulysses
1168 of 1305
epiftle to his worthy friend Charles Cox,
efquire, Member of Parliament for the
burgh of Southwark and having ink
calligraphed statement on the flyleaf
certifying that the book was the property of
Michael Gallagher, dated this 10th day of
May 1822 and requefting the perfon who
should find it, if the book should be loft or
go aftray, to reftore it to Michael Gallagher,
carpenter, Dufery Gate, Ennifcorthy,
county Wicklow, the fineft place in the
world.
What reflections occupied his mind during the process
of reversion of the inverted volumes?
The necessity of order, a place for everything and
everything in its place: the deficient appreciation of
literature possessed by females: the incongruity of an apple
incuneated in a tumbler and of an umbrella inclined in a
closestool: the insecurity of hiding any secret document
behind, beneath or between the pages of a book.
Which volume was the largest in bulk?
Hozier’s History of the Russo-Turkish war.
What among other data did the second volume of the
work in question contain?
Ulysses
1169 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1170 of 1305
direction waistcoat, trousers, shirt and vest along the
medial line of irregular incrispated black hairs extending in
triangular convergence from the pelvic basin over the
circumference of the abdomen and umbilicular fossicle
along the medial line of nodes to the intersection of the
sixth pectoral vertebrae, thence produced both ways at
right angles and terminating in circles described about two
equidistant points, right and left, on the summits of the
mammary prominences. He unbraced successively each of
six minus one braced trouser buttons, arranged in pairs, of
which one incomplete.
What involuntary actions followed?
He compressed between 2 fingers the flesh
circumjacent to a cicatrice in the left infracostal region
below the diaphragm resulting from a sting inflicted 2
weeks and 3 days previously (23 May 1904) by a bee. He
scratched imprecisely with his right hand, though
insensible of prurition, various points and surfaces of his
partly exposed, wholly abluted skin. He inserted his left
hand into the left lower pocket of his waistcoat and
extracted and replaced a silver coin (I shilling), placed
there (presumably) on the occasion (17 October 1903) of
the interment of Mrs Emily Sinico, Sydney Parade.
Compile the budget for 16 June 1904.
Ulysses
1171 of 1305
DEBIT
L. 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 0-17—5
2-19—3
CREDIT
L. 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?
Ulysses
1172 of 1305
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?
Ulysses
1173 of 1305
Not to inherit by right of primogeniture, gavelkind or
borough English, or possess in perpetuity an extensive
demesne of a sufficient number of acres, roods and
perches, statute land measure (valuation 42 pounds), of
grazing turbary surrounding a baronial hall with gatelodge
and carriage drive nor, on the other hand, a terracehouse
or semidetached villa, described as Rus in Urbe or Qui si
sana, but to purchase by private treaty in fee simple a
thatched bungalowshaped 2 storey dwellinghouse of
southerly aspect, surmounted by vane and lightning
conductor, connected with the earth, with porch covered
by parasitic plants (ivy or Virginia creeper), halldoor, olive
green, with smart carriage finish and neat doorbrasses,
stucco front with gilt tracery at eaves and gable, rising, if
possible, upon a gentle eminence with agreeable prospect
from balcony with stone pillar parapet over unoccupied
and unoccupyable interjacent pastures and standing in 5 or
6 acres of its own ground, at such a distance from the
nearest public thoroughfare as to render its houselights
visible at night above and through a quickset hornbeam
hedge of topiary cutting, situate at a given point not less
than 1 statute mile from the periphery of the metropolis,
within a time limit of not more than 15 minutes from
tram or train line (e.g., Dundrum, south, or Sutton, north,
Ulysses
1174 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1175 of 1305
transverse swags of carmine floral design and top crown
frieze, staircase, three continuous flights at successive right
angles, of varnished cleargrained oak, treads and risers,
newel, balusters and handrail, with steppedup panel dado,
dressed with camphorated wax: bathroom, hot and cold
supply, reclining and shower: water closet on mezzanine
provided with opaque singlepane oblong window, tipup
seat, bracket lamp, brass tierod and brace, armrests,
footstool and artistic oleograph on inner face of door:
ditto, plain: servants’ apartments with separate sanitary and
hygienic necessaries for cook, general and betweenmaid
(salary, rising by biennial unearned increments of 2
pounds, with comprehensive fidelity insurance, annual
bonus (1 pound) and retiring allowance (based on the 65
system) after 30 years’ service), pantry, buttery, larder,
refrigerator, outoffices, coal and wood cellarage with
winebin (still and sparkling vintages) for distinguished
guests, if entertained to dinner (evening dress), carbon
monoxide gas supply throughout.
What additional attractions might the grounds contain?
As addenda, a tennis and fives court, a shrubbery, a glass
summerhouse with tropical palms, equipped in the best
botanical manner, a rockery with waterspray, a beehive
arranged on humane principles, oval flowerbeds in
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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?
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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?
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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
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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
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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
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programme advocated by James Fintan Lalor, John Fisher
Murray, John Mitchel, J. F. X. O’Brien and others, the
agrarian policy of Michael Davitt, the constitutional
agitation of Charles Stewart Parnell (M. P. for Cork City),
the programme of peace, retrenchment and reform of
William Ewart Gladstone (M. P. for Midlothian, N. B.)
and, in support of his political convictions, had climbed up
into a secure position amid the ramifications of a tree on
Northumberland road to see the entrance (2 February
1888) into the capital of a demonstrative torchlight
procession of 20,000 torchbearers, divided into 120 trade
corporations, bearing 2000 torches in escort of the
marquess of Ripon and (honest) John Morley.
How much and how did he propose to pay for this
country residence?
As per prospectus of the Industrious Foreign
Acclimatised Nationalised Friendly Stateaided Building
Society (incorporated 1874), a maximum of 60 pounds per
annum, being 1/6 of an assured income, derived from
giltedged securities, representing at 5 % simple interest on
capital of 1200 pounds (estimate of price at 20 years’
purchase), of which to be paid on acquisition and the
balance in the form of annual rent, viz. 800 pounds plus 2
1/2 % interest on the same, repayable quarterly in equal
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annual instalments until extinction by amortisation of loan
advanced for purchase within a period of 20 years,
amounting to an annual rental of 64 pounds, headrent
included, the titledeeds to remain in possession of the
lender or lenders with a saving clause envisaging forced
sale, foreclosure and mutual compensation in the event of
protracted failure to pay the terms assigned, otherwise the
messuage to become the absolute property of the tenant
occupier upon expiry of the period of years stipulated.
What rapid but insecure means to opulence might
facilitate immediate purchase?
A private wireless telegraph which would transmit by
dot and dash system the result of a national equine
handicap (flat or steeplechase) of I or more miles and
furlongs won by an outsider at odds of 50 to 1 at 3 hr 8 m
p.m. at Ascot (Greenwich time), the message being
received and available for betting purposes in Dublin at
2.59 p.m. (Dunsink time). The unexpected discovery of
an object of great monetary value (precious stone, valuable
adhesive or impressed postage stamps (7 schilling, mauve,
imperforate, Hamburg, 1866: 4 pence, rose, blue paper,
perforate, Great Britain, 1855: 1 franc, stone, official,
rouletted, diagonal surcharge, Luxemburg, 1878), antique
dynastical ring, unique relic) in unusual repositories or by
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unusual means: from the air (dropped by an eagle in
flight), by fire (amid the carbonised remains of an
incendiated edifice), in the sea (amid flotsam, jetsam, lagan
and derelict), on earth (in the gizzard of a comestible
fowl). A Spanish prisoner’s donation of a distant treasure
of valuables or specie or bullion lodged with a solvent
banking corporation loo years previously at 5% compound
interest of the collective worth of 5,000,000 pounds stg
(five million pounds sterling). A contract with an
inconsiderate contractee for the delivery of 32
consignments of some given commodity in consideration
of cash payment on delivery per delivery at the initial rate
of 1/4d to be increased constantly in the geometrical
progression of 2 (1/4d, 1/2d, 1d, 2d, 4d, 8d, 1s 4d, 2s 8d
to 32 terms). A prepared scheme
based on a study of the laws of probability to break the
bank at Monte Carlo. A solution of the secular problem of
the quadrature of the circle, government premium
1,000,000 pounds sterling.
Was vast wealth acquirable through industrial channels?
The reclamation of dunams of waste arenary soil,
proposed in the prospectus of Agendath Netaim,
Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W. 15, by the cultivation of
orange plantations and melonfields and reafforestation.
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The utilisation of waste paper, fells of sewer rodents,
human excrement possessing chemical properties, in view
of the vast production of the first, vast number of the
second and immense quantity of the third, every normal
human being of average vitality and appetite producing
annually, cancelling byproducts of water, a sum total of 80
lbs. (mixed animal and vegetable diet), to be multiplied by
4,386,035, the total population of Ireland according to
census returns of 1901.
Were there schemes of wider scope?
A scheme to be formulated and submitted for approval
to the harbour commissioners for the exploitation of white
coal (hydraulic power), obtained by hydroelectric plant at
peak of tide at Dublin bar or at head of water at
Poulaphouca or Powerscourt or catchment basins of main
streams for the economic production of 500,000 W. H. P.
of electricity. A scheme to enclose the peninsular delta of
the North Bull at Dollymount and erect on the space of
the foreland, used for golf links and rifle ranges, an
asphalted esplanade with casinos, booths, shooting
galleries, hotels, boardinghouses, readingrooms,
establishments for mixed bathing. A scheme for the use of
dogvans and goatvans for the delivery of early morning
milk. A scheme for the development of Irish tourist traffic
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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
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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
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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?
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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
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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
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female religious (partly clothed, eyes direct), purchased by
post from Box 32, P. O., Charing Cross, London, W. C.:
a press cutting of recipe for renovation of old tan boots: a
Id adhesive stamp, lavender, of the reign of Queen
Victoria: a chart of the measurements of Leopold Bloom
compiled before, during and after 2 months’ consecutive
use of Sandow-Whiteley’s pulley exerciser (men’s 15/-,
athlete’s 20/-) viz. chest 28 in and 29 1/2 in, biceps 9 in
and 10 in, forearm 8 1/2 in and 9 in,thigh 10 in and 12in,
calf 11in and 12in: 1 prospectus of The Wonderworker,
the world’s greatest remedy for rectal complaints, direct
from Wonderworker, Coventry House, South Place,
London E C, addressed (erroneously) to Mrs L. Bloom
with brief accompanying note commencing (erroneously):
Dear Madam.
Quote the textual terms in which the prospectus
claimed advantages for this thaumaturgic remedy.
It heals and soothes while you sleep, in case of trouble
in breaking wind, assists nature in the most formidable
way, insuring instant relief in discharge of gases, keeping
parts clean and free natural action, an initial outlay of 7/6
making a new man of you and life worth living. Ladies
find Wonderworker especially useful, a pleasant surprise
when they note delightful result like a cool drink of fresh
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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?
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The possibility of exercising virile power of fascination
in the not immediate future after an expensive repast in a
private apartment in the company of an elegant courtesan,
of corporal beauty, moderately mercenary, variously
instructed, a lady by origin.
What did the 2nd drawer contain?
Documents: the birth certificate of Leopold Paula
Bloom: an endowment assurance policy of 500 pounds in
the Scottish Widows’ Assurance Society, intestated
Millicent (Milly) Bloom, coming into force at 25 years as
with profit policy of 430 pounds, 462/10/0 and 500
pounds at 60 years or death, 65 years or death and death,
respectively, or with profit policy (paidup) of 299/10/0
together with cash payment of 133/10/0, at option: a
bank passbook issued by the Ulster Bank, College Green
branch showing statement of a/c for halfyear ending 31
December 1903, balance in depositor’s favour: 18/14/6
(eighteen pounds, fourteen shillings and sixpence, sterling),
net personalty: certificate of possession of 900 pounds,
Canadian 4 percent (inscribed) government stock (free of
stamp duty): dockets of the Catholic Cemeteries’
(Glasnevin) Committee, relative to a graveplot purchased:
a local press cutting concerning change of name by
deedpoll.
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Quote the textual terms of this notice.
I, Rudolph Virag, now resident at no 52 Clanbrassil
street, Dublin, formerly of Szombathely in the kingdom of
Hungary, hereby give notice that I have assumed and
intend henceforth upon all occasions and at all times to be
known by the name of Rudolph Bloom.
What other objects relative to Rudolph Bloom (born
Virag) were in the 2nd drawer?
An indistinct daguerreotype of Rudolf Virag and his
father Leopold Virag executed in the year 1852 in the
portrait atelier of their (respectively) 1st and 2nd cousin,
Stefan Virag of Szesfehervar, Hungary. An ancient
haggadah book in which a pair of hornrimmed convex
spectacles inserted marked the passage of thanksgiving in
the ritual prayers for Pessach (Passover): a photocard of the
Queen’s Hotel, Ennis, proprietor, Rudolph Bloom: an
envelope addressed: To My Dear Son Leopold.
What fractions of phrases did the lecture of those five
whole words evoke?
Tomorrow will be a week that I received... it is no use
Leopold to be ... with your dear mother ... that is not
more to stand ... to her ... all for me is out ... be kind to
Athos, Leopold ... my dear son ... always ... of me ... das
Herz ... Gott ... dein ...
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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
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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.
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What two phenomena of senescence were more
frequent?
The myopic digital calculation of coins, eructation
consequent upon repletion.
What object offered partial consolation for these
reminiscences?
The endowment policy, the bank passbook, the
certificate of the possession of scrip.
Reduce Bloom by cross multiplication of reverses of
fortune, from which these supports protected him, and by
elimination of all positive values to a negligible negative
irrational unreal quantity.
Successively, in descending helotic order: Poverty: that
of the outdoor hawker of imitation jewellery, the dun for
the recovery of bad and doubtful debts, the poor rate and
deputy cess collector. Mendicancy: that of the fraudulent
bankrupt with negligible assets paying 1s. 4d. in the
pound, sandwichman, distributor of throwaways,
nocturnal vagrant, insinuating sycophant, maimed sailor,
blind stripling, superannuated bailiffs man, marfeast,
lickplate, spoilsport, pickthank, eccentric public
laughingstock seated on bench of public park under
discarded perforated umbrella. Destitution: the inmate of
Old Man’s House (Royal Hospital) Kilmainham, the
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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?
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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
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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?
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5 pounds reward, lost, stolen or strayed from his
residence 7 Eccles street, missing gent about 40, answering
to the name of Bloom, Leopold (Poldy), height 5 ft 9 1/2
inches, full build, olive complexion, may have since
grown a beard, when last seen was wearing a black suit.
Above sum will be paid for information leading to his
discovery.
What universal binomial denominations would be his
as entity and nonentity?
Assumed by any or known to none. Everyman or
Noman.
What tributes his?
Honour and gifts of strangers, the friends of Everyman.
A nymph immortal, beauty, the bride of Noman.
Would the departed never nowhere nohow reappear?
Ever he would wander, selfcompelled, to the extreme
limit of his cometary orbit, beyond the fixed stars and
variable suns and telescopic planets, astronomical waifs and
strays, to the extreme boundary of space, passing from land
to land, among peoples, amid events. Somewhere
imperceptibly he would hear and somehow reluctantly,
suncompelled, obey the summons of recall. Whence,
disappearing from the constellation of the Northern
Crown he would somehow reappear reborn above delta in
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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
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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
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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,
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1204 of 1305
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
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1205 of 1305
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
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1206 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1207 of 1305
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,
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1208 of 1305
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
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1209 of 1305
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
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1210 of 1305
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
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(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
Ulysses
1212 of 1305
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.
Ulysses
1213 of 1305
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
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and author, eldest surviving son of Simon Dedalus, of no
fixed occupation, an aeronautical feat executed by him
(narrator) in the presence of a witness, the professor and
author aforesaid, with promptitude of decision and
gymnastic flexibility.
Was the narration otherwise unaltered by
modifications?
Absolutely.
Which event or person emerged as the salient point of
his narration?
Stephen Dedalus, professor and author.
What limitations of activity and inhibitions of conjugal
rights were perceived by listener and narrator concerning
themselves during the course of this intermittent and
increasingly more laconic narration?
By the listener a limitation of fertility inasmuch as
marriage had been celebrated 1 calendar month after the
18th anniversary of her birth (8 September 1870), viz. 8
October, and consummated on the same date with female
issue born 15 June 1889, having been anticipatorily
consummated on the lo September of the same year and
complete carnal intercourse, with ejaculation of semen
within the natural female organ, having last taken place 5
weeks previous, viz. 27 November 1893, to the birth on
Ulysses
1215 of 1305
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?
Ulysses
1216 of 1305
The upcast reflection of a lamp and shade, an
inconstant series of concentric circles of varying gradations
of light and shadow.
In what directions did listener and narrator lie?
Listener, S. E. by E.: Narrator, N. W. by W.: on the
53rd parallel of latitude, N., and 6th meridian of
longitude, W.: at an angle of 45 degrees to the terrestrial
equator.
In what state of rest or motion?
At rest relatively to themselves and to each other. In
motion being each and both carried westward, forward
and rereward respectively, by the proper perpetual motion
of the earth through everchanging tracks of neverchanging
space.
In what posture?
Listener: reclined semilaterally, left, left hand under
head, right leg extended in a straight line and resting on
left leg, flexed, in the attitude of Gea-Tellus, fulfilled,
recumbent, big with seed. Narrator: reclined laterally, left,
with right and left legs flexed, the index finger and thumb
of the right hand resting on the bridge of the nose, in the
attitude depicted in a snapshot photograph made by Percy
Apjohn, the childman weary, the manchild in the womb.
Womb? Weary?
Ulysses
1217 of 1305
He rests. He has travelled.
With?
Sinbad the Sailor and Tinbad the Tailor and Jinbad the
Jailer and Whinbad the Whaler and Ninbad the Nailer and
Finbad the Failer and Binbad the Bailer and Pinbad the
Pailer and Minbad the Mailer and Hinbad the Hailer and
Rinbad the Railer and Dinbad the Kailer and Vinbad the
Quailer and Linbad the Yailer and Xinbad the Phthailer.
When?
Going to dark bed there was a square round Sinbad the
Sailor roc’s auk’s egg in the night of the bed of all the auks
of the rocs of Darkinbad the Brightdayler.
Where?
* * * * *
Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask
to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs since the
City Arms hotel when he used to be pretending to be laid
up with a sick voice doing his highness to make himself
interesting for that old faggot Mrs Riordan that he
thought he had a great leg of and she never left us a
farthing all for masses for herself and her soul greatest
miser ever was actually afraid to lay out 4d for her
Ulysses
1218 of 1305
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
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1219 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1220 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1221 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1222 of 1305
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
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1223 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1224 of 1305
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
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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
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1226 of 1305
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
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he likes now if thatll do him any good I know they were
spooning a bit when I came on the scene he was dancing
and sitting out with her the night of Georgina Simpsons
housewarming and then he wanted to ram it down my
neck it was on account of not liking to see her a
wallflower that was why we had the standup row over
politics he began it not me when he said about Our Lord
being a carpenter at last he made me cry of course a
woman is so sensitive about everything I was fuming with
myself after for giving in only for I knew he was gone on
me and the first socialist he said He was he annoyed me so
much I couldnt put him into a temper still he knows a lot
of mixedup things especially about the body and the inside
I often wanted to study up that myself what we have
inside us in that family physician I could always hear his
voice talking when the room was crowded and watch him
after that I pretended I had a coolness on with her over
him because he used to be a bit on the jealous side
whenever he asked who are you going to and I said over
to Floey and he made me the present of Byron’s poems
and the three pairs of gloves so that finished that I could
quite easily get him to make it up any time I know how
Id even supposing he got in with her again and was going
out to see her somewhere Id know if he refused to eat the
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onions I know plenty of ways ask him to tuck down the
collar of my blouse or touch him with my veil and gloves
on going out I kiss then would send them all spinning
however alright well see then let him go to her she of
course would only be too delighted to pretend shes mad in
love with him that I wouldnt so much mind Id just go to
her and ask her do you love him and look her square in
the eyes she couldnt fool me but he might imagine he was
and make a declaration to her with his plabbery kind of a
manner like he did to me though I had the devils own job
to get it out of him though I liked him for that it showed
he could hold in and wasnt to be got for the asking he was
on the pop of asking me too the night in the kitchen I was
rolling the potato cake theres something I want to say to
you only for I put him off letting on I was in a temper
with my hands and arms full of pasty flour in any case I let
out too much the night before talking of dreams so I didnt
want to let him know more than was good for him she
used to be always embracing me Josie whenever he was
there meaning him of course glauming me over and when
I said I washed up and down as far as possible asking me
and did you wash possible the women are always egging
on to that putting it on thick when hes there they know
by his sly eye blinking a bit putting on the indifferent
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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
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1230 of 1305
he does always wipes his feet on the mat when he comes
in wet or shine and always blacks his own boots too and
he always takes off his hat when he comes up in the street
like then and now hes going about in his slippers to look
for 10000 pounds for a postcard U p up O sweetheart May
wouldnt a thing like that simply bore you stiff to
extinction actually too stupid even to take his boots off
now what could you make of a man like that Id rather die
20 times over than marry another of their sex of course
hed never find another woman like me to put up with
him the way I do know me come sleep with me yes and
he knows that too at the bottom of his heart take that Mrs
Maybrick that poisoned her husband for what I wonder in
love with some other man yes it was found out on her
wasnt she the downright villain to go and do a thing like
that of course some men can be dreadfully aggravating
drive you mad and always the worst word in the world
what do they ask us to marry them for if were so bad as all
that comes to yes because they cant get on without us
white Arsenic she put in his tea off flypaper wasnt it I
wonder why they call it that if I asked him hed say its
from the Greek leave us as wise as we were before she
must have been madly in love with the other fellow to run
the chance of being hanged O she didnt care if that was
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1231 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1232 of 1305
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
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1233 of 1305
the very place too we did it so now there you are like it or
lump it he thinks nothing can happen without him
knowing he hadnt an idea about my mother till we were
engaged otherwise hed never have got me so cheap as he
did he was lo times worse himself anyhow begging me to
give him a tiny bit cut off my drawers that was the
evening coming along Kenilworth square he kissed me in
the eye of my glove and I had to take it off asking me
questions is it permitted to enquire the shape of my
bedroom so I let him keep it as if I forgot it to think of me
when I saw him slip it into his pocket of course hes mad
on the subject of drawers thats plain to be seen always
skeezing at those brazenfaced things on the bicycles with
their skirts blowing up to their navels even when Milly
and I were out with him at the open air fete that one in
the cream muslin standing right against the sun so he
could see every atom she had on when he saw me from
behind following in the rain I saw him before he saw me
however standing at the corner of the Harolds cross road
with a new raincoat on him with the muffler in the
Zingari colours to show off his complexion and the brown
hat looking slyboots as usual what was he doing there
where hed no business they can go and get whatever they
like from anything at all with a skirt on it and were not to
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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
Ulysses
1235 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1236 of 1305
frostyface Goodwin called about the concert in Lombard
street and I just after dinner all flushed and tossed with
boiling old stew dont look at me professor I had to say Im
a fright yes but he was a real old gent in his way it was
impossible to be more respectful nobody to say youre out
you have to peep out through the blind like the
messengerboy today I thought it was a putoff first him
sending the port and the peaches first and I was just
beginning to yawn with nerves thinking he was trying to
make a fool of me when I knew his tattarrattat at the door
he must have been a bit late because it was l/4 after 3
when I saw the 2 Dedalus girls coming from school I
never know the time even that watch he gave me never
seems to go properly Id want to get it looked after when I
threw the penny to that lame sailor for England home and
beauty when I was whistling there is a charming girl I love
and I hadnt even put on my clean shift or powdered
myself or a thing then this day week were to go to Belfast
just as well he has to go to Ennis his fathers anniversary the
27th it wouldnt be pleasant if he did suppose our rooms at
the hotel were beside each other and any fooling went on
in the new bed I couldnt tell him to stop and not bother
me with him in the next room or perhaps some protestant
clergyman with a cough knocking on the wall then hed
Ulysses
1237 of 1305
never believe the next day we didnt do something its all
very well a husband but you cant fool a lover after me
telling him we never did anything of course he didnt
believe me no its better hes going where he is besides
something always happens with him the time going to the
Mallow concert at Maryborough ordering boiling soup for
the two of us then the bell rang out he walks down the
platform with the soup splashing about taking spoonfuls of
it hadnt he the nerve and the waiter after him making a
holy show of us screeching and confusion for the engine
to start but he wouldnt pay till he finished it the two
gentlemen in the 3rd class carriage said he was quite right
so he was too hes so pigheaded sometimes when he gets a
thing into his head a good job he was able to open the
carriage door with his knife or theyd have taken us on to
Cork I suppose that was done out of revenge on him O I
love jaunting in a train or a car with lovely soft cushions I
wonder will he take a 1st class for me he might want to do
it in the train by tipping the guard well O I suppose therell
be the usual idiots of men gaping at us with their eyes as
stupid as ever they can possibly be that was an exceptional
man that common workman that left us alone in the
carriage that day going to Howth Id like to find out
something about him l or 2 tunnels perhaps then you have
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1238 of 1305
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
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1239 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1240 of 1305
turning to get it over the knuckle there or they might bell
it round the town in their papers or tell the police on me
but theyd think were married O let them all go and
smother themselves for the fat lot I care he has plenty of
money and hes not a marrying man so somebody better
get it out of him if I could find out whether he likes me I
looked a bit washy of course when I looked close in the
handglass powdering a mirror never gives you the
expression besides scrooching down on me like that all the
time with his big hipbones hes heavy too with his hairy
chest for this heat always having to lie down for them
better for him put it into me from behind the way Mrs
Mastiansky told me her husband made her like the dogs do
it and stick out her tongue as far as ever she could and he
so quiet and mild with his tingating cither can you ever be
up to men the way it takes them lovely stuff in that blue
suit he had on and stylish tie and socks with the skyblue
silk things on them hes certainly well off I know by the
cut his clothes have and his heavy watch but he was like a
perfect devil for a few minutes after he came back with the
stoppress tearing up the tickets and swearing blazes because
he lost 20 quid he said he lost over that outsider that won
and half he put on for me on account of Lenehans tip
cursing him to the lowest pits that sponger he was making
Ulysses
1241 of 1305
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
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1242 of 1305
myself and run the risk of walking into him and ruining
the whole thing and one of those kidfitting corsets Id want
advertised cheap in the Gentlewoman with elastic gores on
the hips he saved the one I have but thats no good what
did they say they give a delightful figure line 11/6
obviating that unsightly broad appearance across the lower
back to reduce flesh my belly is a bit too big Ill have to
knock off the stout at dinner or am I getting too fond of it
the last they sent from ORourkes was as flat as a pancake
he makes his money easy Larry they call him the old
mangy parcel he sent at Xmas a cottage cake and a bottle
of hogwash he tried to palm off as claret that he couldnt
get anyone to drink God spare his spit for fear hed die of
the drouth or I must do a few breathing exercises I
wonder is that antifat any good might overdo it the thin
ones are not so much the fashion now garters that much I
have the violet pair I wore today thats all he bought me
out of the cheque he got on the first O no there was the
face lotion I finished the last of yesterday that made my
skin like new I told him over and over again get that made
up in the same place and dont forget it God only knows
whether he did after all I said to him 111 know by the
bottle anyway if not I suppose 111 only have to wash in
my piss like beeftea or chickensoup with some of that
Ulysses
1243 of 1305
opoponax and violet I thought it was beginning to look
coarse or old a bit the skin underneath is much finer
where it peeled off there on my finger after the burn its a
pity it isnt all like that and the four paltry handkerchiefs
about 6/- in all sure you cant get on in this world without
style all going in food and rent when I get it Ill lash it
around I tell you in fine style I always want to throw a
handful of tea into the pot measuring and mincing if I buy
a pair of old brogues itself do you like those new shoes yes
how much were they Ive no clothes at all the brown
costume and the skirt and jacket and the one at the
cleaners 3 whats that for any woman cutting up this old
hat and patching up the other the men wont look at you
and women try to walk on you because they know youve
no man then with all the things getting dearer every day
for the 4 years more I have of life up to 35 no Im what am
I at all 111 be 33 in September will I what O well look at
that Mrs Galbraith shes much older than me I saw her
when I was out last week her beautys on the wane she was
a lovely woman magnificent head of hair on her down to
her waist tossing it back like that like Kitty OShea in
Grantham street 1st thing I did every morning to look
across see her combing it as if she loved it and was full of it
pity I only got to know her the day before we left and that
Ulysses
1244 of 1305
Mrs Langtry the jersey lily the prince of Wales was in love
with I suppose hes like the first man going the roads only
for the name of a king theyre all made the one way only a
black mans Id like to try a beauty up to what was she 45
there was some funny story about the jealous old husband
what was it at all and an oyster knife he went no he made
her wear a kind of a tin thing round her and the prince of
Wales yes he had the oyster knife cant be true a thing like
that like some of those books he brings me the works of
Master Francois Somebody supposed to be a priest about a
child born out of her ear because her bumgut fell out a
nice word for any priest to write and her a—e as if any
fool wouldnt know what that meant I hate that pretending
of all things with that old blackguards face on him
anybody can see its not true and that Ruby and Fair
Tyrants he brought me that twice I remember when I
came to page 5 o the part about where she hangs him up
out of a hook with a cord flagellate sure theres nothing for
a woman in that all invention made up about he drinking
the champagne out of her slipper after the ball was over
like the infant Jesus in the crib at Inchicore in the Blessed
Virgins arms sure no woman could have a child that big
taken out of her and I thought first it came out of her side
because how could she go to the chamber when she
Ulysses
1245 of 1305
wanted to and she a rich lady of course she felt honoured
H R H he was in Gibraltar the year I was born I bet he
found lilies there too where he planted the tree he planted
more than that in his time he might have planted me too
if hed come a bit sooner then I wouldnt be here as I am
he ought to chuck that Freeman with the paltry few
shillings he knocks out of it and go into an office or
something where hed get regular pay or a bank where
they could put him up on a throne to count the money all
the day of course he prefers plottering about the house so
you cant stir with him any side whats your programme
today I wish hed even smoke a pipe like father to get the .
smell of a man or pretending to be mooching about for
advertisements when he could have been in Mr Cuffes still
only for what he did then sending me to try and patch it
up I could have got him promoted there to be the
manager he gave me a great mirada once or twice first he
was as stiff as the mischief really and truly Mrs Bloom only
I felt rotten simply with the old rubbishy dress that I lost
the leads out of the tails with no cut in it but theyre
coming into fashion again I bought it simply to please him
I knew it was no good by the finish pity I changed my
mind of going to Todd and Bums as I said and not Lees it
was just like the shop itself rummage sale a lot of trash I
Ulysses
1246 of 1305
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
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to laugh yes this one anyhow stiff the nipple gets for the
least thing Ill get him to keep that up and Ill take those
eggs beaten up with marsala fatten them out for him what
are all those veins and things curious the way its made 2
the same in case of twins theyre supposed to represent
beauty placed up there like those statues in the museum
one of them pretending to hide it with her hand are they
so beautiful of course compared with what a man looks
like with his two bags full and his other thing hanging
down out of him or sticking up at you like a hatrack no
wonder they hide it with a cabbageleaf that disgusting
Cameron highlander behind the meat market or that other
wretch with the red head behind the tree where the statue
of the fish used to be when I was passing pretending he
was pissing standing out for me to see it with his
babyclothes up to one side the Queens own they were a
nice lot its well the Surreys relieved them theyre always
trying to show it to you every time nearly I passed outside
the mens greenhouse near the Harcourt street station just
to try some fellow or other trying to catch my eye as if it
was I of the 7 wonders of the world O and the stink of
those rotten places the night coming home with Poldy
after the Comerfords party oranges and lemonade to make
you feel nice and watery I went into r of them it was so
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
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in no 28 with the Citrons Penrose nearly caught me
washing through the window only for I snapped up the
towel to my face that was his studenting hurt me they
used to weaning her till he got doctor Brady to give me
the belladonna prescription I had to get him to suck them
they were so hard he said it was sweeter and thicker than
cows then he wanted to milk me into the tea well hes
beyond everything I declare somebody ought to put him
in the budget if I only could remember the I half of the
things and write a book out of it the works of Master
Poldy yes and its so much smoother the skin much an
hour he was at them Im sure by the clock like some kind
of a big infant I had at me they want everything in their
mouth all the pleasure those men get out of a woman I
can feel his mouth O Lord I must stretch myself I wished
he was here or somebody to let myself go with and come
again like that I feel all fire inside me or if I could dream it
when he made me spend the 2nd time tickling me behind
with his finger I was coming for about 5 minutes with my
legs round him I had to hug him after O Lord I wanted to
shout out all sorts of things fuck or shit or anything at all
only not to look ugly or those lines from the strain who
knows the way hed take it you want to feel your way with
a man theyre not all like him thank God some of them
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want you to be so nice about it I noticed the contrast he
does it and doesnt talk I gave my eyes that look with my
hair a bit loose from the tumbling and my tongue between
my lips up to him the savage brute Thursday Friday one
Saturday two Sunday three O Lord I cant wait till Monday
frseeeeeeeefronnnng train somewhere whistling the
strength those engines have in them like big giants and the
water rolling all over and out of them all sides like the end
of Loves old sweeeetsonnnng the poor men that have to
be out all the night from their wives and families in those
roasting engines stifling it was today Im glad I burned the
half of those old Freemans and Photo Bits leaving things
like that lying about hes getting very careless and threw
the rest of them up in the W C 111 get him to cut them
tomorrow for me instead of having them there for the
next year to get a few pence for them have him asking
wheres last Januarys paper and all those old overcoats I
bundled out of the hall making the place hotter than it is
that rain was lovely and refreshing just after my beauty
sleep I thought it was going to get like Gibraltar my
goodness the heat there before the levanter came on black
as night and the glare of the rock standing up in it like a
big giant compared with their 3 Rock mountain they
think is so great with the red sentries here and there the
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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
Ulysses
1252 of 1305
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
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
1255 of 1305
there from before the flood dressed up poor man and he in
mourning for the son then the same old bugles for reveille
in the morning and drums rolling and the unfortunate
poor devils of soldiers walking about with messtins
smelling the place more than the old longbearded jews in
their jellibees and levites assembly and sound clear and
gunfire for the men to cross the lines and the warden
marching with his keys to lock the gates and the bagpipes
and only captain Groves and father talking about Rorkes
drift and Plevna and sir Garnet Wolseley and Gordon at
Khartoum lighting their pipes for them everytime they
went out drunken old devil with his grog on the
windowsill catch him leaving any of it picking his nose
trying to think of some other dirty story to tell up in a
corner but he never forgot himself when I was there
sending me out of the room on some blind excuse paying
his compliments the Bushmills whisky talking of course
but hed do the same to the next woman that came along I
suppose he died of galloping drink ages ago the days like
years not a letter from a living soul except the odd few I
posted to myself with bits of paper in them so bored
sometimes I could fight with my nails listening to that old
Arab with the one eye and his heass of an instrument
singing his heah heah aheah all my compriments on your
Ulysses
1256 of 1305
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
Ulysses
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pisto madrileno Floey Dillon since she wrote to say she
was married to a very rich architect if Im to believe all I
hear with a villa and eight rooms her father was an awfully
nice man he was near seventy always goodhumoured well
now Miss Tweedy or Miss Gillespie theres the piannyer
that was a solid silver coffee service he had too on the
mahogany sideboard then dying so far away I hate people
that have always their poor story to tell everybody has
their own troubles that poor Nancy Blake died a month
ago of acute neumonia well I didnt know her so well as all
that she was Floeys friend more than mine poor Nancy its
a bother having to answer he always tells me the wrong
things and no stops to say like making a speech your sad
bereavement symphathy I always make that mistake and
newphew with 2 double yous in I hope hell write me a
longer letter the next time if its a thing he really likes me
O thanks be to the great God I got somebody to give me
what I badly wanted to put some heart up into me youve
no chances at all in this place like you used long ago I
wish somebody would write me a loveletter his wasnt
much and I told him he could write what he liked yours
ever Hugh Boylan in old Madrid stuff silly women believe
love is sighing I am dying still if he wrote it I suppose
thered be some truth in it true or no it fills up your whole
Ulysses
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day and life always something to think about every
moment and see it all round you like a new world I could
write the answer in bed to let him imagine me short just a
few words not those long crossed letters Atty Dillon used
to write to the fellow that was something in the four
courts that jilted her after out of the ladies letterwriter
when I told her to say a few simple words he could twist
how he liked not acting with precipat precip itancy with
equal candour the greatest earthly happiness answer to a
gentlemans proposal affirmatively my goodness theres
nothing else its all very fine for them but as for being a
woman as soon as youre old they might as well throw you
out in the bottom of the ashpit.
Mulveys was the first when I was in bed that morning
and Mrs Rubio brought it in with the coffee she stood
there standing when I asked her to hand me and I pointing
at them I couldnt think of the word a hairpin to open it
with ah horquilla disobliging old thing and it staring her in
the face with her switch of false hair on her and vain about
her appearance ugly as she was near 80 or a loo her face a
mass of wrinkles with all her religion domineering because
she never could get over the Atlantic fleet coming in half
the ships of the world and the Union Jack flying with all
her carabineros because 4 drunken English sailors took all
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
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Im sure thats the way down the monkeys go under the sea
to Africa when they die the ships out far like chips that
was the Malta boat passing yes the sea and the sky you
could do what you liked lie there for ever he caressed
them outside they love doing that its the roundness there I
was leaning over him with my white ricestraw hat to take
the newness out of it the left side of my face the best my
blouse open for his last day transparent kind of shirt he had
I could see his chest pink he wanted to touch mine with
his for a moment but I wouldnt lee him he was awfully
put out first for fear you never know consumption or
leave me with a child embarazada that old servant Ines told
me that one drop even if it got into you at all after I tried
with the Banana but I was afraid it might break and get
lost up in me somewhere because they once took
something down out of a woman that was up there for
years covered with limesalts theyre all mad to get in there
where they come out of youd think they could never go
far enough up and then theyre done with you in a way till
the next time yes because theres a wonderful feeling there
so tender all the time how did we finish it off yes O yes I
pulled him off into my handkerchief pretending not to be
excited but I opened my legs I wouldnt let him touch me
inside my petticoat because I had a skirt opening up the
Ulysses
1262 of 1305
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
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
1265 of 1305
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
Ulysses
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down the Alameda on an officers arm like me on the
bandnight my eyes flash my bust that they havent passion
God help their poor head I knew more about men and life
when I was I S than theyll all know at 50 they dont know
how to sing a song like that Gardner said no man could
look at my mouth and teeth smiling like that and not
think of it I was afraid he mightnt like my accent first he
so English all father left me in spite of his stamps Ive my
mothers eyes and figure anyhow he always said theyre so
snotty about themselves some of those cads he wasnt a bit
like that he was dead gone on my lips let them get a
husband first thats fit to be looked at and a daughter like
mine or see if they can excite a swell with money that can
pick and choose whoever he wants like Boylan to do it 4
or 5 times locked in each others arms or the voice either I
could have been a prima donna only I married him comes
looooves old deep down chin back not too much make it
double My Ladys Bower is too long for an encore about
the moated grange at twilight and vaunted rooms yes Ill
sing Winds that blow from the south that he gave after the
choirstairs performance Ill change that lace on my black
dress to show off my bubs and Ill yes by God Ill get that
big fan mended make them burst with envy my hole is
itching me always when I think of him I feel I want to I
Ulysses
1267 of 1305
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
Ulysses
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into bed Im sure that fellow opposite used to be there the
whole time watching with the lights out in the summer
and I in my skin hopping around I used to love myself
then stripped at the washstand dabbing and creaming only
when it came to the chamber performance I put out the
light too so then there were 2 of us goodbye to my sleep
for this night anyhow I hope hes not going to get in with
those medicals leading him astray to imagine hes young
again coming in at 4 in the morning it must be if not more
still he had the manners not to wake me what do they find
to gabber about all night squandering money and getting
drunker and drunker couldnt they drink water then he
starts giving us his orders for eggs and tea and Findon
haddy and hot buttered toast I suppose well have him
sitting up like the king of the country pumping the wrong
end of the spoon up and down in his egg wherever he
learned that from and I love to hear him falling up the
stairs of a morning with the cups rattling on the tray and
then play with the cat she rubs up against you for her own
sake I wonder has she fleas shes as bad as a woman always
licking and lecking but I hate their claws I wonder do they
see anything that we cant staring like that when she sits at
the top of the stairs so long and listening as I wait always
what a robber too that lovely fresh place I bought I think
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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
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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
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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
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such a face youd run miles away from I couldnt rest easy
till I bolted all the doors and windows to make sure but its
worse again being locked up like in a prison or a
madhouse they ought to be all shot or the cat of nine tails
a big brute like that that would attack a poor old woman
to murder her in her bed Id cut them off him so I would
not that hed be much use still better than nothing the
night I was sure I heard burglars in the kitchen and he
went down in his shirt with a candle and a poker as if he
was looking for a mouse as white as a sheet frightened out
of his wits making as much noise as he possibly could for
the burglars benefit there isnt much to steal indeed the
Lord knows still its the feeling especially now with Milly
away such an idea for him to send the girl down there to
learn to take photographs on account of his grandfather
instead of sending her to Skerrys academy where shed
have to learn not like me getting all IS at school only hed
do a thing like that all the same on account of me and
Boylan thats why he did it Im certain the way he plots and
plans everything out I couldnt turn round with her in the
place lately unless I bolted the door first gave me the
fidgets coming in without knocking first when I put the
chair against the door just as I was washing myself there
below with the glove get on your nerves then doing the
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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
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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
Ulysses
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the way I did when she was down with the mumps and
her glands swollen wheres this and wheres that of course
she cant feel anything deep yet I never came properly till I
was what 22 or so it went into the wrong place always
only the usual girls nonsense and giggling that Conny
Connolly writing to her in white ink on black paper
sealed with sealingwax though she clapped when the
curtain came down because he looked so handsome then
we had Martin Harvey for breakfast dinner and supper I
thought to myself afterwards it must be real love if a man
gives up his life for her that way for nothing I suppose
there are a few men like that left its hard to believe in it
though unless it really happened to me the majority of
them with not a particle of love in their natures to find
two people like that nowadays full up of each other that
would feel the same way as you do theyre usually a bit
foolish in the head his father must have been a bit queer to
go and poison himself after her still poor old man I
suppose he felt lost shes always making love to my things
too the few old rags I have wanting to put her hair up at I
S my powder too only ruin her skin on her shes time
enough for that all her life after of course shes restless
knowing shes pretty with her lips so red a pity they wont
stay that way I was too but theres no use going to the fair
Ulysses
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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
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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
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my grave I suppose 111 have some peace I want to get up
a minute if Im let wait O Jesus wait yes that thing has
come on me yes now wouldnt that afflict you of course all
the poking and rooting and ploughing he had up in me
now what am I to do Friday Saturday Sunday wouldnt
that pester the soul out of a body unless he likes it some
men do God knows theres always something wrong with
us 5 days every 3 or 4 weeks usual monthly auction isnt it
simply sickening that night it came on me like that the
one and only time we were in a box that Michael Gunn
gave him to see Mrs Kendal and her husband at the Gaiety
something he did about insurance for him in Drimmies I
was fit to be tied though I wouldnt give in with that
gentleman of fashion staring down at me with his glasses
and him the other side of me talking about Spinoza and
his soul thats dead I suppose millions of years ago I smiled
the best I could all in a swamp leaning forward as if I was
interested having to sit it out then to the last tag I wont
forget that wife of Scarli in a hurry supposed to be a fast
play about adultery that idiot in the gallery hissing the
woman adulteress he shouted I suppose he went and had a
woman in the next lane running round all the back ways
after to make up for it I wish he had what I had then hed
boo I bet the cat itself is better off than us have we too
Ulysses
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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
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oughtnt to be he never felt me I hope my breath was
sweet after those kissing comfits easy God I remember one
time I could scout it out straight whistling like a man
almost easy O Lord how noisy I hope theyre bubbles on it
for a wad of money from some fellow 111 have to
perfume it in the morning dont forget I bet he never saw a
better pair of thighs than that look how white they are the
smoothest place is right there between this bit here how
soft like a peach easy God I wouldnt mind being a man
and get up on a lovely woman O Lord what a row youre
making like the jersey lily easy easy O how the waters
come down at Lahore
who knows is there anything the matter with my
insides or have I something growing in me getting that
thing like that every week when was it last I Whit
Monday yes its only about 3 weeks I ought to go to the
doctor only it would be like before I married him when I
had that white thing coming from me and Floey made me
go to that dry old stick Dr Collins for womens diseases on
Pembroke road your vagina he called it I suppose thats
how he got all the gilt mirrors and carpets getting round
those rich ones off Stephens green running up to him for
every little fiddlefaddle her vagina and her cochinchina
theyve money of course so theyre all right I wouldnt
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
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and his mad crazy letters my Precious one everything
connected with your glorious Body everything underlined
that comes from it is a thing of beauty and of joy for ever
something he got out of some nonsensical book that he
had me always at myself 4 and 5 times a day sometimes
and I said I hadnt are you sure O yes I said I am quite sure
in a way that shut him up I knew what was coming next
only natural weakness it was he excited me I dont know
how the first night ever we met when I was living in
Rehoboth terrace we stood staring at one another for
about lo minutes as if we met somewhere I suppose on
account of my being jewess looking after my mother he
used to amuse me the things he said with the half
sloothering smile on him and all the Doyles said he was
going to stand for a member of Parliament O wasnt I the
born fool to believe all his blather about home rule and
the land league sending me that long strool of a song out
of the Huguenots to sing in French to be more classy O
beau pays de la Touraine that I never even sang once
explaining and rigmaroling about religion and persecution
he wont let you enjoy anything naturally then might he as
a great favour the very 1st opportunity he got a chance in
Brighton square running into my bedroom pretending the
ink got on his hands to wash it off with the Albion milk
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
1285 of 1305
sincerity of the trousers I saw on him wait theres Georges
church bells wait 3 quarters the hour l wait 2 oclock well
thats a nice hour of the night for him to be coming home
at to anybody climbing down into the area if anybody saw
him Ill knock him off that little habit tomorrow first Ill
look at his shirt to see or Ill see if he has that French letter
still in his pocketbook I suppose he thinks I dont know
deceitful men all their 20 pockets arent enough for their
lies then why should we tell them even if its the truth they
dont believe you then tucked up in bed like those babies
in the Aristocrats Masterpiece he brought me another time
as if we hadnt enough of that in real life without some old
Aristocrat or whatever his name is disgusting you more
with those rotten pictures children with two heads and no
legs thats the kind of villainy theyre always dreaming
about with not another thing in their empty heads they
ought to get slow poison the half of them then tea and
toast for him buttered on both sides and newlaid eggs I
suppose Im nothing any more when I wouldnt let him
lick me in Holles street one night man man tyrant as ever
for the one thing he slept on the floor half the night naked
the way the jews used when somebody dies belonged to
them and wouldnt eat any breakfast or speak a word
wanting to be petted so I thought I stood out enough for
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
1288 of 1305
swallowtail to sing out of in Holles street squeezed and
squashed into them and grinning all over his big Dolly face
like a wellwhipped childs botty didnt he look a balmy
ballocks sure enough that must have been a spectacle on
the stage imagine paying 5/- in the preserved seats for that
to see him trotting off in his trowlers and Simon Dedalus
too he was always turning up half screwed singing the
second verse first the old love is the new was one of his so
sweetly sang the maiden on the hawthorn bough he was
always on for flirtyfying too when I sang Maritana with
him at Freddy Mayers private opera he had a delicious
glorious voice Phoebe dearest goodbye sweetheart
sweetheart he always sang it not like Bartell Darcy sweet
tart goodbye of course he had the gift of the voice so there
was no art in it all over you like a warm showerbath O
Maritana wildwood flower we sang splendidly though it
was a bit too high for my register even transposed and he
was married at the time to May Goulding but then hed say
or do something to knock the good out of it hes a
widower now I wonder what sort is his son he says hes an
author and going to be a university professor of Italian and
Im to take lessons what is he driving at now showing him
my photo its not good of me I ought to have got it taken
in drapery that never looks out of fashion still I look
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
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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
Ulysses
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as loves young star itll be a change the Lord knows to have
an intelligent person to talk to about yourself not always
listening to him and Billy Prescotts ad and Keyess ad and
Tom the Devils ad then if anything goes wrong in their
business we have to suffer Im sure hes very distinguished
Id like to meet a man like that God not those other ruck
besides hes young those fine young men I could see down
in Margate strand bathingplace from the side of the rock
standing up in the sun naked like a God or something and
then plunging into the sea with them why arent all men
like that thered be some consolation for a woman like that
lovely little statue he bought I could look at him all day
long curly head and his shoulders his finger up for you to
listen theres real beauty and poetry for you I often felt I
wanted to kiss him all over also his lovely young cock
there so simple I wouldnt mind taking him in my mouth
if nobody was looking as if it was asking you to suck it so
clean and white he looks with his boyish face I would too
in 1/2 a minute even if some of it went down what its
only like gruel or the dew theres no danger besides hed be
so clean compared with those pigs of men I suppose never
dream of washing it from I years end to the other the most
of them only thats what gives the women the moustaches
Im sure itll be grand if I can only get in with a handsome
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1292 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1293 of 1305
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
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Fair Tyrants of course the man never even casts a 2nd
thought on the husband or wife either its the woman he
wants and he gets her what else were we given all those
desires for Id like to know I cant help it if Im young still
can I its a wonder Im not an old shrivelled hag before my
time living with him so cold never embracing me except
sometimes when hes asleep the wrong end of me not
knowing I suppose who he has any man thatd kiss a
womans bottom Id throw my hat at him after that hed kiss
anything unnatural where we havent I atom of any kind of
expression in us all of us the same 2 lumps of lard before
ever Id do that to a man pfooh the dirty brutes the mere
thought is enough I kiss the feet of you senorita theres
some sense in that didnt he kiss our halldoor yes he did
what a madman nobody understands his cracked ideas but
me still of course a woman wants to be embraced 20 times
a day almost to make her look young no matter by who so
long as to be in love or loved by somebody if the fellow
you want isnt there sometimes by the Lord God I was
thinking would I go around by the quays there some dark
evening where nobodyd know me and pick up a sailor off
the sea thatd be hot on for it and not care a pin whose I
was only do it off up in a gate somewhere or one of those
wildlooking gipsies in Rathfarnham had their camp
Ulysses
1295 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1296 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1297 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1298 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1299 of 1305
the cracked things come into my head sometimes itd be
great fun supposing he stayed with us why not theres the
room upstairs empty and Millys bed in the back room he
could do his writing and studies at the table in there for all
the scribbling he does at it and if he wants to read in bed
in the morning like me as hes making the breakfast for I
he can make it for 2 Im sure Im not going to take in
lodgers off the street for him if he takes a gesabo of a
house like this Id love to have a long talk with an
intelligent welleducated person Id have to get a nice pair
of red slippers like those Turks with the fez used to sell or
yellow and a nice semitransparent morning gown that I
badly want or a peachblossom dressing jacket like the one
long ago in Walpoles only 8/6 or 18/6 Ill just give him
one more chance Ill get up early in the morning Im sick of
Cohens old bed in any case I might go over to the markets
to see all the vegetables and cabbages and tomatoes and
carrots and all kinds of splendid fruits all coming in lovely
and fresh who knows whod be the 1st man Id meet theyre
out looking for it in the morning Mamy Dillon used to
say they are and the night too that was her massgoing Id
love a big juicy pear now to melt in your mouth like
when I used to be in the longing way then Ill throw him
up his eggs and tea in the moustachecup she gave him to
Ulysses
1300 of 1305
make his mouth bigger I suppose hed like my nice cream
too I know what Ill do Ill go about rather gay not too
much singing a bit now and then mi fa pieta Masetto then
Ill start dressing myself to go out presto non son piu forte
Ill put on my best shift and drawers let him have a good
eyeful out of that to make his micky stand for him Ill let
him know if thats what he wanted that his wife is I s l o
fucked yes and damn well fucked too up to my neck
nearly not by him 5 or 6 times handrunning theres the
mark of his spunk on the clean sheet I wouldnt bother to
even iron it out that ought to satisfy him if you dont
believe me feel my belly unless I made him stand there
and put him into me Ive a mind to tell him every scrap
and make him do it out in front of me serve him right its
all his own fault if I am an adulteress as the thing in the
gallery said O much about it if thats all the harm ever we
did in this vale of tears God knows its not much doesnt
everybody only they hide it I suppose thats what a woman
is supposed to be there for or He wouldnt have made us
the way He did so attractive to men then if he wants to
kiss my bottom Ill drag open my drawers and bulge it
right out in his face as large as life he can stick his tongue 7
miles up my hole as hes there my brown part then Ill tell
him I want LI or perhaps 30/- Ill tell him I want to buy
Ulysses
1301 of 1305
underclothes then if he gives me that well he wont be too
bad I dont want to soak it all out of him like other women
do I could often have written out a fine cheque for myself
and write his name on it for a couple of pounds a few
times he forgot to lock it up besides he wont spend it Ill
let him do it off on me behind provided he doesnt smear
all my good drawers O I suppose that cant be helped Ill do
the indifferent l or 2 questions Ill know by the answers
when hes like that he cant keep a thing back I know every
turn in him Ill tighten my bottom well and let out a few
smutty words smellrump or lick my shit or the first mad
thing comes into my head then Ill suggest about yes O
wait now sonny my turn is coming Ill be quite gay and
friendly over it O but I was forgetting this bloody pest of a
thing pfooh you wouldnt know which to laugh or cry
were such a mixture of plum and apple no Ill have to wear
the old things so much the better itll be more pointed hell
never know whether he did it or not there thats good
enough for you any old thing at all then Ill wipe him off
me just like a business his omission then Ill go out Ill have
him eying up at the ceiling where is she gone now make
him want me thats the only way a quarter after what an
unearthly hour I suppose theyre just getting up in China
now combing out their pigtails for the day well soon have
Ulysses
1302 of 1305
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 I Id a couple of lbs of those a nice plant for the
middle of the table Id get that cheaper in wait wheres this
I saw them not long ago I love flowers Id love to have the
whole place swimming in roses God of heaven theres
nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and
the waves rushing then the beautiful country with the
Ulysses
1303 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1304 of 1305
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
Ulysses
1305 of 1305
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
