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     STATELY, PLUMP BUCK MULLIGAN CAME FROM THE STAIRHEAD, bearing a bowl of
lather on  which a mirror and  a  razor lay crossed. A yellow dressing gown,
ungirdled, was sustained  gently-behind him by the mild morning air. He held
the bowl aloft and intoned:
     - Introibo ad altare Dei.
     Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up 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  country  and  the
awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus,  he bent towards
him and  made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his  throat  and shaking
his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top
of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed
him, equine in  its length, and at the light  untonsured hair,  grained  and
hued like pale oak.
     Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under  the  mirror and then covered the
bowl smartly.
     - Back to barracks, he said sternly.
     He added in a preacher's tone:
     - For this, O  dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine:  body and soul
and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A
little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.
     He peered sideways up  and gave a long low 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 half
way and  sat down on the edge  of  the  gunrest,  watching him  still  as he
propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered
cheeks and neck.
     Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on.
     - My  name is absurd too: Malachi  Mulligan, two  dactyls. But it has a
Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the  buck himself. We must
go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?
     He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:
     - Will he come? The jejune jesuit.
     Ceasing, he began to shave with care.
     - Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.
     - Yes, my love?
     - How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?
     Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.
     - God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks
you're not  a gentleman. God, these bloody English. Bursting  with money and
indigestion. Because  he comes from  Oxford. You know, Dedalus; you have the
real Oxford manner. He can't make  you out. O, my name  for you is the best:
Kinch, the knife-blade.
     He shaved warily over his chin.
     - He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is
his guncase?
     - A woful lunatic, Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?
     -  I  was, Stephen said with energy and growing  fear.  Out here in the
dark with a man I don't  know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a
black  panther.  You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. If he
stays on here I am off.
     Buck Mulligan  frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped  down
from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.
     - Scutter, he cried thickly.
     He came over to the gunrest  and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper
pocket, said:
     - Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.
     Stephen suffered him to  pull out and hold up  on show  by its corner a
dirty  crumpled handkerchief. Buck  Mulligan  wiped the  razorblade  neatly.
Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:
     - The bard's noserag. A new art colour for our  Irish poets: snotgreen.
You can almost taste it, can't you?
     He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair
oakpale hair stirring slightly.
     - God, he  said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a grey 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 harbour  mouth  of
Kingstown.
     - Our mighty mother, Buck Mulligan said.
     He turned abruptly his  great searching eyes  from the sea to Stephen's
face.
     - The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't
let me have anything to do with you.
     - Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.
     -  You could have  knelt down,  damn it, Kinch,  when your dying mother
asked you,  Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think
of your mother begging you with her last  breath to kneel  down and pray for
her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you.
     He broke  off and  lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant
smile curled his lips.
     -  But  a lovely mummer,  he murmured to himself. Kinch, the  loveliest
mummer of them all.
     He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.
     Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against
his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain,
that was not yet the pain of  love, fretted his heart. Silently, in  a dream
she had  come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown
grave-clothes 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
well-fed 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 few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?
     - They fit well enough, Stephen answered.
     Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.
     - The mockery of it, he said contentedly, secondleg they should be. God
knows what  poxy  bowsy  left them off.  I  have a  lovely pair with  a hair
stripe, grey. You'll  look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, Kinch. You look
damn well when you're dressed.
     - Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey.
     -  He can't  wear them,  Buck Mulligan told  his face  in  the  mirror.
Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey trousers.
     He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers  felt the
smooth skin.
     Stephen turned his  gaze from the sea  and to  the plump face  with its
smokeblue mobile eyes.
     - That fellow I was with  in  the Ship last night, said  Buck Mulligan,
says you have  g.p.i.  He's up in Dottyville  with  Conolly  Norman. General
paralysis of the insane.
     He swept  the  mirror  a half  circle in the  air to  flash the tidings
abroad in sunlight now radiant  on the sea. His curling shaven lips  laughed
and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his  strong
wellknit trunk.
     - Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard.
     Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by
a crooked  crack, hair on end. As  he and others see me. Who chose this face
for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.
     -  I pinched it  out  of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It does
her all right. The aunt  always keeps  plain-looking  servants  for Malachi.
Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.
     Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.
     -  The rage of Caliban at not  seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If
Wilde were only alive to see you.
     Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:
     -  It is a  symbol of  Irish art. The  cracked  lookingglass of a  Buck
Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with  him round the
tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them.
     - It's not fair  to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said  kindly.
God knows you have more spirit than any of them.
     Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The
cold steelpen.
     -  Cracked  lookingglass of  a  servant.  Tell that  to  the  oxy  chap
downstairs and touch him  for a guinea. He's stinking with money and  thinks
you're  not  a gentleman. His  old fellow made  his  tin by selling jalap to
Zulus  or some bloody swindle or other.  God, Kinch, if you and I could only
work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it.
     Cranly's arm. His arm.
     - And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm the only one
that knows what you are. Why don't you trust me more? What have you  up your
nose against me? Is it Haines?  If he makes any noise here I'll  bring  down
Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.
     Young shouts  of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Palefaces:
they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another, O, I shall expire!
Break the news to her gently, Aubrey!  I shall die! With slit ribbons of his
shirt whipping  the air he hops and hobbles  round  the table, with trousers
down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's shears. A scared
calf's face gilded with marmalade.  I don't want  to be debagged!  Don't you
play the giddy ox with me!
     Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf
gardener,  aproned, masked with  Matthew Arnold's face, pushes  his mower on
the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.
     To ourselves... new paganism... omphalos.
     - Let him  stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at
night.
     - Then what is  it? Buck Mulligan asked  impatiently. Cough  it up. I'm
quite frank with you. What have you against me now?
     They halted, looking  towards  the blunt cape of Bray Head  that lay on
the water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly.
     - Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.
     - Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything.
     He looked in Stephen's face as  he spoke. A light wind passed his brow,
fanning softly  his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety
in his eyes.
     Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:
     - Do you remember the first day I went  to your house after my mother's
death?
     Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:
     - What?  Where? I  can't  remember anything. I remember only ideas  and
sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?
     - You were making  tea, Stephen said, and I 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 dissecting room. It's a beastly thing
and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter.  You wouldn't kneel down to pray
for your mother on her  deathbed when  she asked you. Why?  Because you have
the  cursed jesuit strain  in you, only it's  injected the wrong way. To  me
it's all a mockery and beastly.  Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. She
calls the doctor Sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour
her till it's over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with
me  because I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's. Absurd!  I
suppose I did say it. I didn't mean to offend the memory of your mother.
     He  had spoken himself into boldness.  Stephen,  shielding  the  gaping
wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly:
     - I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.
     - Of what, then? Buck Mulligan asked.
     - Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.
     Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.
     - O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.
     He walked off quickly round the  parapet.  Stephen  stood at  his post,
gazing  over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea  and  headland  now grew
dim. Pulses  were  beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt the
fever of his cheeks.
     A voice within the tower called loudly:
     - Are you up there, Mulligan?
     - I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered.
     He turned towards Stephen and said:
     - Look  at  the sea. What  does it care  about offences?  Chuck Loyola,
Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.
     His head  halted again for a moment at the top  of the staircase, level
with the roof.
     - Don't mope  over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give  up  the
moody brooding.
     His head vanished  but the drone  of his descending voice boomed out of
the stairhead:
     And no more turn aside and brood
     Upon love's bitter mystery
     For Fergus rules the brazen cars.
     Woodshadows floated  silently  by through  the morning peace  from  the
stairhead  seaward  where he gazed. Inshore and farther  out  the  mirror of
water whitened, spurned by  lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim
sea. The  twining  stresses,  two  by two. A hand plucking  the  harpstrings
merging  their twining  chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim
tide.
     A cloud began  to cover  the  sun slowly,  shadowing the  bay in deeper
green. It lay behind him, a bowl of bitter  waters. Fergus'  song: I sang it
alone in  the house, holding  down the long  dark chords. Her door was open:
she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside.
She  was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love's bitter
mystery.
     Where now?
     Her  secrets:  old feather fans,  tasselled  dancecards,  powdered with
musk,  a  gaud of  amber beads in her locked  drawer. A birdcage hung in the
sunny window of her house when  she  was a girl. She heard old Royce sing in
the pantomime of Turko the terrible and laughed with others when he sang:
     I am the boy
     That can enjoy
     Invisibility.
     Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.
     And no more turn aside and brood
     Folded away in the memory of nature with her  toys. Memories  beset his
brooding  brain.  Her  glass of water  from the  kitchen  tap  when she  had
approached the sacrament. A  cored apple, filled  with brown sugar, roasting
for  her at  the  hob  on a  dark  autumn  evening. Her shapely  fingernails
reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts.
     In a dream, silently, she  had  come to him, her wasted body within its
loose graveclothes giving  off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath bent
over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.
     Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to  shake and  bend my soul. On
me alone. The ghostcandle to light her  agony. Ghostly light on the tortured
face. Her  hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while  all prayed on their
knees. Her eyes on me to  strike me down. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum
turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.
     Ghoul! Chewer of corpses!
     No mother. Let me be and let me live.
     - Kinch ahoy!
     Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the
staircase, calling again. Stephen, still  trembling at his soul's cry, heard
warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.
     - Dedalus,  comedown, like  a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is
apologizing for waking us last night. It's all right.
     - I'm coming, Stephen said, turning.
     - Do, for Jesus'  sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our
sakes.
     His head disappeared and reappeared.
     - I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it's  very clever. Touch
him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.
     - I get paid this morning, Stephen said.
     - The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one.
     - If you want it, Stephen said.
     - Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We'll have
a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent sovereigns.
     He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of
tune with a Cockney accent:
     O, won't we have a merry time
     Drinking whisky, beer and wine,
     On coronation,
     Coronation day?
     O, won't we have a merry time
     On coronation day?
     Warm sunshine  merrying  over the  sea. The  nickel shaving-bowl shone,
forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there all
day, forgotten friendship?
     He went over to it, held it in  his hands awhile, feeling its coolness,
smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the  brush was stuck. So I
carried the boat of  incense then at Clongowes. I am another now and yet the
same. A servant too. A server of a servant.
     In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned form
moved  briskly about the hearth to and fro, hiding and revealing  its yellow
glow.  Two shafts of  soft  daylight fell across the flagged floor  from the
high  barbicans:  and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke  and
fumes of fried grease floated, turning.
     - We'll be choked, Buck  Mulligan said. Haines,  open  that  door, will
you?
     Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the
hammock where  it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open  the
inner doors.
     - Have you the key? a voice asked.
     - Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked. He howled
without looking up from the fire:
     - Kinch!
     - It's in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.
     The key scraped round  harshly twice and, when the heavy  door had been
set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the doorway,
looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to  the table and  sat down to
wait. Buck  Mulligan  tossed the  fry on to  the dish  beside  him. Then  he
carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them down heavily
and sighed with relief.
     - I'm melting, he said, as the candle remarked when .
     But  hush. Not  a word  more  on that subject. Kinch,  wake up.  Bread,
butter, honey. Haines, come in.  The grub is ready. Bless us,  O  Lord,  and
these thy gifts. Where's the sugar? O, jay, there's no milk.
     Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from
the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.
     - What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.
     - We can drink it black, Stephen said. There's a lemon in the locker.
     - O, damn you and your Paris fads, Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove
milk.
     Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly:
     - That woman is coming up with the milk.
     - The blessings of God on you, Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his
chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar  is in  the bag. Here,  I
can't go fumbling at the damned eggs.  He hacked through the fry on the dish
and slapped it out on three plates, saying:
     - In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.
     Haines sat down to pour out the tea.
     - I'm giving you  two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do
make strong tea, don't you?
     Buck Mulligan, hewing  thick  slices  from  the loaf, said  in  an  old
woman's wheedling voice:
     -  When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And  when I
makes water I makes water.
     - By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.
     Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:
     -  So  I do, Mrs Cahill, says  she. Begob, ma'am,  says Mrs Cahill, God
send you don't make them in the one pot.
     He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled
on his knife.
     -  That's  folk, he said  very earnestly,  for your  book, Haines. Five
lines of  text and ten  pages  of notes about the folk and  the  fishgods of
Dundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind.
     He turned to  Stephen  and asked  in a fine  puzzled voice, lifting his
brows:
     - Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea  and water pot spoken
of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?
     - I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.
     - Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?
     -  I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did  not exist in or out of  the
Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.
     Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight.
     - Charming, he  said in a finical sweet voice,  showing his white teeth
and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming.
     Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened
rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:
     - For old Mary Ann
     She doesn't care a damn,
     But, hising up her petticoats...
     He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.
     The doorway was darkened by an entering form.
     - The milk, sir.
     - Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.
     An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow.
     - That's a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.
     - To whom? Mulligan said, glancing  at her.  Ah,  to  be sure.  Stephen
reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.
     - The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently  of
the collector of prepuces.
     - How much, sir? asked the old woman.
     - A quart, Stephen said.
     He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white
milk,  not  hers.  Old shrunken  paps. She poured again  a measureful and  a
tilly.  Old  and  secret  she had  entered  from a  morning world,  maybe  a
messenger.  She praised the goodness  of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching
by a  patient cow at  daybreak in the lush field,  a witch on her toadstool,
her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about  her whom
they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given
her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly  form of an immortal  serving her
conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the
secret  morning.  To serve or  to  upbraid, whether he could  not tell:  but
scorned to beg her favour.
     - It  is  indeed, ma'am,  Buck Mulligan said, pouring  milk  into their
cups.
     - Taste it, sir, she said.
     He drank at her bidding.
     - If we could only 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.
     Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head  to a voice
that speaks  to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman; me she slights.
To the voice that  will shrive and oil for the grave all there is of her but
her woman's unclean loins, of man's  flesh  made not in  God's likeness, the
serpent's prey.  And to the  loud  voice that now  bids  her be  silent with
wondering unsteady eyes.
     - Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her.
     - Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines.
     Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.
     - Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you?
     - I thought it was Irish, she  said,  by the sound of it.  Are you from
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 the three cups.
     -  Bill, sir?  she  said, halting. Well, it's seven mornings a  pint at
twopence  is  seven  twos is a shilling and twopence  over and  these  three
mornings a quart at fourpence is three  quarts is a shilling and one and two
is two and two, sir.
     Buck  Mulligan sighed  and having filled his mouth with a crust thickly
buttered on both  sides, stretched forth  his  legs and began to search  his
trouser pockets.
     - Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him smiling.
     Stephen filled a third cup,  a spoonful of  tea colouring  faintly  the
thick rich  milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his
fingers and cried:
     - A miracle!
     He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying:
     - Ask  nothing more of me, sweet. All I can  give you  I  give. Stephen
laid the coin in her uneager hand.
     - We'll owe twopence, he said.
     -  Time enough, sir,  she  said,  taking  the  coin. Time enough.  Good
morning, sir.
     She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant:
     - Heart of my heart, were it more,
     More would be laid at your feet.
     He turned to Stephen and said:
     - Seriously, Dedalus. I'm stony. Hurry out to your school kip and bring
us back some money. Today the bards must  drink and junket.  Ireland expects
that every man this day will do his duty.
     -  That reminds  me,  Haines said,  rising, that I have  to  visit your
national library today.
     - Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.
     He turned to Stephen and asked blandly:
     - Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?
     Then he said to Haines:
     - The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.
     - All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey
trickle over a slice of the loaf.
     Haines from the  corner  where he was knotting easily a scarf about the
loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:
     - I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.
     Speaking to  me.  They wash  and  tub  and  scrub.  Agenbite of  inwit.
Conscience. Yet here's a spot.
     - That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol
of Irish art is deuced good.
     Buck  Mulligan kicked Stephen's  foot  under the table  and  said  with
warmth of tone:
     - Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.
     -  Well, I mean  it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just
thinking of it when that poor old creature came in.
     - Would I make money by it? Stephen asked.
     Haines laughed and,  as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast  of
the hammock, said:
     - I don't know, I'm sure.
     He strolled  out  to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across  to Stephen
and said with coarse vigour:
     - You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for?
     - Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom?  From the
milkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I think.
     I blow him  out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you  come along
with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.
     - I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.
     Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's arm.
     - From me, Kinch, he said.
     In a suddenly changed tone he added:
     -  To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Damn all else they
are good for. Why don't you play them as I do? To hell with them all. Let us
get out of the kip.
     He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying
resignedly:
     - Mulligan is stripped of his garments.
     He emptied his pockets on to the table.
     - There's your snotrag, he said.
     And  putting on his stiff collar and rebellious  tie, he spoke to them,
chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged
in his trunk while he called for - a clean handkerchief. Agenbite of  inwit.
God, we'll simply have to dress the character.  I want puce gloves and green
boots. Contradiction. Do  I contradict myself? Very  well then, I contradict
myself. Mercurial  Malachi. A limp black  missile flew out  of  his  talking
hands.
     - And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said.
     Stephen  picked it  up and put  it on: Haines called  to them from  the
doorway:
     - Are you coming, you fellows?
     - I'm ready,  Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out,
Kinch.  You have eaten all we left,  I suppose. Resigned he passed  out with
grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow:
     - And going forth he met Butterly.
     Stephen, taking  his ashplant from  its leaningplace, followed them out
and, as they went down the  ladder, pulled to the slow iron door  and locked
it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.
     At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked:
     - Did you bring the key?
     - I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.
     He  walked  on. Behind him  he heard Buck  Mulligan club with his heavy
bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.
     - Down, sir. How dare you, sir? Haines asked:
     - Do you pay rent for this tower?
     - Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.
     - To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.
     They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last:
     - Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it?
     - Billy  Pitt had  them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were
on the sea. But ours is the omphalos.
     - What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen.
     -  No,  no, Buck Mulligan shouted  in  pain. I'm  not  equal  to Thomas
Aquinas and  the fiftyfive reasons he  has made to prop it up. Wait  till  I
have a few pints in me first.
     He turned to Stephen, saying  as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his
primrose waistcoat:
     - You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you?
     - It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.
     - You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox?
     - Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We  have grown out of Wilde  and paradoxes.
It's  quite  simple.  He  proves  by  algebra  that   Hamlet's  grandson  is
Shakespeare's grandfather  and  that  he himself  is  the  ghost  of his own
father.
     - What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself?
     Buck Mulligan slung his towel  stolewise round his neck and, bending in
loose laughter, said to Stephen's ear:
     - O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father!
     - We're always tired in the morning, Stephen said  to Haines. And it is
rather long to tell.
     Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands.
     - The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.
     -  I mean to say,  Haines explained to  Stephen as they followed,  this
tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. That beetles o'er
his base into the sea, isn't it?
     Buck Mulligan turned  suddenly for an instant towards  Stephen  but did
not speak. In the bright silent instant  Stephen saw his  own image in cheap
dusty mourning between their gay attires.
     - It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.
     Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler,  firm and prudent.
The  seas' ruler,  he  gazed  southward  over the  bay,  empty save for  the
smokeplume of the mailboat, vague on the bright skyline, and a  sail tacking
by the Muglins.
     - I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused.
The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father.
     Buck Mulligan at  once put on a  blithe broadly smiling face. He looked
at them,  his wellshaped mouth open  happily, his eyes,  from  which he  had
suddenly withdrawn all  shrewd sense, blinking with mad  gaiety. He moved  a
doll's head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering,  and began to
chant in a quiet happy foolish voice:
     - I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.
     My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.
     With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree,
     So here's to disciples and Calvary.
     He held up a forefinger of warning.
     - If anyone thinks that I amn't divine
     He'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine
     But have to drink water and wish it were plain
     That I make when the wine becomes water again.
     He  tugged swiftly  at  Stephen's  ashplant  in  farewell  and, running
forward to a brow  of the cliff, fluttered  his hands at his sides like fins
or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted:
     - Goodbye, now, goodbye. Write down all I said
     And tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead.
     What's bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly
     And Olivet's breezy... Goodbye, now, goodbye.
     He capered before them down towards  the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his
winglike hands,  leaping  nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering  in the fresh wind
that bore back to them his brief birdlike cries.
     Haines,  who had been laughing  guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and
said:
     - We oughtn't to laugh,  I suppose. He's  rather blasphemous. I'm not a
believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety  takes the harm out  of it
somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner?
     - The ballad of Joking Jesus, Stephen answered.
     - O, Haines said, you have heard it before?
     - Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.
     - You're not a  believer,  are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in
the narrow sense  of  the word. Creation  from  nothing  and miracles  and a
personal God.
     - There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.
     Haines stopped to take out  a  smooth  silver case in which  twinkled a
green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.
     - Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.
     Haines  helped himself and snapped the  case to.  He put it back in his
sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a  nickel tinderbox,  sprang it
open too,  and, having lit  his  cigarette,  held the flaming  spunk towards
Stephen in the shell of his hands.
     - Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe or
you  don't, isn't it? Personally I  couldn't stomach that idea of a personal
God. You don't stand for that, I suppose?
     -  You  behold  in  me, Stephen said with grim displeasure,  a horrible
example of free thought.
     He walked on, waiting  to be spoken  to, trailing  his ashplant  by his
side. Its ferrule followed  lightly  on the path, squealing at his heels. My
familiar,  after  me, calling Steeeeeeeeeephen.  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  the  servant of two masters,  Stephen  said,  an English and an
Italian.
     - Italian? Haines said.
     A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.
     - And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.
     - Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?
     - The imperial  British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and
the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.
     Haines  detached  from his underlip some  fibres  of tobacco before  he
spoke.
     -  I can  quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think
like  that, I daresay.  We feel  in England that  we have treated you rather
unfairly. It seems history is to blame.
     The proud potent  titles clanged over  Stephen's  memory the triumph of
their brazen bells: et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam: the
slow growth  and  change  of rite and  dogma like his  own rare  thoughts, a
chemistry of stars.  Symbol of the  apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus,
the  voices blended, singing  alone  loud in affirmation: and  behind  their
chant the vigilant  angel of the church militant  disarmed  and menaced  her
heresiarchs. A horde  of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius  and the
brood of mockers of whom  Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long
upon the consubstantiality  of  the  Son with  the  Father,  and  Valentine,
spurning Christ's terrene body,  and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius
who held that the Father was Himself His own  Son. Words Mulligan had spoken
a  moment since in mockery  to the  stranger.  Idle mockery. The void awaits
surely all them that weave the  wind: a menace, a  disarming  and a worsting
from those embattled  angels of  the church,  Michael's host, who defend her
ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.
     Hear, hear. Prolonged applause. Zut! Nom de Dieu!
     - Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines'  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, salt
white. Here I am.
     They followed the winding  path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan  stood
on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder. A
young  man clinging to a spur of  rock near  him  moved slowly frogwise  his
green legs in the deep jelly of the water.
     - Is the brother with you, Malachi?
     - Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.
     - Still there? I got a card from Bannon.  Says he found a  sweet  young
thing down there. Photo girl he calls her.
     - Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure.
     Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up near
the spur of  rock  a blowing red face. He scrambled  up by the stones, water
glistening on his pate and on its  garland of  grey hair, water rilling over
his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth.
     Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines
and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips and
breastbone.
     - Seymour's back in town, the young man  said, grasping again his  spur
of rock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.
     - Ah, go to God, Buck Mulligan said.
     - Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?
     - Yes.
     -  Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is  rotto  with
money.
     - Is she up the pole?
     - Better ask Seymour that.
     - Seymour a bleeding officer, Buck Mulligan said.
     He nodded to  himself as  he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying
tritely:
     - Redheaded women buck like goats.
     He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.
     -  My  twelfth  rib is gone,  he cried. I'm the 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 !he bed.
     The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached the
middle  of the creek in two  long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a stone,
smoking.
     - Are you not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked.
     - Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast. Stephen turned away.
     - I'm going, Mulligan, he said.
     - Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat.
     Stephen  handed  him  the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across  his heaped
clothes.
     - And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there.
     Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap.  Dressing, undressing. Buck
Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly:
     -  He who  stealeth  from  the  poor lendeth  to  the  Lord. Thus spake
Zarathustra.
     His plump body plunged.
     - We'll see you  again, Haines  said, turning as  Stephen walked up the
path and smiling at wild Irish.
     Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.
     - The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.
     - Good, Stephen said.
     He walked along the upwardcurving path.
     Liliata rutilantium.
     Turnia circumdet.
     Iubilantium te virginum
     The priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I will
not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.
     A voice,  sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning
the curve he waved his hand. It called again.  A sleek brown head, a seal's,
far out on the water, round.
     Usurper.




     YOU, COCHRANE, WHAT CITY SENT FOR HIM?
     -- Tarentum, sir.
     -- Very good. Well?
     -- There was a battle, sir.
     -- Very good. Where?
     The boy's blank face asked the blank window.
     Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as
memory fabled  it. A  phrase, then, of impatience,  thud of Blake's wings of
excess. I hear the  ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry,
and time one livid final flame. What's left us then?
     -- I forgot the place, sir. 279 B.C.
     --  Asculum, Stephen  said,  glancing  at  the  name and  date  in  the
gorescarred book.
     -- Yes,  sir. And he said:  Another victory  like that and we  are done
for.
     That phrase the world had remembered. A dull  ease  of the mind. From a
hill above a  corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his  officers, leaned
upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.
     -- You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus?
     -- End of Pyrrhus, sir?
     -- I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.
     -- Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?
     A  bag of figrolls lay snugly in  Armstrong's satchel. He  curled  them
between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the
tissues 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 waves. A kind of
bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.
     Some laughed  again: mirthless but with  meaning. Two in the back bench
whispered. Yes. They knew: had  never  learned nor ever been  innocent. All.
With  envy he watched their faces. Edith, Ethel, Gerty,  Lily. Their  likes:
their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in
the struggle.
     -- Kingstown pier, Stephen  said. Yes, a disappointed bridge. The words
troubled their gaze.
     -- How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river.
     For  Haines's chapbook. No-one here to hear.  Tonight deftly  amid wild
drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? A jester
at  the  court  of his  master, indulged and disesteemed, winning  a clement
master's praise.  Why had  they chosen  all  that  part? Not  wholly for the
smooth caress. For  them too history  was a  tale like  any other too  often
heard, their land a pawnshop.
     Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not
been knifed to death? They are not to be thought away. Time has branded them
and fettered they are lodged  in the room of the infinite possibilities they
have ousted. But  can those have been  possible seeing that they never were?
Or was that only possible which came to pass? Weave, weaver of the wind.
     -- Tell us a story, sir.
     -- Oh, 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 history, sir?
     -- After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.
     A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the  breastwork
of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:
     -- Weep no more, woful shepherd, 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. Tranquillity sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.
     Talbot repeated:
     -- Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
     Through the dear might...
     -- Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don't see anything.
     -- What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.
     His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and  went on again having
just remembered. Of him that walked  the  waves. Here also over these craven
hearts his shadow lies  and on the  scoffer's heart and lips and on mine. It
lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar
what  is  Caesar's, to  God what  is God's.  A long look  from  dark eyes, a
riddling sentence to be woven on the church's looms. Ay.
     Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.
     My father gave me seeds to sow.
     Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.
     -- Have I heard all? Stephen asked.
     -- Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.
     -- Half day, sir. Thursday.
     -- Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.
     They bundled  their  books  away,  pencils  clacking,  pages  rustling.
Crowding together they  strapped  and buckled  their satchels,  all gabbling
gaily:
     -- A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.
     -- O, ask me, sir.
     -- A hard one, sir.
     -- This is the riddle, Stephen said.
     The cock crew
     The sky was blue:
     The bells in heaven
     Were striking eleven.
     Tis time for this poor soul
     To go to heaven.
     -- What is that?
     -- What, sir?
     -- Again, sir. We didn't hear.
     Their eyes  grew bigger  as the  lines were  repeated. After  a silence
Cochrane said:
     -- What is it, sir? We give it up.
     Stephen, his throat itching, answered:
     -- The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.
     He stood up and  gave a shout  of nervous laughter to which their cries
echoed dismay.
     A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called:
     -- Hockey!
     They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly
they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour
of their boots and tongues.
     Sargent  who  alone had lingered came forward slowly,  showing  an open
copybook. His tangled hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness  and
through his misty glasses weak  eyes looked up pleading. On his cheek,  dull
and bloodless, a  soft  stain of ink  lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as  a
snail's bed.
     He held out his copybook. The  word Sums was written  on  the headline.
Beneath were sloping  figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind
loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.
     -- Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them
to you, sir.
     Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.
     -- Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.
     -- Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered.  Mr Deasy said I was to
copy them off the board, sir.
     -- Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked.
     -- No, sir.
     Ugly and  futile: lean neck  and tangled hair  and  a stain of  ink,  a
snail's bed. Yet someone had loved him,  borne him in her  arms and  in  her
heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him under foot,
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 under foot and had gone,
scarcely  having  been. A poor  soul gone to heaven: and on a heath  beneath
winking stars  a fox, red reek of rapine  in his fur, with  merciless bright
eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped
and scraped.
     Sitting at  his  side  Stephen solved out  the problem.  He  proves  by
algebra that  Shakespeare's ghost  is Hamlet's  grandfather. Sargent  peered
askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom:
the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.
     Across  the page the symbols moved in  grave morrice, in the mummery of
their  letters, wearing  quaint caps  of  squares  and  cubes.  Give  hands,
traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of  the Moors. Gone too from the
world,  Averroes  and  Moses  Maimonides,  dark  men  in mien  and movement,
flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of  the world, a darkness
shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.
     -- Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?
     -- Yes, sir.
     In long  shady strokes Sargent copied  the data. Waiting always  for  a
word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols,  a faint hue of
shame flickering behind his dull skin. Amor matris: subjective and objective
genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from
sight of others his swaddling bands.
     Like  him  was I,  these  sloping  shoulders,  this  gracelessness.  My
childhood bends  beside  me.  Too far for  me  to lay  a hand there once  or
lightly. Mine is far and his  secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony sit
in the dark  palaces of both  our hearts:  secrets  weary of their  tyranny:
tyrants willing to be dethroned.
     The sum was done.
     -- It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.
     -- Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.
     He  dried the page with a sheet of  thin  blottingpaper and carried his
copybook back to his desk.
     -- 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  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 cried.
     --  Will you wait in  my  study for  a  moment, Mr  Deasy said,  till I
restore order here.
     And as he stepped  fussily back  across the field  his old  man's voice
cried sternly:
     -- What is the matter? What is it now?
     Their  sharp voices cried about  him  on  all  sides:  their many forms
closed  round him,  the  garish sunshine bleaching the honey  of his illdyed
head.
     Stale smoky  air  hung  in the  study  with the smell  of  drab abraded
leather of its chairs. As on the first  day he bargained with me here. As it
was in the  beginning,  is now. On the  sideboard the  tray of Stuart coins,
base treasure of a bog: and  ever shall be.  And snug in their  spooncase of
purple  plush,  faded,  the  twelve  apostles having  preached  to  all  the
gentiles: world without end.
     A hasty step over  the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his
rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.
     -- First, our little financial settlement, he said.
     He brought  out of his  coat  a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It
slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves,  and  laid
them carefully on the table.
     -- Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.
     And  now his strongroom for the  gold. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved
over the shells heaped in  the cold  stone mortar: whelks and money, cowries
and leopard shells: and  this,  whorled as  an emir's turban, and this,  the
scallop  of  Saint James.  An  old  pilgrim's hoard, dead  treasure,  hollow
shells.
     A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.
     --  Three,  Mr Deasy said,  turning his little savingsbox about  in his
hand. These are handy  things to have. See. This  is for sovereigns. This is
for shillings, sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.
     He shot from it two crowns and two shillings.
     -- Three twelve, he said. I think you'll find that's right.
     -- Thank you,  sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy
haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.
     -- No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.
     Stephen's hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too
of  beauty and  of power. A lump in my pocket. Symbols soiled  by greed  and
misery.
     --  Don't  carry  it  like that,  Mr  Deasy said.  You'll  pull  it out
somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You'll  find them
very handy.
     Answer something.
     -- Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.
     The same room  and hour, the same  wisdom:  and I the same. Three times
now. Three nooses round me here. Well. I can break them in this instant if I
will.
     --  Because  you don't save,  Mr Deasy  said, pointing his finger.  You
don't know yet what money is. Money is power, when you have lived as long as
I have. I  know, I  know. If youth but  knew. But what does Shakespeare say?
Put but money in thy purse.
     -- Iago, Stephen murmured.
     He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man's stare.
     -- He  knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet 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:  history is
to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.
     -- That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.
     -- Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English.  A French Celt said that. He
tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.
     -- I  will  tell you, he said solemnly,  what is his  proudest boast. I
paid my way.
     Good man, good man.
     -- I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you  feel
that? I owe nothing. Can you?
     Mulligan,  nine  pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair  brogues, ties.
Curran,  ten  guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple,
two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half
a guinea, Kohler, three guineas, Mrs McKernan, five weeks' board. The lump I
have is useless.
     -- For the moment, no, Stephen answered.
     Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.
     -- I knew you couldn't, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it.
We are a generous people but we must also be just.
     -- I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.
     Mr Deasy stared  sternly for  some  moments over the mantelpiece at the
shapely bulk of a man in tartan fillibegs: Albert Edward, Prince of Wales.
     --  You think  me an old fogey  and  an old tory, his thoughtful  voice
said. I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. I remember the famine.
Do you know  that the orange lodges  agitated for repeal of the union twenty
years  before  O'Connell  did  or  before  the  prelates of  your  communion
denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things.
     Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the
splendid  behung with  corpses of  papishes. Hoarse,  masked  and armed, the
planters' covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie down.
     Stephen sketched a brief gesture.
     -- I have rebel  blood in me too, Mr  Deasy said. On the spindle  side.
But  I am descended from  sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are
all Irish, all kings' sons.
     -- Alas, Stephen said.
     -- Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his  motto. He voted  for
it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so.
     Lal the ral the ra
     The rocky road to Dublin.
     A  gruff  squire on horseback  with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John.
Soft  day,  your  honour... Day... Day...  Two  topboots jog dangling on  to
Dublin. Lal the ral the ra, lal the ral the raddy.
     -- That reminds  me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus,
with  some of your literary friends: I have a letter here for the press. Sit
down a moment. I have just to copy the end.
     He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read
off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.
     -- Sit  down. Excuse me,  he said over  his shoulder, the  dictates  of
common sense. Just a moment.
     He peered from  under  his shaggy brows at the  manuscript by his elbow
and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, some
times blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.
     Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed
around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads
poised  in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the duke of Westminster's  Shotover,
the duke of  Beaufort's  Ceylon, prix de Paris, 1866. Elfin riders sat them,
watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing King's colours, and shouted
with the shouts of vanished crowds.
     --  Full stop, Mr Deasy bade  his keys. But prompt ventilation of  this
important question...
     Where Cranly led me  to get rich  quick, hunting  his winners among the
mudsplashed brakes, amid  the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek  of
the canteen, over the  motley slush.  Even  money Fair Rebel: ten to one the
field. Dicers  and thimbleriggers we hurried  by after the hoofs,  the vying
caps and  jackets and  past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame,  nuzzling
thirstily her clove of orange.
     Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a whirring whistle.
     Again: a  goal.  I am among  them,  among their battling  bodies  in  a
medley, the  joust of  life. You mean that knockkneed  mother's  darling who
seems  to be  slightly  crawsick? Jousts. Time  shocked rebounds,  shock  by
shock. Jousts,  slush and  uproar  of battles, the frozen  deathspew  of the
slain, a shout of spear spikes baited with men's bloodied guts.
     -- Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.
     He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.
     -- I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about the
foot  and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can  be no two opinions
on the matter.
     May I trespass on  your valuable space. That doctrine  of laissez faire
which  so  often in our history. Our cattle  trade. The way of  all our  old
industries.  Liverpool  ring  which  jockeyed  the  Galway  harbour  scheme.
European  conflagration.  Grain  supplies  through the narrow waters of  the
channel.   The  pluterperfect   imperturbability   of   the   department  of
agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who was no
better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.
     -- I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.
     Foot and mouth disease. Known  as Koch's preparation. Serum and  virus.
Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at Mэrzsteg, lower
Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price.  Courteous  offer  a
fair trial, Dictates of  common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense
of the word take  the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of
your columns.
     -- I want that to  be printed and read,  Mr Deasy said. You will see at
the next outbreak they will put an embargo on  Irish cattle. And  it  can be
cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is regularly
treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer to come over
here. I am trying to work up influence with the department. Now I'm going to
try  publicity.  I  am  surrounded by difficulties,  by...  intrigues, by...
backstairs influence, by...
     He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.
     -- Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he  said. England is in the  hands of the
jews. In all the highest places: her  finance, her  press.  And they are the
signs  of a  nation's  decay. Wherever they gather they  eat up the nation's
vital  strength.  I have  seen  it  Coming  these years.  As  sure as we are
standing  here the  jew merchants are already at their work  of destruction.
Old England is dying.
     He stepped swiftly off, his eyes  coming  to blue life as they passed a
broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.
     -- Dying, he said, if not dead by now.
     The harlot's cry from street to street
     Shall weave old England's winding sheet.
     His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which
he halted.
     -- A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells  dear, jew
or gentile, is he not?
     -- They sinned against  the light,  Mr Deasy said gravely. And you  can
see the darkness  in their eyes. And  that is why they are wanderers on  the
earth to this day.
     On  the steps of the  Paris  Stock Exchange the goldskinned men quoting
prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabbles 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  the years  of  wandering  and,
patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.
     -- Who has not? Stephen said.
     -- What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.
     He  came  forward  a  pace and  stood by the table.  His  underjaw fell
sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me.
     --  History, Stephen said, is a  nightmare  from  which  I am trying to
awake.
     >From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A  whirring whistle: goal.
What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?
     -- The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All 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 a while the wings of his nose tweaked
between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.
     -- I am happier  than you are, he said. We have  committed  many errors
and many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For  a woman  who was  no
better than she should  be, Helen,  the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten  years
the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to
our shore  here,  MacMurrough's  wife  and  her  leman O'Rourke,  prince  of
Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures but not
the  one sin. I am a struggler now at  the end of my days. But I  will fight
for the right till the end.
     For Ulster will fight
     And Ulster will be right.
     Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.
     -- Well, sir, he began.
     -- I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at
this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong.
     -- A learner rather, Stephen said.
     And here what will you learn more?
     Mr Deasy shook his head.
     --  Who knows? he  said. To learn one must be humble.  But life  is the
great teacher.
     Stephen rustled the sheets again.
     -- As regards these, he began.
     -- Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there.  If you can have them
published at once.
     Telegraph. Irish Homestead.
     -- I will  try,  Stephen said,  and let  you know tomorrow.  I know two
editors slightly.
     That  will  do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote  last night to Mr Field,
M.P. There  is a meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the City
Arms Hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting.  You see if you
can get it into your two papers. What are they?
     -- The Evening Telegraph...
     -- That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to
answer that letter from my cousin.
     -- Good morning, sir, Stephen  said, putting the sheets in  his pocket.
Thank you.
     -- Not at all, Mr  Deasy said as he searched the  papers on his desk. I
like to break a lance with you, old as I am.
     -- Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.
     He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees,
hearing the  cries of voices  and crack of  sticks from the  playfield.  The
lions couchant on the pillars as  he passed out through the  gate; toothless
terrors.  Still I  will help him  in his fight. Mulligan  will dub me  a new
name: the bullockbefriending bard.
     -- Mr Dedalus!
     Running after me. No more letters, I hope.
     -- Just one moment.
     -- Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.
     Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.
     -- I just wanted  to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of
being the only  country  which never persecuted the jews. Do you know  that?
No. And do you know why?
     He frowned sternly on the bright air.
     -- Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.
     -- Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.
     A  coughball  of laughter leaped  from his throat  dragging  after it a
rattling  chain of phlegm. He turned back  quickly, coughing, laughing,  his
lifted arms waving to the air.
     -- She  never  let them in, he cried again through  his laughter  as he
stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That's why.
     On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork  of leaves the  sun flung
spangles, dancing coins.





     INELUCTABLE  MODALITY OF THE VISIBLE: AT LEAST THAT IF NO MORE, thought
through my eyes. Signatures of all  things  I am here to read,  seaspawn and
seawrack, the nearing  tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen,  bluesilver,  rust:
coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds:  in bodies. Then he was
aware of them  bodies before of them coloured. How? By  knocking his  sconce
against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color
che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can
put your five fingers through it,  it  is  a gate, if not a  door. Shut your
eyes and see.
     Stephen  closed his eyes  to hear his  boots  crush crackling wrack and
shells. You are walking through it howsomever.  I am, a  stride at a time. A
very short  space of time through very short times of  space. Five, six: the
nacheinander. Exactly: and that is  the ineluctable modality of the audible.
Open  your eyes. No.  Jesus!  If I fell  over  a cliff that beetles o'er his
base, fell through the nebeneinander  ineluctably. I am getting on nicely in
the dark. My ash sword  hangs at my  side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet
in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander.  Sounds solid:  made
by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along  Sandymount
strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild  sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them
a'.
     Won't you come to Sandymount,
     Madeline the mare?
     Rhythm  begins,  you  see. I hear.  A  catalectic tetrameter  of  iambs
marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.
     Open  your eyes now. I will. One moment.  Has all vanished  since? If I
open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.
     See  now.  There  all  the time  without  you: and ever shall be, world
without end.
     They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace  prudently, Frauenzimmer:
and  down  the shelving shore flabbily  their  splayed  feet sinking in  the
silted sand.  Like  me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty  mother. Number
one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's  gamp poked in the  beach.
From the liberties, out for  the day. Mrs  Florence  MacCabe, relict  of the
late Patk  MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride  Street. One of her sisterhood
lugged me squealing into life.  Creation from nothing.  What has she  in the
bag? A misbirth with a  trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The  cords
of all  link  back,  strandentwining cable of all  flesh. That is why mystic
monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your omphalos. Hello. Kinch here. Put me
on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.
     Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no  navel.
Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging  big,  a  buckler  of taut vellum,  no,
whiteheaped  corn,  orient  and  immortal,  standing   from  everlasting  to
everlasting. Womb of sin.
     Wombed in sin  darkness I was too,  made not begotten. By them, the man
with  my voice and my  eyes and a ghostwoman  with ashes on her breath. They
clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. From before the ages He willed
me  and now may not  will me  away or ever A lex eterna stays about him.  Is
that  then  the divine substance wherein Father and Son are  consubstantial?
Where is poor dear  Arius to try  conclusions? Warring his life  long on 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 around him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves.
The  whitemaned  seahorses,  champing,  brightwindbridled,  the  steeds   of
Mananaan.
     I  mustn't  forget his letter for the press. And  after? The Ship, half
twelve. By the way go easy with that money  like a good young imbecile. Yes,
I must.
     His  pace  slackened.  Here.  Am I  going to  Aunt Sara's  or  not?  My
consubstantial father's voice. Did you see anything of  your  artist brother
Stephen lately? No?  Sure he's not down in  Strasburg terrace with  his aunt
Sally? Couldn't he fly  a bit higher than that, eh? And  and and and tell us
Stephen, how is uncle Si?  O weeping God, the things I married into. De boys
up in de  hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the cornet
player.  Highly  respectable  gondoliers.  And skeweyed Walter  sirring  his
father,  no less.  Sir.  Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus  wept: and  no  wonder, by
Christ.
     I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait.  They take
me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.
     -- It's Stephen, sir.
     -- Let him in. Let Stephen in.
     A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.
     -- We thought you were someone else.
     In his broad  bed  nuncle Richie,  pillowed and blanketed, extends over
the hillock of his knees a sturdy  forearm. Cleanchested. He  has washed the
upper moiety.
     -- Morrow, nephew.
     He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the
eyes of Master Goff and Master Shapland Tandy,  filing  consents and  common
searches and a writ  of  Duces Tecum.  A  bogoak frame over  his bald  head:
Wilde's Requiescat. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.
     -- Yes, sir?
     -- Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?
     -- Bathing Crissie, sir.
     Papa's little bedpal. Lump of love.
     -- No, uncle Richie...
     -- Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!
     -- Uncle Richie, really...
     -- Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down.
     Walter squints vainly for a chair.
     -- He has nothing to sit down on, sir.
     -- He has nowhere  to put it, you mug. Bring in our  Chippendale chair.
Would you  like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw air 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  de  sortita. The grandest number,
Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.
     His  tuneful whistle sounds again,  finely shaded,  with rushes  of the
air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.
     This wind is sweeter.
     Houses  of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry  you
had  an uncle a judge and an uncle a general  in the army. Come out of them,
Stephen. Beauty  is  not there. Nor in  the stagnant bay of Marsh's  library
where  you  read the  fading  prophecies  of Joachim Abbas.  For  whom?  The
hundredheaded rabble  of  the cathedral close. A hater of his kind  ran from
them  to the wood  of  madness,  his  mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs
stars.  Houyhnhnm,  horsenostrilled. The  oval  equine  faces.  Temple, Buck
Mulligan, Foxy  Campbell.  Lantern jaws. Abbas  father, furious  dean,  what
offence laid  fire  to their  brains?  Paff! Descende, calve,  ut ne  nimium
decalveris. A garland  of  grey  hair  on his  comminated  head see  him  me
clambering   down  to  the  footpace  (descende),  clutching  a  monstrance,
basiliskeyed. Get down, bald  poll!  A choir  gives back  menace  and  echo,
assisting about the  altar's horns,  the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving
burly  in  their  albs, tonsured and oiled and  gelded, fat with the  fat of
kidneys of wheat.
     And at the same  instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating
it. Dringdring!  And  two  streets  off  another  locking  it  into  a  pyx.
Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek.
Dringdringl 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! What about that, eh?
     What about what? What else were they invented for?
     Reading  two pages apiece  of seven books every night, eh? I was young.
You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly,
striking  face.  Hurray for  the  Goddamned idiot! Hray!  No-one  saw:  tell
no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read
his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but  W  is wonderful. O  yes, W. Remember
your  epiphanies 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 year, 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.
He coasted  them, walking warily. A porter-bottle stood  up, stogged to  its
waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle  of dreadful thirst. Broken
hoops on the shore; at  the land a maze  of  dark cunning nets; farther away
chalkscrawled  backdoors and on  the  higher  beach a  dryingline  with  two
crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master  mariners.
Human shells.
     He halted. I have  passed the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going there?
Seems not.  No-one about. He turned northeast  and  crossed  the firmer sand
towards the Pigeonhouse.
     -- Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?
     -- C'est le pigeon, Joseph.
     Patrice,  home  on  furlough, lapped  warm  milk with  me  in  the  bar
MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird, he
lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Lap,
lapin. He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature  of  women he read
in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jиsus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to
his friend.
     -- C'est tordant, vows  savez. Moi je suis socialiste. Je  ne crois pas
en l'existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire ю mon pхre.
     -- Il croit?
     -- Mon pхre, oui.
     Schluss. He laps.
     My Latin quarter hat. God, we  simply must dress the  character. I want
puce gloves. You were a  student, weren't you? Of what in the  other devil's
name? Paysayenn. P. C. N.,  you know:  physiques,  chimiques  et naturelles.
Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by
belching cabmen. Just say  in  the most natural tone: when  I was  in Paris,
boul' Mich', I used to. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi
if  they arrested  you  for murder somewhere. Justice.  On the  night of the
seventeenth of February 1904 the  prisoner was seen by two witnesses.  Other
fellow did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c'est moi.  You seem
to have enjoyed yourself.
     Proudly  walking.  Whom  were  you  trying  to  walk  like?  Forget:  a
dispossessed.  With mother's money order, eight shillings, the  banging door
of  the post  office slammed in your face  by the usher.  Hunger  toothache.
Encore  deux minutes. Look clock.  Must get. Fermи. Hired dog! Shoot  him to
bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons.
Bits all  khrrrrklak  in place clack back.  Not hurt? O,  that's all  right.
Shake  hands. See what I meant, see? O, that's all right.  Shake a shake. O,
that's all only all right.
     You were going  to do  wonders, what? Missionary to  Europe after fiery
Columbanus. Fiacre  and  Scotus on  their creepystools in heaven spilt  from
their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing:  Euge! Euge!  Pretending to  speak broken
English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier
at Newhaven.  Comment? Rich booty you  brought back;  Le Tutu, five tattered
numbers  of  Pantalon  Blanc  et  Culotte  Rouge,  a blue  French  telegram,
curiosity to show:
     -- Mother dying come home father.
     The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That's why she won't.
     Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt
     And I'll tell you the reason why.
     She always kept things decent in
     The Hannigan famileye.
     His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by
the  boulders  of the south wall. He  stared at  them  proudly, piled  stone
mammoth  skulls. Gold light on  sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there,
the slender trees, the lemon houses.
     Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her  lemon streets. Moist pith of
farls  of bread, the froggreen  wormwood,  her matin incense, court the air.
Belluomo rises from  the  bed of  his wife's  lover's  wife,  the kerchiefed
housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hands. In Rodot's  Yvonne
and Madeleine  newmake their tumbled beauties,  shattering with  gold  teeth
chaussons  of pastry, their mouths  yellowed  with the pus  of  flan breton.
Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.
     Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan  rolls gunpowder cigarettes  through  fingers
smeared with  printer's ink, sipping  his  green fairy as Patrice his white.
About us  gobblers fork spiced  beans down their gullets. Un demi  setier! A
jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron.  She serves me at  his beck.
Il est irlandais.  Hollandais?  Non  fromage. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande,
vous savez?  Ah  oui! She  thought  you  wanted a  cheese  hollandais.  Your
postprandial, do you know that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew
once  in Barcelona,  queer fellow, used to  call  it his postprandial. Well:
slainte! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling
gorges.  His breath  hangs  over  our saucestained plates, the green fairy's
fang thrusting between  his  lips. Of Ireland, the  Dalcassians,  of  hopes,
conspiracies,  of Arthur Griffith  now.  To yoke me  as his yokefellow,  our
crimes  our common cause. You're your father's  son.  I  know the voice. His
fustian  shirt,  sanguineflowered,  trembles  its  Spanish  tassels  at  his
secrets.  M. Drumont,  famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen
Victoria?  Old  hag  with  the yellow teeth. Vieille ogresse with  the dents
jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M.  Millevoye,  Fиlix Faure,
know how  he died? Licentious men. The froeken, bonne ю 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 tobacco
shreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light  our corner. Raw  facebones
under  his peep of day boy's hat.  How  the head centre got  away, authentic
version.  Got  up as a young bride,  man, veil orangeblossoms, drove out the
road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders,  the  betrayed, wild escapes.
Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.
     Spurned lover. I was a  strapping young gossoon  at that time,  I  tell
you, I'll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love he
prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of  his sept, under the walls  of
Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the
fog. Shattered  glass and toppling masonry. In gay  Paree he hides,  Egan of
Paris, unsought  by  any save by me.  Making his  day's  stations, the dingy
printingcase, his three taverns, the  Montmartre lair he sleeps  short night
in,  rue  de  la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown  faces of  the  gone.
Loveless,  landless,  wifeless.   She  is  quite  nicey  comfy  without  her
outcastman, madame, in rue Gнt-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy
cheeks,  a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's. Spurned and undespairing.
Tell Pat you saw me, won't you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. Mon
fils, soldier  of  France.  I taught  him to sing. The boys of Kilkenny  are
stout  roaring  blades.  Know  that old  lay?  I  taught  Patrice  that. Old
Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's  castle on the  Nore. Goes like this. O,
O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.
     O, O the boys of
     Kilkenny...
     Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them.
Remembering thee, O Sion.
     He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped  his boots.
The new  air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of  seeds
of  brightness. Here, I  am not walking out  to the Kish lightship, am I? He
stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in  the quaking soil. Turn
back.
     Turning, he scanned the shore south,  his feet sinking again slowly  in
new sockets. The cold domed  room of the tower waits. Through the  barbicans
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 ensablи, Louis  Veuillot  called
Gautier's prose. These heavy  sands  are language tide and  wind have silted
here. And there, 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 bloods 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  among 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 sun.  Danevikings, torcs of
tomahawks aglitter on their breasts  when Malachi wore the collar of gold. A
school of turlehide whales  stranded in hot noon, spouting,  hobbling in the
shallows.  Then  from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs,
my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery
whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters. Their blood is in  me, their lusts
my waves.  I moved among them on  the  frozen Liffey, that I,  a changeling,
among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke to no-one: none to me.
     The dog's  bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog  of my enemy. I
just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Terribilia meditans. A primrose
doublet, fortune's knave, smiled  on my fear.  For  that are you pining, the
bark of  their  applause? Pretenders: live their lives. The Bruce's brother,
Thomas Fitzgerald,  silken knight, Perkin  Warbeck, York's false  scion,  in
breeches  of silk of whiterose  ivory, wonder of a day,  and Lambert Simnel,
with  a  tail  of  nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned.  All  kings'  sons.
Paradise  of pretenders then and now. He  saved  men  from drowning and  you
shake at a  cur's yelping.  But the  courtiers who mocked  Guido in  Or  san
Michele were  in  their own  house. House  of...  We don't want any of  your
medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did?  A boat would be near, a
lifebuoy. Natэrlich, put there for you. Would you or would  you not? The man
that was drowned  nine days ago  off Maiden's rock. They are waiting for him
now. The truth, spit it out. I would want to. I would try. I am not a strong
swimmer. Water cold soft.  When I  put my  face into  it  in  the  basin  at
Clongowes. Can't see! Who's behind me? Out quickly,  quickly! Do you see the
tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the  lows  of sands  quickly,
shell cocoacoloured? If I had land under my feet I want his life still to be
his,  mine to  be mine.  A drowning man. His human  eyes scream to me out of
horror of  his death. I... With him together  down... I could not  save her.
Waters: bitter death: lost.
     A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.
     Their dog ambled about a bank  of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on
all  sides. Looking for  something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off
like  a bounding hare,  ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowskimming
gull. The man's shrieked  whistle struck his limp  ears.  He turned, bounded
back,  came  nearer, trotted  on twinkling shanks. On a field tenney a buck,
trippant, proper, unattired. At the  lacefringe  of the tide  he halted with
stiff  forehoofs,  seawardpointed  ears.  His  snout  lifted barked  at  the
wavenoise,  herds of seamorse.  They serpented  towards  his  feet, curling,
unfurling  many  crests,  every ninth, breaking,  plashing,  from far,  from
farther out, waves and waves.
     Cocklepickers. They  waded  a little way in the  water  and,  stooping,
soused their  bags,  and,  lifting them  again,  waded out. The  dog  yelped
running to  them,  reared up and  pawed them, dropping on  all  fours, again
reared  up at them with mute bearish fawning.  Unheeded he  kept by  them as
they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his
jaws. His speckled  body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf's
gallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed,  stalked round it,
brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffing 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  his  hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt
rock. The simple pleasures of  the poor. His  hindpaws then scattered  sand:
then  his  forepaws dabbled  and  delved.  Something  he buried  there,  his
grandmother. He rooted in the sand, dabbling delving  and  stopped to listen
to  the  air,  scraped up the sand  again with a fury  of  his  claws,  soon
ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in spouse-breach, vulturing the dead.
     After he woke  me  up  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 her  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 rogue's  rum  lingo, for, O,  my  dimber wapping  dell.  A
shefiend's  whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally's lane that night: the
tanyard smells.
     White thy fambles, red thy gan
     And thy quarrons dainty is.
     Couch a hogshead with me then.
     In the darkmans clip and kiss.
     Morose  delectation  Aquinas  tunbelly  calls  this, frate  porcospino.
Unfallen Adam  rode and not rutted. Call away let  him: thy quarrons  dainty
is.  Language no whit  worse than  his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their
girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.
     Passing now.
     A side-eye  at my Hamlet hat. If I were  suddenly naked here as I sit I
am not.  Across the sands of  all the world, followed by the  sun's  flaming
sword,  to  the  west,  trekking  to evening lands.  She  trudges, schlepps,
trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake.
Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton, a winedark
sea. Behold the handmaid  of the moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour,
bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. Omnis caro ad
te veniet. He  comes, pale vampire, through storm  his eyes, his  bat  sails
bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.
     Here. Put a pin in that  chap, will you? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss.
No. Must be two of em. Glue 'em well. Mouth to her mouth's kiss.
     His lips lipped  and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her  womb.
Oomb,  allwombing  tomb.  His  mouth  moulded  issuing  breath,  unspeeched:
ooeeehah:   roar   of   cataractic   planets,   globed,   blazing,   roaring
wayawayawayawayawayaway.  Paper.  The  banknotes,  blast them.  Old  Deasy's
letter. Here. Thanking you for  hospitality tear the  blank end off. Turning
his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled words.
That's twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter.
     His shadow lay over  the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till
the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining
in  the  brightness, delta  of Cassiopeia,  worlds. Me  sits  there with his
augur's  rod of  ash, in  borrowed  sandals,  by  day beside  a  livid  sea,
unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth  stars. I throw
this ended shadow from  me,  manshape  ineluctable,  call it back.  Endless,
would  it be mine, form  of my form?  Who watches me here? Who ever anywhere
will read  these written words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone
in your flutiest voice.  The  good  bishop of  Cloyne took  the veil  of the
temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on
its  field. Hold hard. Coloured on a  flat: yes, that's  right. Flat I  see,
then think distance, near, far, flat I see,  east,  back. Ah, see now. Falls
back  suddenly,  frozen in  stereoscope. Click  does the  trick. You find my
words dark. Darkness is in our  souls, do you not think? Flutier. Our souls,
shame-wounded  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 jess of her
sunshade. She lives  in Leeson park, with a grief and  kickshaws, a lady  of
letters. Talk  that to someone else, Stevie: a pickmeup. Bet she wears those
curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned  with lumpy wool.
Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Where are your wits?
     Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me
soon, now. What is  that word known  to all men? I am quiet here  alone. Sad
too. Touch, touch me.
     He  lay back  at  full  stretch over  the  sharp  rocks,  cramming  the
scribbled note and pencil  into a  pocket, his hat tilted down on his  eyes.
That is Kevin Egan's movement I made nodding for his nap,  sabbath sleep. Et
vidit  Deus. Et erant valde  bona. Alo! Bonjour,  welcome as the  flowers in
May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing
sun. I am caught in this burning  scene. Pan's  hour, the faunal noon. Among
gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny  waters leaves
lie wide. Pain is far.
     And no more turn aside and brood.
     His   gaze  brooded   on  his  broadtoed   boots,   a  buck's  castoffs
nebeneinander: He  counted  the  creases of rucked leather wherein another's
foot had nested warm. The  foot that beat  the  ground in tripudium,  foot I
dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you:  girl
I knew in Paris. Tiens,  quel  petit pied!  Staunch  friend, a brother soul:
Wilde's  love  that dare  not speak its name. 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, forth  flowing, wending  back: loom of the
moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in
her courts, she draws a toil of waters.
     Five  fathoms out there. Full fathom five  thy father lies. At  one  he
said. Found drowned. High  water  at Dublin bar.  Driving before it  a loose
drift  of  rubble,  fanshoals  of  fishes, silly  shells.  A  corpse  rising
saltwhite  from  the undertow, bobbing landward, a pace  a pace a  porpoise.
There  he is. Hook it quick. 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  his my sandal
shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.
     He took  the  hilt  of his  ashplant, lunging with it softly,  dallying
still. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make  their
end. By the way next when is it? Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the
glad  new year,  mother, the rum tum tiddledy  tum. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman
poet.  Giю. For  the old  hag with the yellow teeth.  And  Monsieur Drumont,
gentleman journalist. Giю. 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. 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.




     MR LEOPOLD BLOOM ATE WITH RELISH  THE INNER ORGANS OF BEASTS and fowls.
He liked thick  giblet soup, nutty  gizzards,  a stuffed roast heart,  liver
slices  fried with crustcrumbs,  fried  hencod's roes. Most of all he  liked
grilled  mutton kidneys  which gave  to his  palate  a  fine tang of faintly
scented urine.
     Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting
her  breakfast things on the humpy tray.  Gelid light and  air  were  in the
kitchen but out of doors gentle summer  morning  everywhere. Made him feel a
bit peckish.
     The coals were reddening.
     Another slice of bread  and butter: three, four: right. She didn't like
her plate full. Right. He  turned from  the tray, lifted the kettle off  the
hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout
stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry.  The cat walked stiffly round a
leg of the table with tail on high.
     -- Mkgnao!
     -- O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.
     The  cat mewed  in answer and  stalked again stiffly round a leg of the
table, mewing. Just  how she stalks over  my writing-table. 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.  Wonder
what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.
     --  Afraid  of the chickens she is,  he  said  mockingly. Afraid of the
chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.
     Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.
     -- Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.
     She  blinked up  out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing  plaintively
and  long, showing  him her  milkwhite teeth. He watched  the dark  eyeslits
narrowing with greed till  her eyes were  green stones. Then he went  to the
dresser, took the jug  Hanlon's  milkman  had just filled  for  him,  poured
warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.
     -- Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.
     He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as  she tipped
three times  and licked lightly.  Wonder  is it true if  you clip them  they
can't mouse after. Why?  They shine in the  dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind
of feelers in the dark, perhaps.
     He listened to her licking lap. Ham and  eggs, no. No  good  eggs  with
this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good  day  either  for a
mutton kidney  at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper.  Better a
pork kidney at Dlugacz's. While the kettle is boiling.  She  lapped  slower,
then licking  the  saucer  clean. Why are  their  tongues  so  rough? To lap
better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round him. No.
     On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by
the bedroom door. She  might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter she
likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way.
     He said softly in the bare hall:
     -- I am going round the corner. Be back in a minute.
     And when he had heard his voice say it he added:
     -- You don't want anything for breakfast?
     A sleepy soft grunt answered:
     -- Mn.
     No. She did not want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer,
as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the  bedstead jingled. Must
get those settled really.  Pity. All  the way from Gibraltar.  Forgotten any
little Spanish she knew.  Wonder what her father gave for it.  Old style. Ah
yes, of course. Bought it at the governor's auction. Got a short knock. Hard
as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. At Plevna that was. I rose from
the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it. Still he had brains enough to make that
corner in stamps. Now that was farseeing.
     His hand took  his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat,
and his  lost property  office  secondhand  waterproof.  Stamps:  stickyback
pictures. Daresay lots of officers  are in the swim too. Course they do. The
sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's  high grade
ha.  He peeped  quickly  inside  the leather  headband. White slip of paper.
Quite safe.
     On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey.  Not there.
In the trousers I left off. Must get it. Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe.  No
use  disturbing  her. She  turned  over sleepily  that  time.  He pulled the
halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till  the  footleaf dropped gently
over the threshold, a  limp  lid. Looked shut. All  right till I  come  back
anyhow.
     He crossed to  the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number
seventyfive. The  sun was  nearing the steeple of George's church. Be a warm
day I fancy.  Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Black conducts,
reflects (refracts is  it?), the heat. But I couldn't go in that light suit.
Make  a picnic of  it. His eyelids sank quietly  often as he walked in happy
warmth.  Boland's breadvan  delivering with  trays our daily but she prefers
yesterday's  loaves  turnovers  crisp  crowns  hot.  Makes  you feel  young.
Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at dawn, travel round in front
of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep it up for ever never grow a day
older technically. Walk along  a  strand, strange land, come to a city gate,
sentry there,  old ranker too, old Tweedy's big moustaches leaning on a long
kind of a spear. Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark
caves  of carpet shops,  big  man,  Turko  the  terrible, seated crosslegged
smoking a coiled pipe. Cries of sellers  in the streets. Drink water scented
with  fennel, sherbet. Wander  along all day.  Might meet a  robber or  two.
Well, meet him. Getting on to  sundown. The shadows of the mosques along 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 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 these instruments what do  you call
them: dulcimers. I pass.
     Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read: in the track
of  the  sun.  Sunburst on the titlepage.  He smiled, pleasing himself. What
Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the Freeman leader: a homerule
sun rising up  in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland.
He prolonged his pleased  smile. Ikey touch  that: homerule sun rising up in
the northwest.
     He approached Larry O'Rourke's. From the cellar  grating floated up the
flabby gush of porter. Through the open doorway the bar squirted  out whiffs
of ginger, teadust,  biscuitmush. Good house, however: just  the  end of the
city traffic. For  instance  M'Auley's  down there:  n. g. as  position.  Of
course if  they  ran  a tramline  along the North  Circular from the  cattle
market to the quays value would go up like a shot.
     Bald head over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for an
ad.  Still he knows his own business best. There he Is, sure enough, my bold
Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned
curate  swab  up with mop and bucket. Simon Dedalus takes  him off to a  tee
with his  eyes screwed  up. Do  you know what I'm  going to tell you? What's
that, Mr  O'Rourke? Do you know  what? The Russians, they'd only be an eight
o'clock breakfast for the Japanese.
     Stop and  say  a word: about  the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor
Dignam, Mr O'Rourke.
     Turning  into Dorset street  he  said freshly in  greeting  through the
doorway:
     -- Good day, Mr O'Rourke.
     -- Good day to you.
     -- Lovely weather, sir.
     -- 'Tis all that.
     Where do they  get  the  money? Coming  up  redheaded curates  from the
county Leitrim, rinsing empties  and  old  man in the cellar.  Then, lo  and
behold,  they blossom out  as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then think  of
the competition. General  thirst.  Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without
passing a pub. Save it they can't. Off  the  drunks perhaps. Put  down three
and carry five. What is that? A bob here and there, dribs and  drabs. On the
wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with the  town  travellers.
Square it 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. Ten. Fifteen. He passed Saint
Joseph's, National  school. Brats' clamour.  Windows open.  Fresh  air helps
memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee  double you.
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. Fifty  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 pig's 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: washing soda. And a pound and a half
of Denny's sausages. His eyes rested  on her  vigorous hips. Woods his  name
is. Wonder what he does. Wife  is oldfish. 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 up  a page  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
blurred  cropping cattle, the page rustling.  A  young  white heifer.  Those
mornings in the cattlemarket the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep,
flop and fall of dung, the breeders  in hobnailed boots trudging through the
litter, slapping a  palm  on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a  prime one,
unpeeled switches in their hands. He held the page aslant patiently, bending
his senses and  his will,  his soft  subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt
swinging whack by whack by whack.
     The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up  her prime
sausages and made a red grimace.
     -- Now, my miss, he said.
     She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.
     --  Thank you, my miss.  And one  shilling threepence  change. For you,
please?
     Mr Bloom  pointed quickly. To catch up and  walk behind her if she went
slowly, behind her moving  hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the morning.
Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines. She stood outside the shop
in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He sighed down his nose: they
never understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted  toenails too.  Brown scapulars
in tatters, defending  her both ways. The sting  of disregard glowed to weak
pleasure within his breast.  For another a constable off duty cuddled her in
Eccles Lane. They like them sizeable. Prime sausage. O please, Mr Policeman,
I'm lost in the wood.
     -- Threepence, please.
     His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket.
Then it  fetched  up three coins from his trousers'  pocket and laid them on
the rubber prickles. They  lay, were read quickly and quickly  slid, disc by
disc, into the till.
     -- Thank you, sir. Another time.
     A  speck of eager fire  from foxeyes thanked him. He  withdrew his gaze
after an instant. No: better not: another time.
     -- Good morning, he said, moving away.
     -- Good morning, sir.
     No sign. Gone. What matter?
     He  walked back along Dorset  street, reading gravely. Agendath Netaim:
planter's company. To purchase vast 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 eight 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.  Silvered  powdered
olivetrees.  Quiet  long days:  pruning ripening. Olives are packed in jars,
eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows the taste
of them  now. Oranges  in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too. Wonder
is poor Citron  still alive 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 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 wholly 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  would lift those
waves, grey  metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it raining
down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names. A dead
sea  in a  dead land,  grey and old. Old now. It bore the oldest,  the first
race. A bent hag crossed  from Cassidy's clutching  a  noggin 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. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of the bed. Must begin
again those Sandow's  exercises.  On  the hands  down. Blotchy  brown  brick
houses.  Number  eighty  still   unlet.  Why  is  that?  Valuation  is  only
twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered
with bills. Plasters  on a sore eye. To smell the gentle smoke of tea,  fume
of the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes.
     Quick  warm sunlight came running from  Berkeley Road, swiftly, in slim
sandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet  me,  a girl
with gold hair on the wind.
     Two letters and  a card lay  on the hallfloor. He stopped  and gathered
them. Mrs  Marion Bloom. His  quick  heart slowed at once.  Bold  hand.  Mrs
Marion.
     -- Poldy!
     Entering  the  bedroom he halfclosed his  eyes  and walked through warm
yellow twilight towards her tousled head.
     -- Who are the letters for?
     He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly.
     -- A letter for me from Milly, he said  carefully,  and a  card to you.
And a letter for you.
     He  laid her  card and letter on the twill bedspread near  the curve of
her knees.
     -- Do you want the blind up?
     Letting  the blind  up by  gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her
glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow.
     -- That do? he asked, turning.
     She was reading the card, propped on her elbow.
     -- She got the things, she said.
     He  waited  till she had laid  the  card aside and curled herself  back
slowly with a snug sigh.
     -- Hurry up with that tea, she said. I'm parched.
     -- The kettle is boiling, he said.
     But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled
linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed.
     As he went down the kitchen stairs she called:
     -- Poldy!
     -- What?
     -- Scald the teapot.
     On the boil sure  enough: a plume of  steam  from the spout. He scalded
and rinsed out the  teapot and  put in four  full spoons of tea, tilting the
kettle then to let  water flow  in.  Having set it to draw,  he took off the
kettle and crushed the pan flat on  the live coals  and  watched the lump of
butter slide  and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed hungrily
against him.  Give her too  much meat she  won't  mouse. Say they  won't eat
pork. Kosher. Here. He let  the  bloodsmeared paper fall to her  and dropped
the kidney amid the  sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He sprinkled it  through
his fingers, ringwise, from the chipped eggcup.
     Then he slit open his letter, glancing down  the page and over. Thanks:
new tam:  Mr  Coghlan:  lough Owel  picnic:  young  student: Blazes Boylan's
seaside girls.
     The tea  was drawn. He  filled his own  moustachecup, sham crown Derby,
smiling. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Only five she was then. No wait: four.
I gave her the  amberoid necklace  she broke. Putting pieces of folded brown
paper in the letterbox for her. He smiled, pouring.
     O Milly Bloom, you are my darling.
     You are my looking glass from night to morning.
     I'd rather have you without a farthing
     Than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden.
     Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still he was a courteous
old chap.  Oldfashioned way he  used to bow  Molly off the platform. And the
little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought it  into the parlour.
O,  look  what I  found in  professor Goodwin's  hat!  All  we  laughed. Sex
breaking out even then. Pert little piece she was.
     He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted  the
teapot  on the  tray.  Its  hump  bumped as he took it up. Everything on it?
Bread  and  butter,  four,  sugar,  spoon,  her cream.  Yes.  He carried  it
upstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.
     Nudging  the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and  set it
on the chair by the bedhead.
     -- What a time you were, she said.
     She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on
the pillow. He  looked calmly down on her bulk and  between  her  large soft
bubs,  sloping  within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. The  warmth of
her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she
poured.
     A strip  of  torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the
act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.
     -- Who was the letter from? he asked.
     Bold hand. Marion.
     -- O, Boylan, she said. He's bringing the programme.
     -- What are you singing?
     -- La ci darem with J. C. Doyle, she said, and Love's Old Sweet Song.
     Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves
next day. Like foul flowerwater.
     -- Would you like the window open a little?
     She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking:
     -- What time is the funeral?
     -- Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn't see the paper.
     Following the pointing  of her finger  he took  up a  leg of her soiled
drawers from the  bed.  No?  Then,  a  twisted  grey garter  looped round  a
stocking: rumpled, shiny sole.
     -- No: that book.
     Other stocking. Her petticoat.
     -- It must have fell down, she said.
     He felt here and there.  Voglio e non vorvez.  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
orange-keyed 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 downwards and read near her polished thumbnail.
     -- Metempsychosis?
     -- Yes. Who's he when he's at home?
     -- Metempsychosis,  he said, frowning. It's Greek: from the Greek. That
means the transmigration of souls.
     -- O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain words.
     He smiled, glancing askance at her  mocking  eye. 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 metempsychosis.  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 its flow sideways.
     Must  get that Capel street  library book  renewed or  they'll write to
Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that's the word.
     -- Some people believe, he said, that  we go on living in another  body
after death, that we lived before.  They call it reincarnation. That we  all
lived before on the earth thousands of  years ago or some other planet. They
say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives.
     The  sluggish  cream  wound curdling spirals through  her  tea.  Better
remind her  of  the word:  metempsychosis. An  example would  be better.  An
example.
     The Bath  of the Nymph over  the bed. Given away with the Easter number
of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in  art colours. Tea before you put milk
in. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Three and six I gave for the
frame. She  said it would look nice  over the bed. Naked nymphs: Greece: and
for instance all the people that lived then.
     He turned the pages back.
     -- Metempsychosis, he said, is what  the ancient Greeks called it. They
used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for instance.
What they called nymphs, for example.
     Her spoon  ceased to  stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her,
inhaling through her arched nostrils.
     -- There's a smell of burn,  she  said.  Did  you leave anything on the
fire?
     -- The kidney! he cried suddenly.
     He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes
against  the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily
down the stairs with  a flurried stork's  legs. Pungent smoke  shot up in an
angry Jet from a side of the pan. By prodding a  prong of the fork under the
kidney  he  detached  it and turned  it turtle on  its  back. Only a  little
burned. He tossed it off the pan on  to  a  plate  and  let the scanty brown
gravy trickle over it.
     Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of  the loaf.  He
shore  away the burnt flesh and flung  it to the cat. Then he  put a forkful
into his mouth, chewing with discernment  the toothsome pliant meat. Done to
a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread, sopped one in the
gravy and  put it in his mouth. What was that about some young student and a
picnic?  He creased out  the  letter at his  side, reading it slowly  as  he
chewed, sopping  another  die of bread in the gravy and  raising  it to  his
mouth.
     Dearest Papli,
     Thanks ever  so  much  for  the  lovely  birthday  present. It suits me
splendid.  Everyone says I'm quite  the  belle in my new tam. I got  mummy's
lovely box of creams and  am  writing. They  are  lovely. I  am  getting  on
swimming in the photo business  now. Mr Coghlan took one of me and  Mrs will
send when developed. We  did great  biz yesterday. Fair day and all the beef
to the heels  were in. We are going  to  lough  Owel  on Monday with  a  few
friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to mummy and to yourself  a big
kiss  and  thanks.  I hear  them  at the piano downstairs.  There is to be a
concert  in  the Greville Arms on  Saturday. There is a  young student comes
here some evenings named Bannon his cousins  or  something are big swells 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. Must now
close with fondest love.
     Your fond daughter, MILLY.
     P.S. Excuse bad writing, am in a hurry. Byby.
     M.
     Fifteen  yesterday.  Curious, fifteenth of the  month  too.  Her  first
birthday away from home.  Separation.  Remember the summer  morning  she was
born, running to  knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old woman.
Lots 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 pitying at the  postscript. Excuse bad writing.
Hurry.  Piano downstairs.  Coming out of  her shell. Row with her in  the XL
Cafи 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.
An&Aelig;mic a little. Was given  milk too long. On the Erin's King that day
round the Kish.  Damned  old  tub pitching about. Not a bit  funky. Her pale
blue scarf loose in the wind with her hair.
     All dimpled cheek's and curls,
     Your head it simply swirls.
     Seaside  girls. Torn  envelope.  Hands stuck in  his trousers  pockets,
jarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says. Pier
with lamps, summer evening, band,
     Those girls, those girls,
     Those lovely seaside girls'
     Milly  too.  Young kisses: the  first. Far away now  past. Mrs  Marion.
Reading lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling, braiding.
     A soft qualm regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will happen,
yes. Prevent. Useless: can't move. Girl's sweet light lips. Will happen too.
He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move now. Lips kissed,
kissing kissed. Full gluey woman's lips.
     Better where she is down there: away. Occupy her. Wanted a  dog to pass
the  time. Might take a trip down  there. August bank holiday, only two  and
six  return. Six  weeks off  however. Might work  a  press pass. Or  through
M'Coy.
     The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper,
nosed  at  it and stalked to the door. She looked back at him, mewing. Wants
to  go out. Wait before a door sometime it  will open. Let her wait. Has the
fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her  ear with her back
to the fire too.
     He  felt heavy, full:  then a gentle loosening  of his bowels. He stood
up, undoing the waistband of his trousers. The cat mewed to him.
     -- Miaow! he said in answer. Wait till I'm ready.
     Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs to the
landing.
     A paper. He liked to read at  stool. Hope no ape comes knocking just as
I'm.
     In the table drawer he found an  old number  of Titbits. He  folded  it
under  his armpit, went to the door and  opened  it. The cat went up in soft
bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed.
     Listening, he heard her voice:
     -- Come, come, pussy. Come.
     He went  out through the backdoor  into  the  garden:  stood  to listen
towards the next garden. No sound. Perhaps  hanging  clothes out to dry. The
maid was in the garden. Fine morning.
     He bent down to regard a lean file  of  spearmint growing by  the wall.
Make  a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to manure
the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur. All soil like
that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that  is? The hens in
the next garden:  their droppings  are very  good top  dressing. Best of all
though are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes. Mulch
of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid  gloves.  Dirty cleans. Ashes  too.
Reclaim the whole place.  Grow  peas in that corner  there. Lettuce.  Always
have  fresh  greens  then.  Still gardens  have their drawbacks. That bee or
bluebottle here Whitmonday.
     He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the
peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny, I don't remember that. Hallstand too
full. Four  umbrellas,  her rain  cloak. Picking  up  the  letters.  Drago's
shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown brilliantined
hair over his collar. Just had  a wash and brushup. Wonder have I time for a
bath  this morning. Tara  street.  Chap  in the paybox  there got away James
Stephens they say. O'Brien.
     Deep  voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agenda  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 window. The king was  in  his counting  house.
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  Masterstrike. Written by  Mr Philip  Beaufoy,
Playgoers' club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been
made to the writer.  Three  and a half.  Three  pounds  three. Three  pounds
thirteen and six.
     Quietly  he  read, restraining himself, the first  column and, yielding
but resisting, began  the  second. Midway, his  last resistance yielding, he
allowed  his  bowels  to ease  themselves quietly as he  read, reading still
patiently, that slight  constipation of yesterday  quite gone. Hope it's not
too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive one tabloid of
cascara sagrada. Life  might be so. It did not  move or touch him but it was
something  quick  and  neat. Print anything  now. Silly  season. He read on,
seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. Matcham often thinks
of the master-stroke 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 Hip, hooking the placket  of her skirt. Timing her. 9.15. Did Roberts
pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What possessed me to buy
this comb? 9.24. I'm swelled  after  that  cabbage.  A speck  of dust on the
patent leather of her boot.
     Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against  her stocking  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 smell off his breath dancing. No use  humming then. Allude to it.
Strange kind of music that last night.  The mirror was in shadow. She rubbed
her  handglass briskly on  her woollen  vest  against her  full wagging bub.
Peering into it. Lines in her eyes. It wouldn't pan out somehow.
     Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then black with daggers
and eyemasks. Poetical idea pink,  then golden, then grey, then black. Still
true to life also. Day, then the night.
     He  tore away half the prize story sharply  and wiped himself with  it.
Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled  back
the jerky shaky door of the  jakes  and came forth from  the gloom into  the
air.
     In  the  bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he  eyed carefully
his black trousers, the ends, the knees,  the houghs of the knees. What time
is the funeral? Better find out in the paper.
     A creak and a dark whirr  in the  air high up.  The bells  of  George's
church. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron.
     Heigho! Heigho!
     Heigho! Heigho!
     Heigho! Heigho!
     Quarter to. There again: the overtone following through the air, third.
     Poor Dignam!




     BY LORRIES ALONG SIR JOHN ROGERSON'S QUAY MR BLOOM WALKED soberly, past
Windmill  lane, Leask's the linseed  crusher's, 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's. At
eleven it is.  Time enough.  Daresay  Corny  Kelleher  bagged that  job  for
O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes  shut. Corney. Met her once in the park. In
the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she  then told with
my  tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he  bagged it. Bury  him cheap  in  a
whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.
     In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental
Tea Company  and  read the legends of  lead-papered  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 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  around  in the  sun, in dolce  far  niente. Not  doing a
hand's  turn all day.  Sleep  six months out of twelve.  Too hot to quarrel.
Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most.
Azotes. Hothouse  in Botanic  gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals
too tired to.  Sleeping  sickness  in the air.  Walk on roseleaves.  Imagine
trying to  eat  tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that  picture
somewhere? Ah, 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. Or is  it the volume is  equal  of  the weight?  It's a  law
something  like  that.  Vance in  High  school  cracking  his  fingerjoints,
teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really
when  you  say  the  weight? Thirtytwo  feet per  second, per second. Law of
falling bodies: per  second, per  second.  They all  fall to the ground. The
earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.
     He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her
sausages? Like  that something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman from
his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a  baton  and tapped it
at each sauntering step against his  trouserleg. Careless air: just  drop in
to see.  Per second, per second. Per  second for every second it means. From
the curbstone he darted a keen glance through  the door of  the  postoffice.
Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.
     He handed the card through the brass grill.
     -- Are there any letters for me? he asked.
     While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting
poster with soldiers of all  arms  on parade: and held  the tip of his baton
against his nostrils,  smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer  probably.
Went too far last time.
     The  postmistress handed him  back  through  the grill his card  with a
letter. He thanked and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.
     Henry Flower, Esq.
     c/o P. O. Westland Row,
     City.
     Answered  anyhow.  He slipped  card and  letter  into  his  sidepocket,
reviewing  again  the  soldiers  on parade. Where's old  Tweedy's  regiment?
Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier.
Pointed cuffs.  There  he is: royal  Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats.  Too showy.
That  must  be why  the women go after  them. Uniform. Easier  to enlist and
drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell  street at night:
disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack  now: an
army  rotten  with venereal disease: overseas  or halfseasover empire.  Half
baked they look: hypnotised like.  Eyes front. Mark time.  Table: able. Bed:
ed. The King's own. Never see  him dressed  up as a  fireman  or a bobby.  A
mason, yes.
     He  strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if
that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt
its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will
pay a  lot  of  heed, I don't think. His fingers  drew  forth the letter and
crumpled the  envelope in  his pocket. Something  pinned on:  photo perhaps.
Hair? No.
     M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when
you.
     -- Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?
     -- Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.
     -- How's the body?
     -- Fine. How are you?
     -- Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.
     His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:
     -- Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you're...
     -- O no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.
     -- To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?
     A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.
     -- E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.
     -- I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard
it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?
     -- I know.
     Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door
of the  Grosvenor. The porter hoisted  the valise up on the  well. She stood
still,  waiting, while the man,  husband,  brother, like  her,  searched his
pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat  with that roll collar,  warm for a
day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands
in those patch pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo match.  Women
all  for  caste till you  touch the spot. Handsome  is  and  handsome  does.
Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man.
Possess her once take the starch out of her.
     -- I was with Bob Doran,  he's on one of his periodical bends, and what
do you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.
     Doran, Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came
Hoppy. Having  a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing  far from beneath his
veiled  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. Well turned foot. What is he fostering over that change for?  Sees
me looking. Eye out for other  fellow always. Good fallback.  Two strings to
her bow.
     -- Why? I said. What's wrong with him? I said.
     Proud: rich: silk stockings.
     -- Yes, Mr Bloom said.
     He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting  up in a
minute.
     -- What's wrong with him?  he said. He's dead, he said.  And, faith, he
filled up. Is  it Paddy Dignam? I  said.  I couldn't believe it when I heard
it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch.
Yes, he said. He's gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow.
     Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!
     A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.
     Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and
the peri. Always happening  like  that.  The very moment.  Girl  in  Eustace
street hallway. Monday  was it settling her garter. Her friend  covering the
display of. Esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping at?
     -- Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.
     -- One of the best, M'Coy said.
     The tram  passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich
gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in
the sun: flicker, flick.
     -- Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said.
     -- O yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.
     He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:
     What is home without
     Plumtree's Potted Meat?
     Incomplete.
     With it an abode of bliss.
     -- My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.
     Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I'm off that, thanks.
     Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.
     -- My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the
Ulster hall, Belfast, on the twentyfifth.
     -- That so? M'Coy said. Glad to  hear  that, old man. Who's getting  it
up?
     Mrs Marion Bloom.  Not up  yet. Queen  was in her bedroom eating  bread
and. No book. Blackened  court  cards laid along  her thigh by  sevens. Dark
lady and fair man. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.
     Love's
     Old
     Sweet
     Song
     Comes lo-ve's old...
     --  It's a kind of a tour, don't you see? Mr  Bloom said  thoughtfully.
Sweet song. There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.
     M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.
     -- O well, he said. That's good news.
     He moved to go.
     -- Well, glad  to  see you  looking  fit, he  said. Meet  you  knocking
around.
     -- Yes, Mr Bloom said.
     -- Tell  you  what, M'Coy  said. You might  put  down  my name  at  the
funeral, will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a
drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself would
have to go down if the body is  found. You just shove in my  name if I'm not
there, will you?
     --  I'll do  that,  Mr Bloom said,  moving to  get  off. That'll be all
right.
     -- Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks,  old man. I'd go if  I  possibly
could. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M'Coy will do.
     -- That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.
     Didn't  catch me napping  that  wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd
like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped  corners,
riveted edges,  double  action  lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his  for the
Wicklow regatta  concert  last year and  never heard tidings of it from that
good day to this.
     Mr Bloom, strolling  towards  Brunswick street, smiled.  My  missus has
just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose.  Nice  enough in its
way: for a little  ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you know? In the
same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that  would.  Can't he  hear the
difference?  Think he's that way inclined  a bit. Against my  grain somehow.
Thought that Belfast would fetch him.  I hope that smallpox up there doesn't
get worse. Suppose  she wouldn't let  herself be vaccinated again. Your wife
and my wife.
     Wonder is he pimping after me?
     Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured
hoardings. Cantrell  and  Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic).  Clery's  summer
sale. No,  he's going  on straight. Hello. Leah tonight: Mrs Bandman Palmer.
Like  to  see  her  in  that  again.  Hamlet she  played  last  night.  Male
impersonator.  Perhaps he was a  woman.  Why Ophelia committed suicide? Poor
papa! How he used to talk about Kate Bateman in that! Outside the Adelphi in
London waited all the afternoon  to get in. Year before I was born that was:
sixtyfive. And  Ristori  in  Vienna.  What  is  this the  right name is?  By
Mosenthal it  is. Rachel, is it? No. The  scene  he was always talking about
where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his
face.
     -- Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left
his father  to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his
father and left the God of his father.
     Every word is so deep, Leopold.
     Poor papa! Poor  man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his
face. That day! O dear! O dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was the best for him.
     Mr  Bloom went  round the corner  and passed the  drooping nags of  the
hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met that
M'Coy fellow.
     He  came  nearer and  heard a crunching  of  gilded  oats,  the  gently
champing teeth. Their full buck eyes  regarded  him  as he went by, amid the
sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they
know  or  care  about anything with their  long noses stuck in nosebags. Too
full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their  doss.  Gelded
too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Might
be happy  all  the  same  that way. Good poor brutes  they look. Still their
neigh can be very irritating.
     He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into  the newspaper he
carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.
     He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious  the life of  drifting cabbies,
all weathers, all  places, time or setdown, no will  of their  own. Voglio e
non.  Like  to  give them an odd  cigarette.  Sociable. Shout  a few  flying
syllables as they pass. He hummed:
     La ci darem la mano
     La la lala la la.
     He turned into  Cumberland street and,  going  on some paces, halted in
the lee of the  station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins
and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch  court with its
forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child at
marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise tabby, a blinking
sphinx,  watched from her warm  sill.  Pity  to disturb them. Mohammed cut a
piece out of his mantel not to wake her. Open it. And once  I played marbles
when I went to that old  dame's  school. She liked mignonette. Mrs  Ellis's.
And Mr? He opened the letter within the newspaper.
     A flower.  I think  it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals.  Not
annoyed then? What does she say?
     Dear Henry,
     I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry
you did not like  my last letter.  Why  did  you  enclose  the stamps?  I am
awfully angry with you. I do wish I  could punish you for that. I called you
naughty  boy because I do  not like that other world. Please tell me what is
the real meaning of  that word.  Are you  not happy in  your  home you  poor
little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something  for you.  Please tell me
what you  think of poor me. I often  think  of the beautiful name  you have.
Dear Henry, when will we meet? I  think of you so often you have no idea.  I
have  never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you.  I feel so bad about.
Please write  me a  long letter  and tell me more. Remember if you do  not I
will punish  you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if
you  do  not write.  O how I long to meet  you.  Henry dear, do not deny  my
request  before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye
now, naughty darling.  I have  such a bad headache today and write by return
to your longing
     MARTHA.
     P.S. Do tell  me what kind  of  perfume does  your wife use. I  want to
know.
     He tore  the flower gravely from  its pinhold smelt its almost no smell
and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because
no-one  can hear. Or a  poison  bouquet to  strike him  down.  Then, walking
slowly forward, he read the letter again,  murmuring here and there a  word.
Angry  tulips with  you  darling  manflower punish your cactus if  you don't
please  poor  forgetmenot how I long  violets to  dear roses  when  we  soon
anemone meet  all  naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having read  it
all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.
     Weak joy  opened his lips.  Changed since the first  letter. Wonder did
she write  it  herself. Doing the indignant:  a girl of good family like me,
respectable  character. Could meet one Sunday after  the rosary. Thank  you:
not having  any. Usual love scrimmage.  Then running round corners. Bad as a
row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further  next time.
Naughty  boy: punish:  afraid of-words, of course. Brutal, why not?  Try  it
anyhow. A bit at a time.
     Fingering  still  the letter in his pocket he drew the pin  out of  it.
Common  pin,  eh?  He  threw it on the  road. Out  of her clothes somewhere:
pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses without
thorns.
     Flat  Dublin voices  bawled  in his head. Those two sluts that night in
the Coombe, linked together in the rain.
     O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers.
     She didn't know what to do
     To keep it up
     To keep it up.
     It? Them.  Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting  all
day typing. Eyefocus  bad for  stomach  nerves. What perfume does  your wife
use? Now could you make out a thing like that?
     To keep it up.
     Martha, Mary. I saw that picture  somewhere I forget now old  master or
faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the
two sluts in the Coombe would listen.
     To keep it up.
     Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there:
quiet dusk: let everything  rip.  Forget. Tell about  places you have  been,
strange customs. The other  one, jar  on  her head, was getting the  supper:
fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of the well stonecold like the  hole in
the  wall at Ashtown. Must  carry  a  paper goblet  next  time  I go to  the
trottingmatches.  She  listens with big  dark soft eyes. Tell her:  more and
more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.
     Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope,  tore it swiftly
in  shreds and scattered them  towards the road. The shreds fluttered  away,
sank in the dank air: a white flutter then all sank.
     Henry Flower. You  could tear up  a cheque for  a hundred pounds in the
same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord  Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque
for a million in the  bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of
porter. Still the other brother  lord  Ardilaun has to change his shirt four
times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million  pounds, wait a
moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence  a  quart, eightpence a gallon of porter,
no, one and  fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen
about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.
     What am  I saying barrels?  Gallons. About a  million  barrels all  the
same.
     An  incoming train clanked heavily above his  head,  coach after coach.
Barrels bumped  in his head: dull  porter  slopped  and churned inside.  The
bungholes  sprang open and  a huge  dull flood leaked out, flowing together,
winding through  mudflats all over  the level land, a  lazy pooling swirl of
liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.
     He  had reached the open  backdoor  of  All  Hallows. Stepping into the
porch he doffed his hat, took the  card from his pocket and  tucked it again
behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy for a
pass to Mullingar.
     Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend  John Conmee S. J.
on saint Peter Claver and the African mission. Save China's millions. Wonder
how they  explain  it  to  the heathen  Chinee. Prefer  an  ounce  of opium.
Celestials. Rank  heresy for  them. Prayers for the conversion of  Gladstone
they had  too  when he  was almost unconscious.  The protestants  the  same.
Convert Dr. William J. Walsh D. D. to the  true religion.  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: distinguished looking. Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into
the  choir  instead  of that  Father Farley  who looked  a fool but  wasn't.
They're  taught  that. He's  not going  out  in bluey specs  with the  sweat
rolling  off him  to  baptise blacks,  is  he? The glasses  would take their
fancy,  flashing.  Like to see them  sitting round in a ring with blub lips,
entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.
     The cold smell  of sacred stone  called  him.  He  trod the worn steps,
pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.
     Something going on: some sodality. Pity so  empty.  Nice discreet place
to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music.
That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches with
crimson halters round  their necks,  heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altar
rails. 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: a small old woman. The priest bent  down to put it
into her mouth, murmuring all the  time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes
and  open your  mouth. What?  Corpus.  Body. Corpse.  Good  idea  the Latin.
Stupefies  them  first. Hospice for  the  dying. They don't seem to chew it;
only  swallow it down.  Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse  why the cannibals
cotton to it.
     He  stood aside watching their blind masks  pass down the aisle, one by
one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself  in its
corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We  ought
to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here and there, with
heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for  it to melt in their
stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of  bread: unleavened
shewbread.  Look at them. Now  I bet it makes them  feel happy. Lollipop. It
does. Yes,  bread of angels it's called. There's a big  idea behind it, kind
of kingdom of God is within  you  feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a
lump. Then feel  all like one  family party, same in the theatre, all in the
same swim. They  do. I'm sure of that. Not  so lonely. In our confraternity.
Then  come out a big 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 confession box. Hence those snores.
Blind faith. Safe in the arms of Kingdom  come.  Lulls  all  pain. Wake this
time next year.
     He  saw  the  priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an
instant before it, showing a  large grey bootsole from under the lace affair
he had on. Suppose he lost the  pin of his. He wouldn't  know what to do to.
Bald spot behind. Letters on his back I. N. R.  I.? No: I. H.  S. Molly told
me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or  no:  I have suffered, it is. And
the other one? Iron nails ran in.
     Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny  my request. Turn up with
a veil and  black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here with
a ribbon round her  neck  and do the  other  thing all the same on  the sly.
Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the invincibles
he  used  to  receive the, Carey  was his name, the communion every morning.
This  very  church. Peter Carey. No,  Peter Claver  I am  thinking of. Denis
Carey. And just imagine that.  Wife and six children  at  home. And plotting
that murder all the time.  Those  crawthumpers, now  that's a  good name for
them,  there's  always  something  shiftylooking  about  them.  They're  not
straight men of business either. O no she's not here: the flower: no, no. By
the way did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.
     The priest was  rinsing out the chalice:  then he tossed  off the dregs
smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank  what
they  are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance  beverage  Wheatley's
Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale (aromatic). Doesn't
give  them  any of it: shew  wine: only the other. Cold comfort. Pious fraud
but  quite right: otherwise they'd  have one  old booser worse than  another
coming  along, cadging for a drink. Queer the whole atmosphere of the. Quite
right. Perfectly right that is.
     Mr Bloom  looked  back towards the choir. Not  going  to be  any music.
Pity. Who has the organ  here I  wonder? Old Glynn he  knew how to make that
instrument  talk,  the  vibrato:  fifty  pounds a year  they say  he  had in
Gardiner  street.  Molly  was in fine voice that  day, the  Stabat  Mater of
Rossini. Father  Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or  Pilate?  Christ,
but  don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted.  Footdrill stopped.
Could hear a pin  drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I
could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up:
     Quis est homo!
     Some  of that old  sacred music  is  splendid.  Mercadante:  seven last
words.  Mozart's twelfth mass: the Gloria in that. Those old popes were keen
on  music,  on art  and statues and pictures of  all  kinds.  Palestrina for
example too. They  had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too chanting,
regular  hours,  then brew  liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse.  Still,
having eunuchs in  their choir that was  coming it a bit thick. What kind of
voice  is  it?  Must  be curious  to hear  after their  own  strong  basses.
Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after.  Kind of  a placid.
No worry. Fall into flesh don't they?  Gluttons, tall, long legs. Who knows?
Eunuch. One way out of it.
     He saw the priest  bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and
bless all the  people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glanced
about  him  and then  stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up at the
gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat back
quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar, holding the thing
out from him, and he and the massboy answered  each other in Latin. Then the
priest knelt down and began to read off a card:
     -- O God, our refuge and our strength.
     Mr Bloom put his face forward  to catch the words.  English. Throw them
the bone. I  remember slightly. How long  since your  last  mass? Gloria and
immaculate  virgin. Joseph her spouse. Peter and  Paul. More  interesting if
you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes
like  clockwork.  Confession. Everyone wants  to. Then I  will tell you all.
Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon In their hands. More than doctor or
solicitor.  Woman  dying   to.   And   I  schschschschschsch.  And  did  you
chachachachacha? And why did  you? Look down at her  ring to find an excuse.
Whispering  gallery walls have ears. Husband learn  to his  surprise.  God's
little  joke. Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at
an altar.  Hail Mary and Holy Mary.  Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide
her  blushes. Salvation  army blatant  imitation.  Reformed prostitute  will
address the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps  those must be
in Rome:  they work the  whole  show. And don't they  rake in the money too?
Bequests also: to the P. P.  for the time being  in his absolute discretion.
Masses for the  repose  of  my soul  to  be  said publicly with open  doors.
Monasteries and  convents. The  priest in  the Fermanagh  will case  in  the
witness  box. No  browbeating  him. He had  his answer  pat for  everything.
Liberty and exaltation of our  holy mother  the church.  The  doctors of the
church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.
     The priest prayed:
     -- Blessed  Michael, archangel, defend us  in the hour of  conflict. Be
our safeguard against  the  wickedness and  snares  of  the  devil (may  God
restrain  him, we  humbly pray): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host,
by  the  power of God thrust Satan down  to hell  and  with him those  other
wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.
     The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women
remained behind: thanksgiving.
     Better  be shoving  along.  Brother  Buzz. Come  around  with the plate
perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.
     He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the
time. Women enjoy it. Annoyed  if you don't. Why-didn't  you tell me before.
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. Still like
you  better untidy.  Good job it wasn't farther south. He passed, discreetly
buttoning, down the aisle and out through the  main door into the  light. He
stood a  moment unseeing  by the cold black marble bowl while before him and
behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands  in the  low tide of holy water.
Trams: a  car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow  in  her weeds. Notice because
I'm in mourning myself. He covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter past.
Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up. Where  is this? Ah yes, the
last  time. Sweny's in Lincoln  place. Chemists rarely move. Their green and
gold beaconjars too heavy  to stir. Hamilton Long's, founded in  the year of
the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.
     He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe  is in the other
trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey  too.  Bore  this  funeral affair. O
well, poor  fellow, it's not  his fault. When was it I got it  made up last?
Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been
or the second. O he can look it up in the prescriptions book.
     The chemist turned back page  after  page.  Sandy  shrivelled smell  he
seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the  philosopher's  stone.
The  alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy  then. Why?
Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes  your  character.  Living
all  the  day  among  herbs,  ointments,  disinfectants. All  his  alabaster
lilypots.  Mortar and pestle.  Aq. Dist. Fol.  Laur. Te Virid.  Smell almost
cure you like the dentist's  doorbell.  Doctor  whack. He  ought  to  physic
himself a bit.  Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow  that picked an herb
to  cure himself  had a bit  of pluck. Simples. Want to be  careful.  Enough
stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform.
Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts.  Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup
bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy
where you least expect it. Clever of nature.
     -- About a fortnight ago, sir?
     -- Yes, Mr Bloom said.
     He waited by the  counter, inhaling 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. Pure
curd  soap. Water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps  have.  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 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 those soaps. How much are they?
     -- Fourpence, sir.
     Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.
     -- I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.
     -- Yes, sir,  the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you
come back.
     -- Good, Mr Bloom said.
     He  strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the
coolwrappered soap in his left hand.
     At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:
     -- Hello,  Bloom, what's  the  best news?  Is  that today's? Show us  a
minute.
     Shaved off  his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To  look
younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.
     Bantam Lyons' yellow blacknailed fingers  unrolled the  baton. Wants  a
wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good  morning, have you used Pears' soap?
Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.
     -- I want to see about that French  horse that's running  today, Bantam
Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?
     He  rustled the pleated pages,  jerking his  chin  on his  high collar.
Barber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair.  Better leave him the paper
and get shut of him.
     -- You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.
     -- Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the
second.
     -- I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.
     Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.
     -- What's that? his sharp voice said.
     -- I say you  can keep it, Mr  Bloom answered. I was going  to throw it
away that moment.
     Bantam Lyons doubted  an instant,  leering: then thrust  the  outspread
sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.
     -- I'Il risk it, he said. Here, thanks.
     He sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut.
     Mr  Bloom folded the  sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap
in  it,  smiling.  Silly lips of  that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed  of  it
lately. Messenger boys stealing to put  on sixpence. Raffle for large tender
turkey.  Your  Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack  Fleming  embezzling to
gamble  then smuggled off  to  America. Keeps a hotel  now.  They never come
back. Fleshpots of Egypt.
     He walked cheerfully  towards  the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a
mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports  today I see. He  eyed
the  horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like
a cod in a  pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had  made it  round like a  wheel.
Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college. Something
to catch the eye.
     There's Hornblower standing at  the porter's lodge. Keep  him on hands:
might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr  Hornblower? How do
you do, sir?
     Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.
Sit around under  sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't  play it here.
Duck for six wickets. Still  Captain Buller broke  a window in  the  Kildare
street club with a slog  to  square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line.
And the skulls  we were  acracking  when M'Carthy took  the floor. Heatwave.
Won't last. Always passing, the  stream of life, which in the stream of life
we trace is dearer than them all.
     Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool  enamel, the gentle tepid
stream. This is my body.
     He foresaw his  pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in  a  womb of
warmth,  oiled by  scented melting  soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and
limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his
navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled  curls  of his bush  floating,
floating hair of the stream around  the limp father of  thousands, a languid
floating flower.




     MARTIN CUNNINGHAM, FIRST, POKED HIS  SILKHATTED HEAD INTO  the creaking
carriage and,  entering deftly,  seated  himself. Mr Power stepped  in after
him, curving his height with care.
     -- Come on, Simon.
     -- After you, Mr Bloom said.
     Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying:
     -- Yes, yes.
     -- Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.
     Mr Bloom  entered and sat in the vacant place.  He  pulled  the door to
after him and slammed it tight till it shut tight. He passed an  arm through
the  armstrap and  looked seriously from  the  open carriage  window  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  slipper-slappers 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. Grow all the same after. Unclean job.
     All waited.  Nothing was said.  Stowing in the wreaths  probably. I  am
sitting on something hard. Ah, that  soap in  my hip pocket. Better shift it
out of that. Wait for an opportunity.
     All waited. Then wheels  were heard from in front turning: then nearer:
then horses'  hoofs.  A  jolt. Their carriage began  to move,  creaking  and
swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The  blinds of  the
avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At walking
pace.
     They waited still, their  knees jogging,  till they had turned and were
passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker.  The wheels rattled
rolling over the cobbled  causeway and the crazy  glasses shook  rattling in
the doorframes.
     -- What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.
     -- Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.
     Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.
     -- That's a  fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died
out.
     All  watched  awhile through  their  windows  caps and  hats  lifted by
passers. Respect. The  carriage swerved  from  the tramtrack to the smoother
road  past Watery lane. Mr Bloom  at gaze  saw  a lithe  young  man, clad in
mourning, a wide hat.
     -- There's a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said.
     -- Who is that?
     -- Your son and heir.
     -- Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.
     The  carriage, passing  the open  drains and mounds of rippedup roadway
before the tenement  houses,  lurched round the corner and, swerving back to
the tramtrack, rolled  on  noisily  with chattering wheels.  Mr Dedalus fell
back, saying:
     -- Was that Mulligan cad with him? His fidus Achates?
     -- No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.
     -- Down with his aunt  Sally,  I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding
faction, the drunken little  cost-drawer and  Crissie, papa's little lump of
dung, the wise child that knows her own father.
     Mr   Bloom  smiled  joylessly  on  Ringsend  road.  Wallace  Bros   the
bottleworks. Dodder bridge.
     Richie Goulding and  the legal bag.  Goulding, Collis and Ward he calls
the firm. His jokes  are getting a  bit damp. Great card he was. Waltzing in
Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the landlady's two
hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night.  Beginning to tell on
him now: that backache  of his, I fear. Wife ironing  his back. Thinks he'll
cure it with pills.  All  breadcrumbs  they are. About six hundred per  cent
profit.
     -- He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a
contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name  stinks all
over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I'Il 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 `Il 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 counter-jumper's
son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Not likely.
     He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power's mild
face  and  Martin  Cunningham's  eyes  and  beard,  gravely  shaking.  Noisy
selfwilled  man.  Full  of  his  son. He is right. Something to hand  on. If
little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house. Walking
beside Molly  in  an  Eton suit.  My son. Me in his eyes. Strange feeling it
would be.  From me. Just a  chance. Must have been  that morning  in Raymond
terrace  she was at the window, watching the two dogs  at it by the wall  of
the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up. She had that  cream gown
on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch,  Poldy.  God, I'm dying
for it. How life begins.
     Got big  then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her.
I could have helped him  on  in life. I could. Make  him independent.  Learn
German too.
     -- Are we late? Mr Power asked.
     -- Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch
     Molly. Milly. Same thing  watered  down.  Her tomboy oaths.  O  jumping
Jupiter!  Ye  gods and little  fishes! Still,  she's a dear girl.  Soon be a
woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman too. Life.
Life.
     The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying.
     -- Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said.
     --  He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he  hadn't that squint troubling him.
Do you follow me?
     He  closed  his  left  eye.  Martin  Cunningham  began  to  brush  away
crustcrumbs from under his thighs.
     -- What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs?
     --  Someone  seems to have  been making a picnic party here lately,  Mr
Power said.
     All raised their  thighs, eyed  with disfavour the  mildewed buttonless
leather  of the  seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward  and
said:
     -- Unless I'm greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin?
     -- It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said.
     Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath.  Feel my feet quite
clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.
     Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.
     -- After all, he said, it's the most natural thing in the world.
     -- Did Tom Kernan turn up?  Martin Cunningham asked,  twirling the peak
of his beard gently.
     -- Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He's behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes.
     -- And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked.
     -- At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said.
     -- I met M'Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he'd try to come.
     The carriage halted short.
     -- What's wrong?
     -- We're stopped.
     -- Where are we?
     Mr Bloom put his head out of the window.
     -- The grand canal, he said.
     Gasworks.  Whooping cough they say it cures.  Good  job Milly never got
it. Poor  children!  Doubles them  up black  and blue in  convulsions. Shame
really. Got off lightly with illness compared. Only  measles.  Flaxseed tea.
Scarlatina, influenza epidemics.  Canvassing  for  death.  Don't  miss  this
chance. Dogs' home over there. Poor old Athos! Be good to Athos, Leopold, is
my last wish.  Thy  will be done. We obey them in the grave. A dying scrawl.
He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men's dogs usually are.
     A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew  back and saw an  instant of shower
spray dots over the grey flags.  Apart. Curious. Like  through a colander. I
thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now.
     -- The weather is changing, he said quietly.
     -- A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said.
     -- Wanted for the country,  Mr Power said. There's the sun again coming
out.
     Mr Dedalus, peering through  his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled
a mute curse at the sky.
     -- It's as uncertain as a child's bottom, he said.
     -- We're off again.
     The carriage  turned again  its  stiff wheels  and  their trunks swayed
gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.
     -- Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking
him off to his face.
     --  O draw him out,  Martin, Mr Power said  eagerly. Wait till you hear
him, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy.
     -- Immense,  Martin Cunningham said  pompously.  His  singing  of  that
simple ballad, Martin, is  the most  trenchant rendering I ever heard in the
whole course of my experience.
     --  Trenchant,  Mr Power said laughing. He's dead nuts on that. And the
retrospective arrangement.
     -- Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Martin Cunningham asked.
     -- I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it?
     -- In the paper this morning.
     Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change
for her.
     -- No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on, please.
     Mr Bloom's  glance travelled down the edge of  the paper,  scanning the
deaths.  Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake
is that? is it the chap was  in Crosbie and Alleyne's? no, Sexton, Urbright.
Inked characters fast fading on  the  frayed  breaking paper. Thanks  to the
Little Flower.  Sadly  missed. To  the  inexpressible grief of his. Aged  88
after a long and tedious illness. Month's mind. Quinlan. On whose soul Sweet
Jesus have mercy.
     It is now a month since dear Henry fled
     To his home up above in the sky
     While his family weeps and mourns his loss
     Hoping some day to meet him on high.
     I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it
in the bath? He  patted  his waistcoat pocket.  There  all right. Dear Henry
fled. Before my patience are exhausted.
     National school. Meade's yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nodding.
Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round with
a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their hats.
     A  pointsman's  back  straightened  itself  upright  suddenly against a
tramway  standard  by  Mr  Bloom's  window.  Couldn't they invent  something
automatic so that the wheel itself much handler? 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 Bandman Palmer. Could  I  go to see Leah tonight, I wonder. I said I. Or
the Lily of Killarney? Elster Grimes Opera company. Big powerful change. Wet
bright bills for next week. Fun on the Bristol. Martin Cunningham could work
a pass for the Gaiety. Have to stand a drink or two. As broad as it's long.
     He's coming in the afternoon. Her songs.
     Plasto's. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Who was he?
     -- How do you do? Martin Cunningham  said, raising his palm to his brow
in salute.
     -- He doesn't see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How do you do?
     -- Who? Mr Dedalus asked.
     -- Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quiff.
     Just that moment I was thinking.
     Mr Dedalus bent  across to salute. From the door  of  the Red  Bank the
white disc of a straw hat flashed reply: passed.
     Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left  hand, then those  of his right
hand. The nails, yes. Is  there  anything more  in him  that  they she sees?
Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive.  They sometimes feel
what a person  Is.  Instinct.  But a type  like  that.  My nails. I am  just
looking at them: well pared. And  after: thinking alone. Body getting a  bit
softy. I would notice that from  remembering. What causes that I suppose the
skin can't contract quickly  enough when the flesh falls off. But  the shape
is there. The shape  is there  still. Shoulders. Hips.  Plump. Night  of the
dance dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind.
     He clasped his hands between  his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant
glance over their faces.
     Mr Power asked:
     -- How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?
     -- O very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It's a good
idea, you see .
     -- Are you going yourself?
     --  Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact  I have to go down to  the
county Clare on some private business. You see the idea is to tour the chief
towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other.
     -- Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now.
     -- Have you good artists?
     --  Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes,  we'll  have all
topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in fact.
     -- And Madame, Mr Power said, smiling. Last but not least.
     Mr  Bloom  unclasped his  hands  in  a gesture of soft  politeness  and
clasped  them.  Smith O'Brien. Someone  has laid a bunch of  flowers  there.
Woman. Must be his deathday.  For many  happy returns. The carriage wheeling
by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.
     Oot:  a dullgarbed old  man from the curbstone  tendered his wares, his
mouth opening: oot.
     -- Four bootlaces for a penny.
     Wonder why he was struck off the  rolls. Had his office in Hume street.
Same  house as Molly's namesake.  Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Has
that silk  hat ever  since. Relics of old  decency. Mourning  too.  Terrible
comedown, poor wretch! kicked about like snuff at a wake. O'Callaghan on his
last legs.
     And Madame. Twenty past eleven. Up.  Mrs Fleming is in to  clean. Doing
her hair,  humming:  voglio e non vorrei.  No: vorrei e  non. Looking at the
tips of her hairs to see if they are  split. Mi trema un  poco il. Beautiful
on  that  tre her voice is: weeping tone.  A thrust. A throstle. There  is a
word throstle that expressed that.
     His eyes passed  lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. Greyish over
the ears. Madame: smiling. I smiled  back.  A  smile does a long  way.  Only
politeness  perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is  that true about the woman he
keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it told me, there is
no carnal. You would imagine that would get played out pretty quick. Yes, it
was Crofton met  him one evening  bringing her a pound of rumpsteak. What is
this she was? Barmaid in Jury's. Or the Moira, was it?
     They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.
     Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.
     -- Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.
     A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round  the corner
of Elvery's elephant house showed them a curved hand open on his spine.
     -- In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.
     Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly:
     -- The devil break the hasp of your back!
     Mr Power, collapsing  in laughter, shaded  his face  from the window as
the carriage passed Gray's statue.
     -- We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly.
     His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. He caressed his beard, adding:
     -- Well, nearly all of us.
     Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces.
-- That's an awfully good one that's  going the  rounds about Reuben  J. and
the son.
     -- About the boatman? Mr Power asked.
     -- Yes. Isn't it awfully good?
     -- What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn't hear it.
     -- There was a girl in the case, Mr  Bloom began, and he determined  to
send him to the isle of Man out of harm's way but when they were both...
     -- What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it?
     -- Yes,  Mr Bloom said.  They were both on the way to the boat  and  he
tried to drown...
     -- Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did!
     Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.
     -- No, Mr Bloom said the son himself...
     Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely.
     -- Reuben J. and the son were piking it down the quay next the river on
their way to the isle of Man boat and the young chiseller suddenly got loose
and over the wall with him into the Liffey.
     -- For God's sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is he dead?
     --  Dead! Martin Cunningham  cried. Not he!  A boatman  got a pole  and
fished him  out by  the slack of  the breeches and he  was landed up to  the
father on the quay. More dead than alive. Half the town was there.
     -- Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is...
     -- And Reuben J., Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for
saving his son's life.
     A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power's hand.
     -- O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a hero. A silver florin.
     -- Isn't it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly.
     -- One and  eightpence  too much,  Mr  Dedalus  said drily. Mr  Power's
choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage. Nelson's pillar.
     -- Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny!
     -- We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said.
     Mr Dedalus sighed.
     -- And then  indeed, he said,  poor little  Paddy wouldn't  grudge us a
laugh. Many a good one he told himself.
     -- The Lord forgive me!  Mr Power  said, wiping  his wet  eyes with his
fingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week ago  when I saw him last and he
was in  his  usual health that I'd be driving after him like this. He's gone
from us.
     -- As decent  a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said. He went
very suddenly.
     -- Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.
     He tapped his chest sadly.
     Blazing  face:  redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for  a red nose.
Drink  like  the  devil  till it  turns  adelite.  A lot  of  money he spent
colouring it.
     Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.
     -- He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said.
     -- The best death, Mr Bloom said.
     Their wide open eyes looked at him.
     -- No suffering, he  said. A  moment  and  all  is over. Like  dying in
sleep.
     No-one spoke.
     Dead  side  of  the street this.  Dull business  by day,  land  agents,
temperance hotel, Falconer's  railway guide, civil  service college, Gill's,
catholic  club, the  industrious  blind. Why?  Some reason. Sun or  wind. At
night  too. Chummies and  slaveys.  Under the patronage of the  late  Father
Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart.
     White horses with white frontlet plumes came round  the Rotunda corner,
galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by.  In a hurry to bury.  A mourning coach.
Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for a nun.
     -- Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.
     A dwarf's face mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarf's body,
weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society pays. Penny
a week for a sod of  turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant nothing. Mistake
of nature. If it's healthy it's from the mother. If not the man. Better luck
next time.
     -- Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It's well out of it.
     The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his
bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.
     -- In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.
     -- But the worst of all, Mr  Power  said,  is the man who takes his own
life.
     Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.
     -- The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.
     -- Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We
must take a charitable view of it.
     -- They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said.
     -- It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.
     Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed  his lips  again. Martin  Cunningham's
large eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent. Like
Shakespeare's  face. Always a good word  to say.  They have no mercy on that
here or  infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive a stake of
wood  through his heart  in the grave.  As if it wasn't broken  already. Yet
sometimes they  repent too late. Found  in the riverbed clutching rushes. He
looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wife of his. Setting up house for
her  time  after time and then pawning the furniture  on him  every Saturday
almost. Leading him the life of the damned. Wear  the heart out  of a stone,
that. Monday  morning start afresh. Shoulder  to the  wheel. Lord,  she must
have looked a sight that night, Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about
the place and capering with Martin's umbrella:
     And they call me the jewel of Asia,
     Of Asia,
     The geisha.
     He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.
     That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The
room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the
slats  of  the  Venetian  blinds.  The coroner's ears, big and  hairy. Boots
giving  evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then  saw like yellow streaks
on his face. Had slipped  down  to  the foot of the bed. Verdict:  overdose.
Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son Leopold.
     No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.
     The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.
     -- We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said.
     -- God grant he doesn't upset us on the road, Mr Power said.
     --  I  hope  not,  Martin Cunningham  said. That will be  a great  race
tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.
     -- Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith.
     As they turned into Berkeley  street  a streetorgan near the Basin sent
over and  after them a rollicking rattling song  of  the halls.  Has anybody
here  seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead march from Saul. He's as bad as
old Antonio.  He left  me on  my ownio.  Pirouette! The Mater Misericordiae.
Eccles street. My house down there. Big  place. Ward  for  incurables there.
Very  encouraging.  Our  Lady's  Hospice  for  the  dying.  Deadhouse  handy
underneath. Where old  Mrs Riordan died. They  look  terrible the women. Her
feeding cup and rubbing her mouth  with the spoon. Then the screen round her
bed for her  to die. Nice  young student that was dressed  that bite the bee
gave me. He's gone over to  the  lying-in  hospital they  told me.  From one
extreme to the other.
     The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped.
     -- What's wrong now?
     A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching
by  on padded  hoofs,  whisking  their tails slowly  on their  clotted  bony
croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear.
     -- Emigrants, Mr Power said.
     --  Huuuh! the  drover's  voice cried,  his  switch  sounding on  their
flanks. Huuuh! Out of that!
     Thursday of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold them
about  twentyseven  quid each.  For Liverpool  probably. Roast beef for  old
England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter is lost:
all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a  big thing in a year. Dead
meat  trade.  Byproducts  of  the  slaughterhouses  for   tanneries,   soap,
margarine. Wonder if  that dodge works now getting dicky  meat off the train
at Clonsilla.
     The carriage moved on through the drove.
     -- I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the
parkgate to the  quays,  Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken  in
trucks down to the boats.
     -- Instead  of blocking  up the thoroughfare,  Martin Cunningham  said.
Quite right. They ought to.
     --  Yes,  Mr Bloom said, and another thing  I often thought is to  have
municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line  out
to the cemetery gates and have special  trams, hearse and  carriage and all.
Don't you see what I mean?
     -- O that  be  damned  for  a story, Mr  Dedalus said.  Pullman car and
saloon diningroom.
     -- A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.
     --  Why?  Mr  Bloom  asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn't  it be more
decent than galloping two abreast?
     -- Well, there's something in that, Mr Dedalus granted.
     -- And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn't have scenes  like that when
the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the road.
     -- That was terrible, Mr Power's shocked face said, and the corpse fell
about the road. Terrible!
     -- First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus aid, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.
     -- Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.
     Bom! Upset. A  coffin bumped  out  on  to  the  road. Burst open. Paddy
Dignam shot  out and rolling over stiff in the  dust  in a  brown habit  too
large for him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen  open. Asking what's up now.
Quite right  to  close it. Looks  horrid open.  Then  the insides  decompose
quickly. Much better to close up  all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The
sphincter loose. Seal up all.
     -- Dunphy's, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.
     Dunphy's corner.  Mourning  coaches drawn  up  drowning their  grief. A
pause  by the wayside.  Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up here
on the way back to drink  his health. Pass round  the consolation. Elixir of
life.
     But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if  a nail say cut him in
the knocking about? He would and he  wouldn't,  I suppose. Depends on where.
The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of  an artery. It would  be
better to bury them in red: a dark red.
     In silence they  drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted
by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.
     Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.
     Water  rushed roaring through  the sluices. A man stood on his dropping
barge  between clamps  of turf. On the towpath by  the  lock a slacktethered
horse. Aboard of the Bugabu.
     Their  eyes watched him.  On the slow weedy  waterway he had floated on
his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage  rope past beds of reeds,
over slime, mud-choked 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  strawhat,  saluting Paddy
Dignam.
     They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it now.
     -- I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said.
     -- Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.
     -- How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping I suppose.
     -- Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory dear.
     The carriage steered left for Finglas road.
     The stonecutter's yard  on the right.  Last lap. Crowded on the spit of
land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands, knelt
in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white  silence: appealing.
The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor.
     Passed.
     On the curbstone  before  Jimmy  Geary  the sexton's an old tramp  sat,
grumbling,  emptying  the dirt and stones out of his huge  dustbrown yawning
boot. After life's journey.
     Gloomy gardens then went by, one by one: gloomy houses.
     Mr Power pointed.
     -- That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house.
     -- So it is,  Mr Dedalus  said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got  him
off. Murdered his brother. Or so they said.
     -- The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said.
     -- Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. That's the maxim of the
law. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one  innocent person to
be wrongfully condemned.
     They   looked.   Murderer's  ground.   It  passed   darkly.  Shuttered,
tenantless, unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell. Wrongfully condemned.
Murder. The murderer's image in the eye of the murdered. They  love  reading
about it. Man's head  found  in a garden. Her clothing consisted of. How she
met her death. Recent outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still  at large.
Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed. Murder will out.
     Cramped in this carriage. She mightn't like me to come that way without
letting  her know. Must be careful about  women. Catch  them once with their
pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen.
     The high railings of Prospects rippled past  their gaze. Dark  poplars,
rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees,
white  forms and fragments streaming by mutely,  sustaining vain gestures on
the air.
     The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin Cunningham put
out his  arm and, wrenching back the  handle, shoved the door open  with his
knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed.
     Change that soap now. Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly
and transferred the  paperstuck soap to his  inner  handkerchief  pocket. He
stepped  out of the  carriage,  replacing the newspaper his other hand still
held.
     Paltry  funeral:  coach  and  three  carriages.  It's   all  the  same.
Pallbearers,  gold  reins, requiem  mass, firing  a  volley.  Pomp of death.
Beyond  the  hind carriage a hawker stood by his  barrow of cakes and fruit.
Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the dead. Dogbiscuits. Who
ate them? Mourners coming out.
     He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and  Ned  Lambert followed, Hynes
walking after them. Corny  Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took  out
the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy.
     Where is that child's funeral disappeared to?
     A  team of  horses  passed from  Finglas  with  toiling plodding tread,
dragging through the funereal  silence  a creaking  waggon on  which  lay  a
granite block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted.
     Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is.  Horse looking  round at
it with his plume skeowways. Dull eye: collar tight on his neck, pressing on
a  bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cart out here every day?
Must be twenty or  thirty funerals  every  day. Then  Mount  Jerome  for the
protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shovelling
them  under by  the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too  many in
the world.
     Mourners came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed harpy,
hard  woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl's face stained with dirt and
tears, holding the woman's arm looking up at her  for a sign to cry.  Fish's
face, bloodless and livid.
     The mutes shouldered the coffin  and bore it  in through the gates.  So
much dead weight. Felt heavier  myself stepping out of that bath. First  the
stiff: then  the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher  and  the boy followed
with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law.
     All walked after.
     Martin Cunningham whispered:
     -- I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.
     -- What? Mr Power whispered. How so?
     --  His  father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had  the
Queen's  hotel  in  Ennis.  You  heard  him  say  he  was  going  to  Clare.
Anniversary.
     -- O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself!
     He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking  eyes followed
towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Speaking.
     -- Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.
     --  I  believe  so,  Mr Kernan  answered,  but the policy  was  heavily
mortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.
     -- How many children did he leave?
     --  Five. Ned  Lambert says  he'll try  to get  one  of  the girls into
Todd's.
     -- A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young children.
     -- A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added.
     -- Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.
     Has the laugh at him now.
     He  looked down at  the  boots  he  had  blacked and polished. She  had
outlived  him,  lost  her husband. More dead  for her than for  me. One must
outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the world.
Condole with her. Your terrible loss.  I hope  you'll  soon  follow him. For
Hindu widows only.  She  would  marry another. Him? No. Yet who knows after?
Widowhood not the  thing since the  old queen died. Drawn  on a guncarriage.
Victoria  and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. But  in the  end she put a
few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her  heart of hearts. All  for a  shadow.
Consort not even  a king. Her son was the substance.  Something new to  hope
for not like the past she wanted back, waiting. It  never comes. One must go
first: alone under the ground: and lie no more in her warm bed.
     -- How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven't
seen you for a month of Sundays.
     -- Never better. How are all in Cork's own town?
     -- I  was  down  there  for the Cork  park races  on Easter Monday, Ned
Lambert said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.
     -- And how is Dick, the solid man?
     -- Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.
     -- By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?
     -- Martin is going to get up  a  whip for  the youngsters, Ned  Lambert
said, pointing  ahead. A  few bob a skull.  Just to keep them going till the
insurance is cleared up.
     -- Yes,  yes,  Mr  Dedalus said  dubiously. Is that the eldest  boy  in
front?
     -- Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is
behind. He put down his name for a quid.
     -- I'll engage  he did, Mr Dedalus  said. I  often told  poor  Paddy he
ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.
     -- How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?
     -- Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.
     They  halted about  the  door of the mortuary  chapel.  Mr  Bloom stood
behind the  boy  with  the wreath, looking down at his sleek combed hair and
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 praying desks.  Mr Bloom stood behind near the  font  and,
when all  had knelt dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his pocket
and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on his left
knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.
     A server, bearing a brass bucket with something in it, came out through
a  door.  The whitesmocked  priest came after him tidying his stole with one
hand,  balancing  with  the other a little book against  his  toad's  belly.
Who'll read the book? I, said the rook.
     They halted  by  the bier and the priest began to  read out of his book
with a fluent croak.
     Father  Coffey. I knew his name  was like a coffin. Dominenamine. Bully
about the muzzle he  looks. Bosses the  show. Muscular christian. Woe betide
anyone  that  looks crooked at  him:  priest. Thou art Peter. Burst sideways
like a sheep in  clover Dedalus says he  will.  With  a belly on him like  a
poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn: burst sideways.
     -- Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine.
     Makes  them feel more  important  to be  prayed over in  Latin. Requiem
mass. Crape weepers.  Blackedged  notepaper. Your  name  on  the  altarlist.
Chilly place this. Want to feed  well,  sitting in  there all the morning in
the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too.
What swells  him up  that  way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of the
place maybe. Looks full  up of bad gas.  Must be an  infernal lot of baa gas
round the place. Butchers  for  instance:  they get like raw beefsteaks. Who
was telling me? Mervyn Brown. 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  business   men,  consumptive  girls  with  little
sparrow's breasts. All the year round he prayed the same thing over them all
ad 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 barrow along a
lane of sepulchres.
     The ree the ra the Fee the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.
     -- The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.
     Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone.
     -- He's at rest,  he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But
his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon!
     --  Her grave  is  over there,  Jack, Mr  Dedalus said.  I'Il  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, secret searching  eyes. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We
are the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say something else.
     Mr Kernan added:
     -- The service of the  Irish  church, used in Mount Jerome, is simpler,
more impressive, I must say.
     Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course was another thing.
     Mr Kernan said with solemnity:
     --  I am  the resurrection and  the life.  That touches a  man's inmost
heart.
     -- It does, Mr Bloom said.
     Your heart perhaps  but what price the fellow  in the  six feet  by two
with his  toes  to  the daisies? No touching  that.  Seat of the affections.
Broken heart. A pump after all,  pumping thousands of gallons of blood every
day. One  fine day it gets bunged up and there  you are. Lots of them  lying
around here:  lungs, hearts,  livers. Old rusty pumps:  damn the thing else.
The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead. That last day
idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves.  Come forth, Lazarus! And he
came  fifth and lost the  job. Get up! Last  day! Then  every fellow mousing
around for his liver and his lights and the rest of his traps. Find damn all
of  himself that morning. Pennyweight of powder  in a  skull. Twelve grammes
one pennyweight. Troy measure.
     Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.
     -- Everything went off A 1, he said. What?
     He looked  on them from his  drawling eye.  Policeman's shoulders. With
your tooraloom tooraloom.
     -- As it should be, Mr Kernan said.
     -- What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.
     Mr Kernan assured him.
     --  Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I
know his face.
     Ned Lambert glanced back.
     --  Bloom,  he  said, Madam Marion  Tweedy that  was, is,  I  mean, the
soprano. She's his wife.
     -- O, to be sure, John Henry  Menton said. I haven't  seen her for some
time.  She was  a finelooking  woman.  I  danced  with  her,  wait,  fifteen
seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's, in Roundtown. And a good armful
she was.
     He looked behind through the others.
     -- What is he? he asked. What  does he do? Wasn't he in the  stationery
line? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at bowls.
     Ned Lambert smiled.
     --  Yes,   he  was,  he  said,  in  Wisdom  Hely's.  A  traveller   for
blottingpaper.
     -- In God's  name,  John Henry Menton  said, what did she marry  a coon
like that for? She had plenty of game in her then.
     -- Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads.
     John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead.
     The  barrow turned  into  a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the
grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps.
     -- John O'Connell, Mr Power said, pleased. He never forgets a friend.
     Mr O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said:
     -- I am come to pay you another visit.
     -- My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low  voice. I  don't want
your custom at all.
     Saluting  Ned  Lambert and John Henry  Menton he  walked on  at  Martin
Cunningham's side, puzzling two keys at his back.
     -- Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?
     -- I did not, Martin Cunningham said.
     They  bent  their silk hats in  concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The
caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold  watch chain and spoke in
a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.
     --  They tell the story, he  said,  that two  drunks  came out here one
foggy evening to  look for  the grave of  a friend of theirs. They asked for
Mulcahy from the Coombe  and were  told where he was buried. After traipsing
about in the fog they found the grave, sure enough. One of  the drunks spelt
out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The  other drunk was blinking up at  a statue
of our Saviour the widow had got put up.
     The caretaker  blinked up  at  one  of  the sepulchres they  passed. He
resumed:
     -- And, after  blinking up at the sacred figure, Not a  bloody bit like
the man, says he. That's not Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it.
     Rewarded  by smiles  he  fell  back  and  spoke  with  Corny  Kelleher,
accepting the  dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them  as he
walked.
     --  That's all done  with  a  purpose, Martin  Cunningham  explained to
Hynes.
     -- I know, Hynes said, I know that.
     --  To  cheer   a   fellow  up,  Martin  Cunningham  said.  It's   pure
goodheartedness: damn the thing else.
     Mr Bloom  admired the caretaker's prosperous  bulk. All want to  be  on
good terms with him.  Decent  fellow, John O'Connell, real good  sort. Keys:
like Keyes's  ad: no fear of anyone getting out, no passout  checks.  Habeat
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 how he had the  gumption to propose to any girl. Come out and live in
the graveyard. Dangle that before  her. It might  thrill her first. Courting
death... Shades of  night hovering here with  all the dead  stretched about.
The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must  be
a descendant I  suppose who is this used to say he was  a  queer  breedy man
great catholic  all the same like a big  giant in the dark. Will o'the wisp.
Gas of  graves.  Want  to keep  her mind  off it to  conceive at all.  Women
especially are so touchy. Tell her a  ghost  story in bed to make her sleep.
Have you ever  seen  a  ghost? Well, I  have. It was  a pitchdark night. The
clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they'd  kiss all right if  properly
keyed up. Whores  in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken  young. You
might pick up a young widow here.  Men like that. Love among the tombstones.
Romeo.  Spice  of pleasure. In the  midst of death we are in life. Both ends
meet. Tantalising for  the poor dead.  Smell  of frilled  beefsteaks  to the
starving gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it
at the window. Eight children he has anyway.
     He has  seen a fair share  go under in his time, lying around him field
after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing. Sitting or
kneeling  you  couldn't. Standing? His  head might  come  up some  day above
ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed the ground must
be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too, trim grass and edgings. His
garden Major Gamble calls Mount  Jerome. Well so  it is. Ought to be flowers
of sleep.  Chinese cemeteries with  giant poppies  growing produce  the best
opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic Gardens  are just over there. It's the
blood sinking in  the earth gives new  life. Same idea  those jews they said
killed the christian boy.  Every man his  price. Well  preserved fat  corpse
gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit  garden. A bargain.  By carcass  of
William  Wilkinson,  auditor and accountant, lately  deceased, three  pounds
thirteen and six. With thanks.
     I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpse manure, 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, treacle oozing out of them. Then
dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living.
Changing  about.  Live  for ever practically.  Nothing  to feed on  feed  on
themselves.
     But they must breed  a devil of a  lot  of maggots. Soil must be simply
swirling with  them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little seaside
gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a  sense  of power seeing
all the others  go under first.  Wonder how he  looks at life. Cracking  his
jokes too: warms  the cockles  of his  heart.  The  one about the  bulletin.
Spurgeon went to  heaven 4 A.M. this morning. 11  P.M.  (closing time).  Not
arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear an
odd  joke or the women to know what's in fashion. A  juicy pear  or  ladies'
punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so
better do it that  way. Gravediggers in Hamlet. Shows the profound knowledge
of the human heart. Daren't joke  about the dead for two years at  least. De
mortuis  nil nisi prius.  Go  out  of  mourning  first. Hard to imagine  his
funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they  say you
live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.
     -- How many have you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.
     -- Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.
     The caretaker put the  papers  in his  pocket. The barrow had ceased to
trundle. The  mourners  split and moved to each  side of  the hole, stepping
with  care  round the graves. The  gravediggers bore the coffin and set  its
nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.
     Burying him. We come  to bury  Caesar. His ides  of  March or  June. He
doesn't know who is here nor care.
     Now  who  is that lankylooking galoot over there in  the macintosh? Now
who is he I'd like to know? Now, I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always
someone turns up you  never dreamt  of. A fellow  could live on his lonesome
all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after
he died  though he could dig  his own  grave. We all do. Only man buries. No
ants too. First thing strikes  anybody. Bury  the dead.  Say Robinson Crusoe
was  true  to  life. Well then  Friday  buried him.  Every  Friday buries  a
Thursday if you come to look at it.
     O, poor Robinson Crusoe,
     How could you possibly do so?
     Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his  box.  When you think  of
them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent
a  handsome bier with a  kind of panel sliding let it down that  way. Ay but
they might  object  to  be  buried  out  of  another  fellow's.  They're  so
particular. Lay me in  my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land. Only
a  mother and deadborn child ever buried in the  one coffin.  I see what  it
means. I  see. To  protect  him  as long as possible even in  the earth. The
Irishman's house is  his coffin. Enbalming  in catacombs, mummies,  the same
idea.
     Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads.
Twelve. I'm  thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh  is  thirteen.  Death's
number. Where the  deuce did he pop out of? He  wasn't in the  chapel,  that
I'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.
     Nice soft tweed  Ned Lambert  has in that suit. Tinge  of purple. I had
one like that when we lived in  Lombard street west. Dressy  fellow  he  was
once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of mine
turned  by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot  he's not  married or
his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.
     The coffin  dived out of sight, eased down by  the men straddled on the
gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.
     Pause.
     If we were all suddenly somebody else.
     Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they
say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.
     Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in  a whisper. Whisper. The
boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both  hands staring quietly in the
black open space. Mr Bloom  moved  behind  the portly kindly caretaker. Well
cut frockcoat.  Weighing them  up perhaps to see which will go next. Well it
is a  long rest. Feel no more.  It's  the  moment you feel.  Must  be damned
unpleasant. Can't believe  it at first. Mistake must  be: someone  else. Try
the  house  opposite.  Wait, I  wanted  to.  I  haven't  yet.  Then darkened
deathchamber. Light  they want. Whispering around you. Would you like to see
a priest? Then  rambling and wandering.  Delirium all you hid all your life.
The  death struggle. His  sleep  is not natural.  Press  his  lower  eyelid.
Watching is his nose pointed is  his jaw  sinking are the soles  of his feet
yellow. Pull the pillow  away  and finish it  off on  the  floor since  he's
doomed. Devil in that picture of  sinner's death showing him a woman.  Dying
to  embrace her  in his  shirt.  Last act of Lucia. Shall I nevermore behold
thee? Bam! 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 his face. And if  he was alive  all the time?
Whew! By  Jingo,  that would  be awful! No,  no: he  is dead, of  course. Of
course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce the
heart and make sure or an electric  clock or a telephone in the  coffin  and
some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of distress. Three days. Rather long  to
keep them  in summer.  Just as well to  get shut of them  as soon as you are
sure there's no.
     The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.
     The caretaker moved away a few paces  and put on his hat. Had enough of
it.  The  mourners  took  heart  of  grace, one by  one, covering themselves
without show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its way
deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he traversed
the dismal fields.
     Hynes jotting  down something in  his  notebook. Ah,  the names. But he
knows them all. No: coming to me.
     -- I am  just taking  the names, Hynes said below his breath.  What  is
your christian name? I'm not sure.
     -- L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might  put down M'Coy's name too.
He asked me to.
     Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the Freeman once.
     So he was  before he got the  job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good
idea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know. He died
of a Tuesday.  Got the run.  Levanted with the  cash of a few ads.  Charley,
you're my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well, does no harm.  I saw
to  that,  M'Coy.  Thanks, old  chap:  much  obliged.  Leave  him  under  an
obligation: costs nothing.
     -- And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow  in the, fellow was
over there in the.
     He looked around.
     -- Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now?
     -- M'Intosh,  Hynes said, scribbling,  I don't know who  he is. Is that
his name?
     He moved away, looking about him.
     -- No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes!
     Didn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all
the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell.  Become invisible. Good Lord,
what became of him?
     A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade.
     -- O, excuse me!
     He stepped aside nimbly.
     Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen  in the hole. It rose. Nearly over.
A mound of damp  clods  rose  more, rose, and the gravediggers rested  their
spades. All  uncovered again for a few  instants. The boy propped his wreath
against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The gravediggers put  on
their caps and  carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Then knocked
the blades lightly  on the turf: clean. One bent to  pluck from  the haft  a
long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with shouldered
weapon, its blade blueglancing. Silently at the gravehead another coiled the
coffinband.   His  navelcord.  The  brother-in-law,  turning  away,   placed
something  in  his  free  hand.  Thanks  in  silence.  Sorry,  sir: trouble.
Headshake. I know that. For yourselves just.
     The  mourners moved away slowly, without aim, by devious paths, staying
awhile to read a name on a tomb.
     -- Let us go round by the chief's grave, Hynes said. We have time.
     -- Let us, Mr Power said.
     They turned  to the right,  following their slow thoughts. With  awe Mr
Power's blank voice spoke:
     --  Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled
with stones. That one day he will come again.
     Hynes shook his head.
     --  Parnell will  never come  again, he said. He's  there, all that was
mortal of him. Peace to his ashes.
     Mr Bloom walked unheeded  along his grove by saddened  angels, crosses,
broken  pillars,  family vaults, stone hopes praying  with upcast eyes,  old
Ireland's hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some charity
for the  living. Pray  for the repose of the  soul  of. Does anybody really?
Plant  him  and  have done with him. Like  down a coalshoot. Then  lump them
together to save time. All souls' day.  Twentyseventh I'll be  at his grave.
Ten shillings for the gardener. He  keeps it free of weeds. Old man himself.
Bent down double with his  shears clipping.  Near  death's door.  Who passed
away. Who departed this life. As if they did it of their own accord. Got the
shove, all of them. Who kicked the bucket. More interesting if they told you
what  they were. So  and so,  wheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I paid
five shillings in the pound. Or a  woman's with her saucepan.  I cooked good
Irish stew. Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose
is it Wordsworth or  Thomas Campbell. Entered into rest  the protestants put
it.  Old Dr Murren's.  The great physician  called him home. Well it's God's
acre for  them. Nice country residence.  Newly plastered and  painted. Ideal
spot to  have a quiet  smoke and read  the Church Times.  Marriage  ads they
never try to beautify. Rusty  wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil.
Better value that for  the  money. Still, the flowers are more poetical. The
other gets rather tiresome, never withering. Expresses nothing. Immortelles.
     A  bird  sat tamely perched on a poplar  branch. Like stuffed. Like the
wedding present alderman Hooper gave  us. Hu! Not a budge out of him.  Knows
there  are  no  catapults  to  let  fly at  him.  Dead  animal  even sadder.
Silly-Milly  burying  the  little  dead bird  in  the  kitchen  matchbox,  a
daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.
     The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his sleeve.
     Ought  to be sideways  and red it should be painted like a  real heart.
Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever that.  Seems  anything but  pleased.
Why this  infliction? Would birds come then  and peck like the boy with  the
basket of fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the
boy. Apollo that was.
     How many! All these here once walked round Dublin.  Faithful  departed.
As you are now so once were we.
     Besides how could you remember  everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the
voice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone  in every  grave or keep it in the
house.  After  dinner  on   a  Sunday.  Put  on  poor  old  greatgrandfather
Kraahraark!   Hellohellohello   amawfullyglad  kraark  awfullygladaseeragain
hellohello  amarawf  kopthsth.  Remind you of the voice like the  photograph
reminds  you  of the face. Otherwise  you  couldn't remember the  face after
fifteen years, say.  For  instance  who? For  instance some fellow that died
when I was in Wisdom Hely's.
     Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop.
     He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait. There he
goes.
     An  obese  grey  rat toddled along the side of  the  crypt, moving  the
pebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes. The grey alive
crushed itself  in under  the plinth,  wriggled  itself  in under  it.  Good
hidingplace for treasure.
     Who lives there? Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. Robert Emmet was
buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Making his rounds.
     Tail gone now.
     One of those chaps would make short work  of  a fellow. Pick the  bones
clean no matter  who it was. Ordinary meat for them.  A corpse is meat  gone
bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that Voyages in China
that  the Chinese  say a white man  smells like a  corpse. Cremation better.
Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm. Wholesale burners and
Dutch oven dealers. Time  of  the plague. Quicklime fever pits  to eat them.
Lethal chamber.  Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea. Where is that Parsee  tower
of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth, fire,  water.  Drowning they say  is  the
pleasantest.  See your whole life in a flash. But being brought back to life
no. Can't bury in the air however. Out of a  flying machine. Wonder does the
news go about whenever  a fresh one is let  down. Underground communication.
We learned that from them. Wouldn't  be surprised. Regular  square  feed for
them. Flies  come before he's  well dead.  Got wind of Dignam. They wouldn't
care about the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste
like raw white turnips.
     The  gates glimmered  in front:  still open. Back  to the  world again.
Enough of this place. Brings you a  bit  nearer every time. Last time  I was
here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa  too. The love that kills. And even
scraping up  the earth at night with a lantern like that case I  read of  to
get at fresh buried  females or even putrefied with running gravesores. Give
you the creeps after a bit.  I will appear  to you after death. You will see
my ghost after death.  My ghost will haunt you after death. There is another
world after death named hell.  I do not like that  other world she wrote. No
more do I. Plenty to see and  hear and  feel yet. Feel live warm beings near
you. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. They are not going to get me this
innings. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life.
     Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.
     Solicitor, I think. I  know  his face.  Menton. John Henry,  solicitor,
commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be  In his office. Mat
Dillon's  long  ago. Jolly  Mat  convivial  evenings. Cold fowl, cigars, the
Tantalus glasses. Heart of  gold really. Yes,  Menton. Got his rag out  that
evening  on  the bowling  green because I sailed inside him.  Pure fluke  of
mine:  the  bias.  Why  he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate  at  first
sight. Molly and Floey  Dillon linked under the  lilactree, laughing. Fellow
always like that, mortified if women are by.
     Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.
     -- Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.
     They stopped.
     -- Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said, pointing.
     John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.
     -- There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also.
     John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged  out  the dinge and smoothed
the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again.
     -- It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said.
     John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.
     -- Thank you, he said shortly.
     They  walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen,  drew behind a
few paces so  as not to overhear. Martin laying down the  law.  Martin could
wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger without his seeing it.
     Oyster eyes.  Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it  dawns on him.
Get the pull over him that way.
     Thank you. How grand we are this morning.




     In the Heart of the Hibernian Metropolis
     BEFORE NELSON'S PILLAR TRAILS SLOWED, SHUNTED, CHANGED TROLLEY, started
for  Blackrock,  Kingstown  and  Dalkey,  Clonskea,  Rathgar  and  Terenure,
Palmerston park and upper Rathmines, Sandymount Green,  Rathmines,  Ringsend
and  Sandymount  Tower, Harold's  Cross. The  hoarse Dublin  United  Tramway
Company's timekeeper bawled them off:
     -- Rathgar and Terenure!
     -- Come on, Sandymount Green!
     Right  and  left   parallel  clanging  ringing  a  doubledecker  and  a
singledeck moved  from  their  railheads,  swerved to the  down line, glided
parallel.
     -- Start, Palmerston park!
     The Wearer of the Crown
     Under  the  porch of  the general  post  office shoeblacks  called  and
polished. Parked in  North Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion mailcars,
bearing  on  their  sides the royal  initials, E. R., received loudly  flung
sacks  of  letters,  postcards, lettercards, parcels,  insured and paid, for
local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.
     Gentlemen of the Press
     Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's  stores
and  bumped  them  up  on  the brewery float.  On the  brewery  float bumped
dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's stores.
     -- There it is Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes.
     -- Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and  I'll take it round to
the Telegraph office.
     The-door of Ruttledge's office  creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in
a large capecoat, a small felt hat crowning  his ringlets, passed out with a
roll of papers under his cape, a king's courier.
     Red  Murray's  long  shears  sliced  out  the  advertisement  from  the
newspaper in four clean strokes. Scissors and paste.
     -- I'll go through the printing works, Mr  Bloom said, taking  the  cut
square.
     --  Of course, if he  wants  a par,  Red  Murray said earnestly,  a pen
behind his ear, we can do him one.
     -- Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in. We.
     William Brayden, Esquire, of Oaklands, Sandymount
     Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:
     -- Brayden.
     Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a
stately  figure entered between  the newsboards of  the  Weekly  Freeman and
National  Press and  the Freeman's Journal  and National Press. Dullthudding
Guinness's barrels.  It  passed  stately  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.
     Jesus  Mario with rougy  cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand  on his
heart. In Martha.
     Co-ome thou lost one,
     Co-ome thou dear one.
     The Crozier and the Pen
     -- His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.
     They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.
     A telegram boy stepped  in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and
stepped off posthaste with a word.
     -- Freeman!
     Mr Bloom said slowly:
     -- Well, he is one of our saviours also.
     A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed
in through the 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  of a most respected Dublin
Burgess
     Hynes  here  too: account of the funeral probably. Thumping thump. This
morning the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash a man  to
atoms  if  they got him  caught. Rule the world  today. His  machineries are
pegging away  too. Like these,  got out of  hand:  fermenting. Working away,
tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in.
     How a Great Daily Organ is turned out
     Mr  Bloom halted behind  the foreman's  spare body, admiring  a  glossy
crown.
     Strange he  never saw his real country.  Ireland my country. Member for
College green.  He  boomed that workaday  worker tack for all  it was worth.
It's the  ads  ad 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
Tinnachinch. To all whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing
return of number of mules and jennets exported from  Ballina. Nature  notes.
Cartoons.  Phil Blake's weekly  Pat and Bull  story. Uncle' Toby's page  for
tiny tots. Country bumpkin's queries. Dear Mr  Editor,  what is a good  cure
for  flatulence?  I'd like  that part.  Learn  a  lot  teaching  others. The
personal note M.A. P. Mainly all pictures. Shapely bathers on golden strand.
World's  biggest  balloon.  Double   marriage  of  sisters  celebrated.  Two
bridegrooms  laughing heartily  at each other. Cuprani  too,  printer.  More
Irish than the Irish.
     The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thurap. Now if he
got  paralysed there and no one knew how to stop them they'd clank on and on
the  same, print  it over and over  and  up and back. Monkeydoodle the whole
thing. Want a cool head.
     -- Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said.
     Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is backing him they say.
     The  foreman, without answering,  scribbled press on  a  corner of  the
sheet and made a sign to a typesetter. He handed the sheet silently over the
dirty glass screen.
     -- Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off.
     Mr Bloom stood in his way.
     -- If  you want to  draw the cashier is just  going to lunch, he  said,
pointing backward with his thumb.
     -- Did you? Hynes asked.
     -- Mm, Mr Bloom said. Look sharp and you'll catch him.
     -- Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I'll tap him too.
     He hurried on eagerly towards the Freeman's Journal.
     Three bob I lent him in Meagher's. Three weeks. Third hint.
     We see the Canvasser at work
     Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk.
     --  Excuse  me,  councillor, he  said.  This ad, you  see.  Keyes,  you
remember.
     Mr Nannetti considered the cutting a while and nodded.
     -- He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said.
     He doesn't hear it. Nannan. Iron nerves.
     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. Maybe he understands what I.
     The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began
to scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket.
     -- Like that, Mr Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top.
     Let him take that in first.
     Mr  Bloom, glancing sideways up  from the  cross he had  made,  saw the
foreman's sallow  face, think  he  has a touch  of  jaundice, and beyond the
obedient reels feeding in  huge webs  of paper. Clank it. Clank it. Miles of
it unreeled. What  becomes of it  after?  O, wrap up meat, parcels:  various
uses, thousand and one things.
     Slipping  his  words deftly into the  pauses  of  the clanking  he drew
swiftly on the scarred-woodwork.
     House of Key(e)s
     --  Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name
Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. So on.
     Better not teach him his own business.
     -- You know  yourself, councillor, just  what he wants. Then round  the
top in leaded: the house of keys. You see? Do you think that's a good idea?
     The foreman  moved his scratching hand  to his lower ribs and scratched
there quietly.
     -- The idea, Mr Bloom said, is the house of keys. You know, councillor,
the Manx parliament. Innuendo of  home rule.  Tourists, you  know,  from the
isle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you do that?
     I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that voglio. But then if
he didn't know only make it awkward for him. Better not.
     -- We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design?
     -- I can get it, Mr  Bloom said. It was  in a Kilkenny  paper. He has a
house  there too. I'll just run  out and ask him. Well,  you can do that and
just a little par calling attention. You know the usual. High class licensed
premises. Longfelt want. So on.
     The foreman thought for an instant.
     -- We can do that, he said. Let him give us a three months' renewal.
     A typesetter  brought  him a  limp  galleypage.  He began  to check  it
silently. Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the
silent typesetters at their cases.
     Orthographical
     Want to be sure of his spelling. Proof fever. Martin  Cunningham forgot
to give us his spellingbee conundrum this morning. It is amusing to view the
unpar one ar  alleled embarra two ars is it? double  ess ment of  a harassed
pedlar while gauging au the symmetry of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall.
Silly, isn't it? Cemetery put in of course on account of the symmetry.
     I could 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 phizthen.
     Sllt.  The nethermost  deck of the  first machine  jogged forwards  its
flyboard with slit 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 slit creaking,  asking to be shut. Everything  speaks  in its  own  way.
Sllt.
     Noted Churchman an Occasional Contributor
     The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying:
     -- Wait. Where's the  archbishop's  letter? It's to be repeated in  the
Telegraph. Where's what's his name?
     He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.
     -- Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.
     -- Ay. Where's Monks?
     -- Monks!
     Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out.
     -- Then I'll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a
good place I know.
     -- Monks!
     -- Yes, sir.
     Three months' renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it
anyhow.  Rub in  August: good idea:  horseshow month.  Ballsbridge. Tourists
over for the show.
     A Dayfather
     He  walked  on  through  the  caseroom,  passing  an  old  man,  bowed,
spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot  of stuff  he  must
have  put  through his  hands  in  his time: obituary  notices,  pubs'  ads,
speeches, divorce suits, found  drowned.  Nearing the end of his tether now.
Sober serious man with a bit in the savings-bank  I'd say.  Wife a good cook
and washer. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn
nonsense.
     And it was the Feast of the Passover
     He  stayed  in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type.
Reads  it backwards  first. Quickly  he  does it. Must require some practice
that. mangiD. kcirtaP. Poor papa with  his  hagadah book, reading  backwards
with  his finger to me.  Pessach. Next year in  Jerusalem. Dear, O dear! All
that long business about that brought  us  out of the land of Egypt and into
the house of  bondage alleluia.  Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. No, that's the
other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. And then the lamb and the cat
and  the dog and the stick and the water and the  butcher and then the angel
of death kills the butcher and he  kills the  ox and the dog  kills the cat.
Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Justice it means  but
it's  everybody  eating everyone else.  That's what  life is after all.  How
quickly he  does that  job. Practice makes  perfect. Seems  to see  with his
fingers.
     Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to
the landing.  Now am I going to  tram it out all the way and  then catch him
out  perhaps?  Better phone him  up first. Number?  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 these
walls with matches? Looks as  if  they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy  smell
there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I was
there.
     He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap
I  put there. Lose it out of that  pocket. Putting back  his handkerchief he
took out the soap and stowed  it away, buttoned into the hip  pocket of  his
trousers.
     What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still: tram: something
I forgot. Just to see before dressing. No. Here. No.
     A sudden  screech  of laughter came from  the Evening Telegraph office.
Know who that is. What's up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is.
     He entered softly.
     Erin, Green Gem of the Silver Sea
     -- The ghost walks, professor Macllugh 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,  fanned  by  gentlest  zephyrs  tho'  quarrelling  with  the  stony
obstacles, to the tumbling waters of Neptune's blue domain, mid mossy banks,
played on by  the glorious  sunlight  or  'neath  the shadows  cast o'er its
pensive bosom by the  overarching leafage  of the giants of the forest. What
about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How's that for
high?
     -- Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.
     Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating:
     -- The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage. O boys! O boys!
     -- And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking again on
the fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on the sea.
     -- That will do,  professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don't want
to hear any more of the stuff.
     He ate  off the  crescent  of water biscuit he  had been  nibbling and,
hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand.
     High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see.
Rather upsets a man's day a funeral  does.  He  has influence  they say. Old
Chatterton, the vice-chancellor,  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's, professor  MacHugh
answered with pomp of tone. Our lovely land.
     Short but to the Point
     -- Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply.
     -- Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews.  With
an accent on the whose.
     -- Dan Dawson's land, Mr Dedalus said.
     -- Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked.
     Ned Lambert nodded.
     -- But listen to this, he said.
     The doorknob  hit  Mr  Bloom in the small  of the back as the door  was
pushed in.
     -- Excuse me, J.J. O'Molloy said, entering.
     Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside.
     -- I beg yours, he said.
     -- Good day, Jack.
     -- Come in. Come in.
     -- Good day.
     -- How are you, Dedalus?
     -- Well. And yourself?
     J.J. O'Molloy shook his head.
     Sad
     Cleverest fellow  at the junior  bar he used to be.  Decline poor chap.
That hectic flush  spells finis for a man. Touch and go  with him. What's in
the wind, I wonder. Money worry.
     -- Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks.
     -- You're looking extra.
     -- Is the  editor to be seen? J.J. O'Molloy asked,  looking towards the
inner door.
     -- Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be  seen and heard. He's in
his sanctum with Lenehan.
     J.J. O'Molloy strolled Jo 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  their 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. Hailfellow well
met the next moment.
     -- Ah, listen to this  for God's sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Or again if
we but climb the serried mountain peaks...
     --  Bombast!  the  professor broke in  testily. Enough  of the inflated
windbag!
     -- Peaks, Ned  Lambert went  on, towering  high  on high, to bathe  our
souls, as it were...
     -- Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he
taking anything for it?
     --  As  'twere,  in  the  peerless  panorama  of  Ireland's  portfolio,
unmatched,  despite their  wellpraised  prototypes  in other  vaunted  prize
regions,  for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating  plain and luscious
pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent translucent glow of
our mild mysterious Irish twilight...
     His Native Doric
     -- The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.
     -- That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of
the moon shines forth to irradiate her silver effulgence.
     --  O! Mr Dedalus cried,  giving vent  to a hopeless groan,  shite  and
onions! That'll do, Ned. Life is too short.
     He  took  off his  silk hat  and,  blowing  out impatiently  his  bushy
moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.
     Ned  Lambert tossed  the newspaper  aside, chuckling with  delight.  An
instant  after  a  hoarse bark  of laughter burst  over professor  MacHugh's
unshaven black-spectacled 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 blow out. Wetherup always said that. Get a  grip of them  by
the stomach.
     The inner  door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested
by a comb  of feathery  hair,  thrust itself in. The bold  blue  eyes stared
about them and the harsh voice asked:
     -- What is it?
     --  And  here  comes  the  sham  squire himself, professor MacHugh said
grandly.
     --  Getououthat,   you  bloody  old  pedagogue!  the  editor  said   in
recognition.
     -- Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus  said, putting on his hat. I must get a  drink
after that.
     -- Drink! the editor cried. No drinks served before mass.
     -- Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned.
     Ned Lambert sidled  down from  the table.  The editor's blue eyes roved
towards Mr Bloom's face, shadowed by a smile.
     -- Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked.
     Memorable Battles Recalled
     -- North Cork militia!  the editor cried, striding to the  mantelpiece.
We won every time! North Cork and Spanish officers!
     -- Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a reflective glance at
his toecaps.
     -- In Ohio! the editor shouted.
     -- So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.
     Passing out, he whispered to J.J. O'Molloy:
     -- Incipient jigs. Sad case.
     -- Ohio! the editor crowed  in  high treble from his  uplifted  scarlet
face. My Ohio!
     -- A Perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long.
     O, Harp Eolian
     He  took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking
off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant unwashed
teeth.
     -- Bingbang, bangbang.
     Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner door.
     -- Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said. I just want to  phone about  an
ad.
     He went in.
     -- What about that leader this evening? professor MacHugh asked, coming
to the editor and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.
     -- That'll be  all right, Myles Crawford said more  calmly.  Never  you
fret. Hello, Jack. That's all right.
     -- Good day, Myles. J.J. O'Molloy  said, letting the pages he held slip
limply back on the file. Is that Canada swindle case on today?
     The telephone whirred inside.
     -- Twenty eight... No, twenty... Double four . Yes.
     Spot the Winner
     Lenehan came out of the inner office with Sports tissues.
     -- Who  wants a dead cert  for the  Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O.
Madden up.
     He tossed the tissues on to the table.
     Screams  of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door  was
flung open.
     -- Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops.
     Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin
by the collar  as the others scampered out of the hall and  down  the steps.
The  tissues rustled up in  the  draught, floated  softly  in  the  air blue
scrawls and under the table came to earth.
     -- It wasn't me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.
     --  Throw  him  out and shut  the  door, the  editor  said.  There's  a
hurricane blowing.
     Lenehan began  to  paw  the tissues up from the  floor,  grunting as he
stooped twice.
     -- Waiting for  the racing special, sir, the newsboy  said. It was  Pat
Farrel shoved me, sir.
     He pointed to two faces peering in round the door-frame.
     -- Him, sir.
     -- Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.
     He hustled the boy out and banged the door to.
     J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking:
     -- Continued on page six, column four.
     -- Yes...  Evening  Telegraph  here, Mr  Bloom  phoned  from  the inner
office. Is  the boss... ? Yes, Telegraph... To where?... Aha! Which  auction
rooms?... Aha! I see... Right. I'll catch him.
     A Collision ensues
     The bell whirred  again as he rang off.  He came in quickly  and bumped
against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.
     -- Pardon,  monsieur, Lenehan said,  clutching  him for  an instant and
making a grimace.
     -- My fault, Mr  Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I'm in a
hurry.
     -- Knee, Lenehan said.
     He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee.
     -- The accumulation of the anno Domini.
     -- Sorry, Mr Bloom said.
     He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J.J. O'Molloy slapped
the heavy pages over.  The  noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed
in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps:
     We are the boys of Wexford
     Who fought with heart and hand.
     Exit Bloom
     -- I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom said, about this
ad of Keyes's. Want to fix it up. They tell me he's round there in Dillon's.
     He looked  indecisively for  a  moment at their faces.  The editor who,
leaning against the  mantelshelf, had propped his head on his  hand suddenly
stretched forth an arm amply.
     -- Begone! he said. The world is before you.
     -- Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out.
     J.J.  O'Molloy  took the  tissues  from  Lenehan's hand  and read them,
blowing them apart gently, without comment.
     -- He'll get that advertisement, the  professor said,  staring  through
his  blackrimmed  spectacles  over the crossblind.  Look at the young scamps
after him.
     -- Show! Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window.
     A Street Cortege
     Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys  in Mr
Bloom's wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail
of white bowknots.
     -- Look at the young guttersnipe  behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said,
and you'll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk.
Small nines. Steal upon larks.
     He  began to  mazurka in  swift  caricature across the floor on sliding
feet  past the  fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy who placed  the  tissues  in  his
receiving hands.
     -- What's that? Myles Crawford said with  a start. Where  are the other
two gone?
     -- Who? the professor said, turning. They're gone round to the Oval for
a drink. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came over last night.
     -- Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where's my hat?
     He  walked  jerkily  into the  office behind,  parting the  vent of his
jacket,  jingling his keys in his back  pocket. They jingled then in the air
and against the wood as he locked his desk drawer.
     -- He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a low voIce.
     -- Seems  to be, J.J.  O'Molloy said,  taking  out a cigarette  case in
murmuring meditation, but it  is not  always as  it  seems. Who has the most
matches?
     The Calumet of Peace
     He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one  himself.  Lenehan
promptly  struck a match for  them  and lit their cigarettes  in turn.  J.J.
O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it.
     -- Thanky vous, Lenehan said, helping himself.
     The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He
declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:
     'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee,
     'Twas empire charmed thy heart.
     The professor grinned, locking his long lips.
     -- Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles Crawford said.
     He took  a cigarette from the open  case.  Lenehan, lighting it for him
with quick grace, said:
     -- Silence for my brandnew riddle!
     -- Imperium romanum, J.J.  O'Molloy said gently.  It sounds nobler than
British or Brixton. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the fire.
     Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the ceiling.
     -- That's it, he said. We are the fat.  You  and I are  the  fat in the
fire. We haven't got the chance of a snowball in hell.
     The Grandeur that was Rome
     -- Wait a  moment,  professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet claws. We
mustn't be  led  away  by  words,  by  sounds  of words. We  think of  Rome,
imperial, imperious, imperative.
     He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing:
     -- What was their civilisation? Vast,  I allow: but vile. Cloac&Aelig;:
sewers. The Jews in  the wilderness and on the mountaintop  said: It is meet
to be here. Let us build an altar to Jehovah. The Roman, like the Englishman
who follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he set his
foot (on our shore  he never set it)  only his cloacal obsession.  He  gazed
about him in his toga and he said: It is meet to be here. Let us construct a
watercloset.
     -- Which  they  accordingly  did do,  Lenehan  said.  Our  old  ancient
ancestors, as we  read in the first chapter of Guinness's,  were  partial to
the running stream.
     -- They were  nature's gentlemen, J.J. O'Molloy  murmured. But  we have
also Roman law.
     -- And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh responded.
     -- Do  you  know that story  about  chief Baron Palles?  J.J.  O'Molloy
asked.  It  was  at  the  royal  university  dinner.  Everything  was  going
swimmingly.
     -- First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are you ready?
     Mr  O'Madden Burke, tall in copious grey of Donegal tweed, came in from
the hallway. Stephen Dedalus, behind him, uncovered as he entered.
     -- Entrez, mes enfants! Lenehan cried.
     -- I escort a  suppliant, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Youth led
by Experience visits Notoriety.
     -- How do you  do?  the editor said, holding out a  hand. Come in. Your
governor is just gone.
     ? ? ?
     Lenehan said to all:
     --  Silence!  What opera  resembles  a  railway  line? Reflect, ponder,
excogitate, reply.
     Stephen  handed  over the  typed  sheets, pointing  to  the  title  and
signature.
     -- Who? the editor asked.
     Bit torn off.
     -- Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said:
     -- That old pelters, the editor said. Who tore it? Was he short taken.
     On swift sail flaming
     >From storm and south
     He comes, pale vampire,
     Mouth to my mouth.
     -- Good  day,  Stephen, the professor said, coming  to  peer over their
shoulders. Foot and mouth? Are you turned... ?
     Bullockbefriending bard.
     Shindy in wellknown Restaurant
     -- Good  day, sir, Stephen answered, blushing.  The letter is not mine.
Mr Garrett Deasy asked me to...
     -- O,  I  know  him, Myles Crawford said, and  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
Tirconnel  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. Hungarian it was one
day...
     Lost Causes Noble Marquess mentioned
     We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for us
is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. We were never loyal to
the successful.  We serve  them. I teach the blatant Latin language. I speak
the tongue of a  race  the  acme of whose  mentality is the maxim:  time  is
money. Material domination. Dominus!  Lord! Where  is the spirituality? Lord
Jesus! Lord Salisbury. A sofa in a westend club. But the Greek!
     Kyrie Eleison!
     A smile of  light  brightened his  darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long
lips.
     --  The  Greek!  he said again. Kyrios! Shining word!  The  vowels  the
Semite and the Saxon know not. Kyrie! The radiance of the intellect. I ought
to  profess Greek, the language of the mind. Kyrie eleison!  The closetmaker
and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. We are liege subjects
of  the catholic  chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar  and of the
empire of  the spirit, not  an imperium, that went under with  the  Athenian
fleets at &Aelig;gospotami. 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 matinиe. Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!
     He whispered then near Stephen's ear:
     Lenehan's Limerick
     There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh
     Who wears goggles of ebony hue.
     As he mostly sees double
     To wear them why trouble?
     I can't see the Joe Miller. Can you?
     In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother is beastly dead.
     Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket.
     -- That'll be all right, he said. I'll read the  rest after. That'll be
all right.
     Lenehan extended his hands in protest.
     -- But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a railway line?
     -- Opera? Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.
     Lenehan announced gladly:
     -- The Rose of Castille. See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel. Gee!
     He poked Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. Mr O'Madden Burke fell
back with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp.
     -- Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness.
     Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his  face rapidly with  the  rustling
tissues.
     The professor, returning by  way  of the files, swept his  hand  across
Stephen's and Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties.
     -- Paris, past and present, he said. You look like communards.
     --  Like fellows  who had blown up the bastille, J.J.  O'Molloy said in
quiet mockery. Or  was it  you shot the lord  lieutenant of  Finland between
you? You look as though you had done the deed. General Bobrikoff.
     Omnium Gatherum
     -- We were only thinking about it, Stephen said.
     -- All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics.
     -- The turf, Lenehan put in.
     -- Literature, the press.
     --  If  Bloom  were  here,  the  professor  said.  The  gentle  art  of
advertisement.
     -- And  Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke added. The vocal  muse. Dublin's
prime favourite.
     Lenehan gave a loud cough.
     --  Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a fresh of breath air! I caught a
cold in the park. The gate was open.
     You can do it!
     The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder.
     -- I want you to write something for me, he said. Something with a bite
in it. You can do it. I see it in your face. In the lexicon of youth...
     See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little schemer.
     -- Foot  and  mouth disease!  the  editor cried in  scornful invective.
Great nationalist meeting  in  Borris-in-Ossory.  All balls! Bulldosing  the
public! Give  them something with a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn its
soul. Father Son and Holy Ghost and fakes M'Carthy.
     -- We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
     Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare.
     -- He wants you for the pressgang, J.J. O'Molloy said.
     The Great Gallaher
     --  You  can  do it, Myles Crawford  repeated,  clenching his  hand  in
emphasis. Wait a minute. We'll paralyse Europe  as Ignatius Gallaher used to
say when he  was on  the shaughraun, doing  billiardmarking in the Clarence.
Gallaher, that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. You know how he  made
his  mark? I'll tell you. That  was the  smartest  piece of journalism  ever
known. That was  in eightyone, sixth of May, time of the invincibles, murder
in the Phoenix park, before you were born, I suppose. I'll show you.
     He pushed past them to the files.
     --  Look  at here, he  said, turning. The New  York World cabled  for a
special. Remember that time?
     Professor MacHugh nodded.
     -- New  York World,  the editor said,  excitedly pushing back his straw
hat. Where it took place. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean, Joe Brady  and  the
rest of them. Where Skin-the-goat drove the car. Whole route, see?
     --  Skin-the-goat, Mr  O'Madden Burke said.  Fitzharris.  He  has  that
cabman's shelter,  they say, down there at Butt bridge. Holohan told me. You
know Holohan?
     -- Hop and carry one, is it? Myles Crawford said.
     -- And poor Gumley is down there too, so he told me, minding stones for
the corporation. A night watchman.
     Stephen turned in surprise.
     -- Gumley? he said. You don't say so? A friend of my father's, is he?
     -- 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...
     --  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 Burke's
publichouse, see?
     Clever, Very
     Clever, Lenehan said. Very.
     --  Gave  it  to them on  a hot plate, Myles Crawford  said, the  whole
bloody history.
     Nightmare from which you will never awake.
     -- I saw it, the  editor  said proudly. I was  present, Dick Adams, the
besthearted  bloody  Corkman  the  Lord ever put the breath of life in,  and
myself.
     Lenehan bowed to a shape of air, announcing:
     -- Madam, I'm Adam. And Able was I ere I saw Elba.
     -- History! Myles Crawford cried. The Old Woman of Prince's street  was
there first. There was weeping  and  gnashing  of teeth over that. Out of an
advertisement. Gregor Grey made the design for it. That gave him the leg up.
Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who  took him on to  the Star. Now he's got
in with  Blumenfeld.  That's press. That's talent.  Pyatt! He  was all their
daddies.
     --  The  father  of  scare  journalism,  Lenehan   confirmed,  and  the
brother-in-law of Chris Callinan.
     --  Hello?... Are  you  there?...  Yes,  he's  here  still. Come across
yourself.
     -- Where do you find a pressman like that now, eh? the editor cried. He
flung the pages down.
     -- Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke.
     -- Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
     Professor MacHugh came from the inner office.
     -- Talking about  the  invincibles,  he  said, did  you  see that  some
hawkers were up before the recorder...
     -- O  yes,  J.J. O'Molloy said  eagerly. Lady  Dudley  was walking home
through the park to see  all the trees that were blown down  by that cyclone
last year and thought  she'd buy a view of Dublin. And it turned out to be a
commemoration postcard of  Joe Brady or Number  One or Skin-the-goat.  Right
outside the viceregal lodge, imagine!
     -- They're only in the hook  and  eye  department, Myles Crawford said.
Psha! Press and  the bar! Where have  you  a  man now at  the bar like those
fellows,  like Whiteside,  like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued  O'Hagan? Eh?
Ah, bloody nonsense! 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
     ... mentrechх 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, in gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti.  But I old men,
penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south: tomb womb.
     -- Speak up for yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
     Sufficient for the Day...
     J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage.
     -- My dear Myles,  he said, flinging  his  cigarette  aside, you  put a
false construction on  my words. I hold no brief, as at present advised, for
the third profession qua profession but your Cork legs are running away with
you. Why  not  bring  in Henry Grattan  and Flood and Demosthenes and Edmund
Burke? Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizod boss, Harmsworth  of
the farthing press, and his American  cousin  of the Bowery gutter sheet not
to  mention Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's Occurrences and  our watchful friend
The Skibereen Eagle. Why  bring in  a  master  of  forensic  eloquence  like
Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof.
     Links with Bygone Days of Yore
     Grattan and  Flood  wrote  for this very paper, the editor cried in his
face.  Irish volunteers. Where are you now? Established 1763. Dr  Lucas. Who
have you now like John Philpot Curran? Psha!
     -- Well, J.J. O'Molloy said, Bushe K. C., for example.
     -- Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes. Bushe, yes. He has a strain of it
in his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.
     -- He would have been on the bench long ago,  the professor  said, only
for... But no matter.
     J.J. O'Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and slowly:
     -- One  of the most polished periods I  think I ever listened to in  my
life fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide,
the Childs murder case. Bushe defended him.
     And in the porches of mine ear did pour.
     By the way how did he find that out? He died in his sleep. Or the other
story, beast with two backs?
     -- What was that? the professor asked.
     Italia, Magistra Artium
     -- He spoke on  the  law  of evidence,  J.J.  O'Molloy  said,  of Roman
justice as contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the lex talionis. And he
cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the Vatican.
     -- Ha.
     -- A few wellchosen words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence!
     Pause. J.J. O'Molloy took out his cigarette case. 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
prophecy which if aught that the  imagination or the  hand  of  sculptor has
wrought in marble  of soultransfigured and of  soultransfiguring deserves to
live, deserves to live.
     His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall.
     -- Fine! Myles Crawford said at once.
     -- The divine afflatus, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
     -- You like it? J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen.
     Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and  gesture, blushed. He
took a cigarette from the case.  J.J.  O'Molloy offered  his  case to  Myles
Crawford.  Lenehan  lit  their  cigarettes as before  and  took his  trophy,
saying:
     -- Muchibus thankibus.
     A Man of High Morale
     -- Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you,  J.J. O'Molloy said
to Stephen. What do you think  really of that hermetic  crowd, the opal hush
poets: A. E. the master  mystic?  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 cigarette case aside.
Wait  a moment. Let me say one thing. The finest display  of oratory  I ever
heard was a speech made by John F. Taylor at the college historical society.
Mr Justice  Fitzgibbon, the present lord  justice of appeal, had  spoken and
the  paper under debate was  an  essay (new  for those days), advocating the
revival of the Irish tongue.
     He turned towards Myles Crawford and said:
     -- You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Then you can  imagine the  style  of his
discourse.
     -- He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy said, rumour has  it, on
the Trinity college estates commission.
     -- He is sitting with a sweet thing in a child's  frock, Myles Crawford
said. 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 sick bed. That he had
prepared  his  speech  I  do  not  believe  for  there  was  not   even  one
shorthandwriter in the hall. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy beard
round it. He wore a  loose 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  smoke
ascending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech. And let our crooked
smokes.  Noble  words  coming. Look  out.  Could you  try your  hand  at  it
yourself?
     -- And  it  seemed  to me that  I  heard  the voice  of  that  Egyptian
highpriest raised in a tone of like haughtiness and  like pride. I heard his
words and their meaning was revealed to me.
     From the Fathers
     It  was revealed  to  me  that  those things  are  good  which yet  are
corrupted which neither if they were  supremely  good  nor unless  they were
good could be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That's saint Augustine.
     --  Why  will  you jews  not  accept our culture, our  religion and our
language?  You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen;  we  are a mighty  people. You
have no cities nor  no  wealth: our  cities are  hives of  humanity and  our
galleys, trireme and  quadrireme, laden with  all manner merchandise  furrow
the  waters of  the  known  globe.  You  have  but  emerged  from  primitive
conditions: we  have  a literature,  a priesthood, an agelong history  and a
polity.
     Nile.
     Child, man, effigy.
     By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man supple
in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.
     -- You pray  to  a  local  and  obscure idol: our temples, majestic and
mysterious, are the  abodes of Isis and Osiris, of Horus and Ammon Ra. Yours
serfdom, awe and humbleness:  ours thunder and the seas. Israel is  weak and
few  are  her children: Egypt is an host and terrible are her arms. Vagrants
and daylabourers are you called: the world trembles at our name.
     A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his  voice  above it
boldly:
     -- But,  ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful  Moses listened to  and
accepted that view of  life, had  he bowed  his head and bowed his  will and
bowed his spirit before that arrogant admonition he would never have brought
the  chosen people out of their house of bondage nor followed the pillar  of
the  cloud  by day.  He  would  never  have spoken  with  the  Eternal  amid
lightnings  on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have come down with the light of
inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in his arms the tables of
the law, graven in the language of the outlaw.
     He ceased and looked at them, enjoying silence.
     Ominous - for Him!
     J.J. O'Molloy said not without regret:
     -- And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.
     -- A sudden - at - the - moment - though - from - lingering - illness -
often - previously  - expectorated - demise, Lenehan said. 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 who are in favour
say  ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. I declare it  carried. To which
particular boosing shed?... My casting vote is: Mooney's!
     He led the way, admonishing:
     --  We will  sternly refuse to partake of strong waters,  will  we not?
Yes, we will not. By no manner of means.
     Mr  O'Madden Burke, following close, said with an  ally's  lunge of his
umbrella:
     -- Lay on, Macduff!
     -- Chip of the old  block! the editor cried,  slapping  Stephen  on the
shoulder. Let us go. Where are those blasted keys?
     He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the crushed typesheets.
     -- Foot and mouth. I know. That'll be all right. That'll go
     in. Where are they? That's all right.
     He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office.
     Let Us Hope
     J.J. O'Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen:
     -- I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment.
     He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.
     -- Come  along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn't it? It
has the  prophetic vision. Fuit Ilium! The sack of windy  Troy. Kingdoms  of
this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.
     The  first  newsboy  came  pattering down the stairs at their heels and
rushed out into the street, yelling:
     -- Racing special!
     Dublin. I have much, much to learn.
     They turned to the left along Abbey street.
     -- I have a vision too, Stephen said.
     --  Yes, the professor said,  skipping  to get into step. Crawford will
follow.
     Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran:
     -- Racing special!
     Dear Dirty Dublin
     Dubliners.
     --  Two Dublin  vestals,  Stephen  said, elderly and pious,  have lived
fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane.
     -- Where is that? the professor asked.
     -- Off Blackpitts.
     Damp night reeking of hungry  dough. Against the wall.  Face glistening
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 a sixpence  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 dining rooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate Collins,
proprietress...  They purchase-our and twenty ripe plums from  a girl at the
foot of Nelson's  pillar to take off the thirst of the brawn. They  give two
threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and begin to waddle slowly
up the  winding staircase,  grunting, encouraging each other,  afraid of the
dark, panting, one asking the other have you the brawn, praising God and the
Blessed Virgin,  threatening to come down, peeping at the airslits. Glory be
to God. They had no idea it was that high.
     Their names are Anne  Kearns  and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the
lumbago for which she  rubs on Lourdes water  given her by a  lady who got a
bottleful from a passionist father. Florence  MacCabe  takes a crubeen and a
bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.
     -- Antithesis, the professor said, nodding twice. Vestal virgins. I can
see them. What's keeping our friend?
     He turned.
     A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down  the steps, scampering in all
directions,  yelling,  their white papers fluttering. Hard  after them Myles
Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his  scarlet face, talking
with J.J. O'Molloy.
     -- Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm.
     He set off again to walk by Stephen's side.
     Return of Bloom
     -- Yes, he said. I see them.
     -- Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in  a whirl of  wild  newsboys near the
offices of the Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal, called:
     -- Mr Crawford! A moment!
     -- Telegraph! Racing special!
     -- What  is  it? Myles Crawford  said, falling  back  a pace. A newsboy
cried in Mr Bloom's face:
     -- Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a bellows!
     Interview with the Editor
     Just  this  ad,  Mr  Bloom said,  pushing  through towards  the  steps,
puffing, and taking  the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes just
now. He'll  give a renewal  for two months, he says. After he'll see. But he
wants  a par to call attention in the Telegraph too, the Saturday  pink. And
he wants  it  if  it's  not  too late I  told  councillor Nannetti from  the
Kilkenny  People. I can have access  to it in the national library. House of
keys, don't  you see? His name is  Keyes. It's  a  play on  the name. But he
practically promised he'd give the renewal. But he wants just a little puff.
What will I tell him, Mr Crawford?
     K. M. A.
     Will you tell him he can kiss  my arse?  Myles  Crawford said, throwing
out his arm for emphasis. Tell him that straight from the stable.
     A bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All  off for a  drink. Arm  in  arm.
Lenehan's yachting cap  on the  cadge  beyond. Usual blarney. Wonder is that
young Dedalus the moving spirit. Has a good pair of boots on him today. Last
time I saw him he had his heels on view.  Been walking  in  muck  somewhere.
Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?
     -- Well, Mr Bloom said, his  eyes returning, if I can get  the design I
suppose it's worth a short par. He'd give the ad I think. I'll tell him...
     -- He  can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles  Crawford cried loudly  over
his shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.
     While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on
jerkily.
     Raising the Wind
     -- Nulla bona, Jack, he  said,  raising his hand to his chin. I'm up to
here. I've been through the hoop myself.  I was looking for a fellow to back
a bill for me no later than last week. You  must take the will for the deed.
Sorry, Jack. 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  beard was  wrapped in,  they  go nearer  to the
railings.
     --  Something  for  you, the professor explained to Myles Crawford. Two
old Dublin women on the top of Nelson's pillar.
     Some Column! - That's What Waddler One Said
     -- That's new, Myles Crawford  said. That's  copy. Out for the  waxies'
Dargle. Two old trickies, what?
     -- But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went on.  They see
the roofs and argue about where the different churches are: Rathmines'  blue
dome,  Adam and Eve's, saint  Laurence O'Toole's. But it makes them giddy to
look so they pull up their skirts...
     Those Slightly Rambunctious Females
     -- Easy all,  Myles  Crawford said, no  poetic  licence. We're  in  the
archdiocese here.
     --  And settle  down  on their striped petticoats,  peering  up  at the
statue of the onehandled adulterer.
     --  Onehandled  adulterer! the professor cried. I like that.  I see the
idea. I see what you mean.
     Dames Donate Dublin's Cits Speedpills Velocitous Aeroliths, Belief
     -- It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too
tired to look up or down or to speak. They put the bag of plums between them
and  eat  the  plums  out of  it  one  after another,  wiping off with their
handkerchiefs  the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and  spitting
the plumstones slowly out between the railings.
     He gave a  sudden loud young laugh as a close.  Lenehan and Mr O'Madden
Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney's.
     -- Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do no worse.
     Sophist Wallops  Haughty Helen  Square  on  Proboscis.  Spartans  Gnash
Molars. Ithacans Vow Pen is Champ
     -- You  remind  me of Antisthenes, the professor said,  a  disciple  of
Gorgias, the  sophist. It  is said of  him  that none could tell if he  were
bitterer against others or against  himself. He was the son of a noble and a
bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of beauty from
Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.
     Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.
     They made ready to cross O'Connell street.
     Hello There, Central!
     At various  points  along  the  eight  lines  tramcars with  motionless
trolleys stood in  their tracks, bound for or  from Rathmines,  Rathfarnham,
Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey,  Sandymount Green, Ringsend and  Sandymount
Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park  and Upper Rathmines, all still, becalmed
in short  circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons,  mail-vans, private
broughams, aerated mineral  water  floats  with rattling crates  of bottles,
rattled, lolled, 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 hc otia fecit.
     -- No,  Stephen said,  I call it  A Pisgah Sight  of  Palestine or  the
Parable of the Plums.
     -- I see, the professor said.
     He laughed richly.
     -- I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land.
We gave him that idea, he added to J. J. O'Molloy.
     Horatio is Cynosure this Fair June Day
     J. J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance cowards 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 grimly. That tickles me I must say. --
Tickled the old  ones too, Myles  Crawford said, if the God Almighty's truth
was known.





     PINEAPPLE  ROCK,  LEMON  PLATT,  BUTTER  SCOTCH.  A  SUGARSTICKY   GIRL
shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother.  Some school  treat.
Bad  for their tummies. Lozenge  and  comfit manufacturer to His Majesty the
King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne, sucking red jujubes white.
     A  sombre Y.M.C.A. young man,  watchful among the  warm sweet fumes  of
Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom.
     Heart to heart talks.
     Bloo... Me? No.
     Blood of the Lamb.
     His  slow  feet walked him riverward,  reading. Are you  saved? All are
washed  in  the blood of  the lamb.  God  wants blood  victim. Birth, hymen,
martyr, war,  foundation  of  a building,  sacrifice, kidney  burntoffering,
druid's altars. Elijah is coming.  Dr John Alexander Dowie, restorer of  the
church in Zion, is coming.
     Is coming! Is coming!! Is coming!!!
     All heartily welcome.
     Paying game. Torry and Alexander last year. Polygamy. His wife will put
the  stopper on that.  Where was that ad some  Birmingham  firm the luminous
crucifix? Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him on the wall,
hanging. Pepper's ghost idea. Iron nails ran in.
     Phosphorus it  must be  done  with. If you leave  a bit  of codfish for
instance.  I could see the bluey silver over  it. Night I  went down  to the
pantry in the kitchen. Don't like all the smells  in it waiting to rush out.
What was it she wanted?  The Malaga raisins. Thinking of  Spain. Before Rudy
was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good for the brain.
     >From Butler's monument house corner  he glanced along Bachelor's walk.
Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be selling
off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father. Lobbing about
waiting  for him. Home  always  breaks  up  when  the  mother  goes. Fifteen
children  he had. Birth every  year almost. That's in their theology or  the
priest won't give  the poor woman  the confession,  the absolution. Increase
and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat you out of house and home.
No  families  themselves  to feed. Living  on the  fat  of the  land.  Their
butteries  and  larders. I'd  like to see them do the black fast Yom Kippur.
Crossbuns. One meal  and a  collation for fear he'd collapse on the altar. A
housekeeper  of one of  those fellows If you could pick it out of her. Never
pick it  out of her. Like getting L. s. d. out of him. Does himself well. No
guests.  All for  number one.  Watching  his water. Bring your own bread and
butter. His reverence. Mum's the word.
     Good Lord, that poor child's dress  is in  flitters. Underfed she looks
too. Potatoes and marge, marge  and potatoes. It's after they feel it. Proof
of the pudding. Undermines the constitution.
     As he set  foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up  from
the parapet. Brewery barge  with export stout. England. Sea air  sours it, I
heard. Be  interesting  some day  get  a pass through  Hancock  to  see  the
brewery. Regular  world in  itself. Vats of porter, wonderful. Rats  get  in
too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on the
porter. Drink  till they puke again  like christians. Imagine drinking that!
Rats: vats. Well of course if we knew all the things.
     Looking down he  saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt quay
walls, 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 bridge piers. Not such damn fools. Also the day I threw
that stale cake out of the  Erin's King picked it up in the wake fifty yards
astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.
     The hungry famished gull
     Flaps o'er the waters dull.
     That  is how poets write, the similar sounds. But then  Shakespeare has
no rhymes:  blank  verse. The  flow of  the language it  is.  The  thoughts.
Solemn.
     Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit
     Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth.
     -- Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!
     His  gaze  passed  over  the   glazed  apples  serried  on  her  stand.
Australians  they must be this  time of  year. Shiny peels: polishes them up
with a rag or a handkerchief.
     Wait. Those poor birds.
     He  halted again  and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury  cakes
for a penny  and broke the brittle paste  and threw its  fragments down into
the Liffey. See  that? The gulls swooped  silently two, then all, from their
heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.
     Aware of  their greed and cunning he shook  the powdery crumb  from his
hands. They never expected that.  Manna. Live  on fishy flesh  they have to,
all sea  birds,  gulls, seagoose.  Swans  from  Anna  Liffey swim  down here
sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes. Wonder what kind is
swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them.
     They wheeled, flapping  weakly. I'm not going to throw any  more. Penny
quite enough. Lot of thanks  I get.  Not  even a  caw.  They spread foot and
mouth disease  too.  If you cram a turkey,  say, on  chestnut meal 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 kind  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. Fly by  night. 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 ballast  office  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 pikehoses she  called it till I  told her about
the transmigration. O rocks!
     Mr Bloom smiled  O  rocks at two windows  of the ballast office.  She's
right after all. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound.
She's not exactly witty. Can  be  rude too. Blurt  out what I was  thinking.
Still I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone voice.
He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing  into a barrel. Now,
isn't that wit? They used to call  him big Ben. Not half as witty as calling
him  base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross.  Get outside of a baron of
beef. Powerful man he was at storing  away number one Bass. Barrel  of Bass.
See? it all works out.
     A procession of whitesmocked men 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  show
cart  with two  smart  girls  sitting  inside  writing  letters,  copybooks,
envelopes, blotting  paper. I bet  that  would have caught  on. Smart  girls
writing  something catch  the eye at once. Everyone dying to know what she's
writing. Get twenty of them round you if you stare at nothing. Have a finger
in the pie. Women too. Curiosity. Pillar of salt, Wouldn't have it of course
because he didn't  think  of it himself first. Or the inkbottle  I suggested
with a false stain  of black celluloid.  His ideas  for  ads like Plumtree's
potted under the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't lick 'em. What?
Our envelopes. Hello! Jones, where are you going? Can't stop, Robinson, I am
hastening to purchase the  only reliable inkeraser  Kansell,  sold by Hely's
Ltd, 85  Dame Street. Well  out  of that ruck I am.  Devil of a job  it  was
collecting accounts of  those convents. Tranquilla convent.  That was a nice
nun there,  really sweet face. Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister?
I am sure she was crossed in  love  by her eyes. Very hard to  bargain  with
that  sort of 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 think she knew by
the way she.  If she had  married  she  would have  changed.  I suppose they
really  were  short  of money. Fried everything in  the  best butter all the
same.  No  lard  for  them.  My  heart's broke  eating  dripping.  They like
buttering  themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat
Claffey,  the pawnbroker's daughter. It was a  nun they  say invented barbed
wire.
     He crossed Westmoreland street when  apostrophe S had plodded by. Rover
cycleshop.  Those races  are  on  today.  How long  ago is  that?  Year Phil
Gilligan died. We  were in Lombard street west. Wait, was in Thom's. Got the
job in Wisdom Hely's year we  married.  Six years. Ten years ago: ninetyfour
he died, yes that's  right, the big  fire  at Arnott's. Val  Dillon was lord
mayor. The  Glencree dinner. Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying the port into
his soup  before the  flag  fell, Bobbob lapping it for the inner  alderman.
Couldn't hear  what the band played.  For what we  have already received may
the Lord make us. Milly was a kiddy then. Molly had  that elephantgrey dress
with the  braided frogs.  Mantailored with self-covered 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, shoulder and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbit
pie we had that day. People looking after her.
     Happy. Happier then. Snug  little room that was with the red wallpaper,
Dockrell's, one and ninepence a  dozen. Milly's tubbing night. American soap
I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she looked  soaped
all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he
told me of. Hereditary taste.
     He walked along the curbstone.
     Stream  of life.  What  was the  name of  that priestylooking chap  was
always squinting  in when he passed?  Weak eyes, woman. Stopped  in Citron's
saint Kevin's parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory is getting. Pen...
? Of course  it's  years ago.  Noise of  the  trams probably.  Well,  if  he
couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he sees every day.
     Bartell d'Arcy was the  tenor, just  coming out  then.  Seeing her home
after  practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her  that
song Winds that blow from the south.
     Windy night that was  I went to fetch  her there was that lodge meeting
on about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the supper room or
oakroom of the mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet of  her  music blew out
of my hand against  the  high school railings. Lucky it  didn't.  Thing like
that spoils the effect  of a night for her. Professor Goodwin linking her in
front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot.  His farewell  concerts.  Positively
last  appearance on  any  stage. May be for  months and  may  be  for never.
Remember  her  laughing  at  the wind, her  blizzard  collar  up. Corner  of
Harcourt road remember that gust? Brrfoo! Blew up all her skirts and her boa
nearly smothered old Goodwin. She did get flushed in the wind. Remember when
we  got home raking up the fire and frying up those  pieces of lap of mutton
for  her supper  with the Chutney sauce she liked. And the mulled rum. Could
see her in the bedroom from the hearth unclamping  the  busk  of  her stays.
White.
     Swish and soft flop her stays made on  the bed. Always  warm  from her.
Always liked  to let herself 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?
     -- Oh, how do you do, Mrs Breen?
     -- No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven't  seen her  for
ages.
     -- In  the pink,  Mr Bloom  said gaily,  Milly  has  a position down in
Mullingar, you know.
     -- Go away! Isn't that grand for her?
     -- Yes, in a photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How
are all your charges?
     -- All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said.
     How many has she? No other in sight.
     -- You're in black I see. You have no...
     -- No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral.
     Going to crop up  all day, I  foresee. Who's dead, when and what did he
die of? Turn up like a bad penny.
     -- o dear me, Mrs Breen said, I hope it wasn't any near relation.
     May as well get her sympathy.
     --  Dignam, Mr  Bloom  said.  An  old  friend  of mine. He  died  quite
suddenly, poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning.
     Your funeral's tomorrow
     While you're coming through the rye.
     Diddlediddle dumdum
     Diddlediddle...
     --   Sad   to  lose  the  old  friends,  Mrs  Breen's   womaneyes  said
melancholily.
     Now that's quite enough about that. Just quietly: husband.
     -- And your lord and master?
     Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn't lost them anyhow.
     -- O, don't be talking, she said. He's  a caution to rattlesnakes. He's
in there now with  his  lawbooks finding out the  law of  libel. He  has  me
heartscalded. Wait till I show you.
     Hot  mockturtle vapour and  steam  of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured
out  from  Harrison's.  The  heavy noonreek  tickled the  top of  Mr Bloom's
gullet. Want  to  make good pastry,  butter, best flour, Demerara  sugar, or
they'd taste it  with the hot tea. Or is it from  her? A barefoot arab stood
over  the grating, breathing in  the fumes. Deaden the gnaw  of  hunger that
way.  Pleasure  or pain is it?  Penny dinner. Knife and fork chained  to the
table.
     Opening her handbag, chipped leather,  hatpin: ought to have a guard on
those things. Stick it in a  chap's eye in the tram. Rummaging. Open. Money.
Please take one. Devils if they lose  sixpence. Raise Cain. Husband barging.
Where's  the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Are you feeding your little
brother's  family? Soiled  handkerchief:  medicinebottle.  Pastile that  was
fell. What is she?...
     -- There must be a new moon out, she said. He's always bad then. Do you
know what he did last night?
     Her  hand ceased  to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him  wide in
alarm, yet smiling.
     -- What? Mr Bloom asked.
     Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.
     -- Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.
     Indiges.
     -- Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.
     -- The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.
     She took a folded postcard from her handbag.
     -- Read that, she said. He got it this morning.
     -- What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U.P.?
     -- U.P.: up, she said. Someone  taking a rise out of him.  It's a great
shame for them whoever he is.
     -- Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.
     She took back the card, sighing.
     -- And now he's going  round to Mr Menton's office. He's  going to take
an action for ten thousand pounds, he says.
     She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.
     Same blue serge  dress  she had  two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen
its best days. Wispish hair  over her ears. And that dowdy  toque, three old
grapes to take  the harm  out of it. Shabby genteel. She  used to be a tasty
dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than Molly.
     See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.
     He looked still at her, holding  back behind  his look  his discontent.
Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I'm hungry too.  Flakes of pastry on
the  gusset of her dress: daub of sugary  flour stuck to her  cheek. Rhubarb
tart with liberal fillings,  rich fruit  interior. Josie Powell that was. In
Luke Doyle's long ago, Dolphin's Barn, the charades. U.P.: up.
     Change the subject.
     -- Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy, Mr Bloom asked.
     -- Mina Purefoy? she said.
     Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers' club. Matcham often thinks of
the masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. The last act.
     -- Yes.
     --  I  just called to ask on the way in is  she over it.  She's  in the
lying-in hospital in Holles street. Dr Horne got  her in.  She's three  days
bad now.
     -- O, Mr Bloom said. I'm sorry to hear that.
     -- Yes, Mrs  Breen  said. And  a houseful of kids at  home. It's a very
stiff birth, the nurse told me.
     -- O, Mr Bloom said.
     His  heavy  pitying  gaze  absorbed  her  news. His  tongue clacked  in
compassion. Dth! Dth!
     --  I'm sorry  to hear that,  he  said. Poor thing! Three days!  That's
terrible for her.
     Mrs Breen nodded.
     -- She was taken bad on the Tuesday...
     Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her.
     -- Mind! Let this man pass.
     A  bony form strode along the curbstone from the river, staring with  a
rapt  gaze  into the  sunlight through a  heavy  stringed  glass. Tight as a
skullpiece  a tiny hat gripped his head.  From his  arm a folded dustcoat, a
stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.
     -- Watch him, Mr Bloom  said.  He always  walks outside  the lampposts.
Watch!
     -- Who is he if it's a fair question, Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty?
     -- His name is Cashel  Boyle O'Connor  Fitzmaurice Tisdall  Farrell, Mr
Bloom said, smiling. Watch!
     --  He  has enough  of  them, she said. Denis  will be like that one of
these days.
     She broke off suddenly.
     -- There he is, she said. I must go after him. Goodbye. Remember  me to
Molly, won't you?
     -- I will, Mr Bloom said.
     He watched her  dodge  through passers towards  the shop-fronts.  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  stick, umbrella, dustcoat.  Going  the  two
days. Watch him! Out he goes again. One way of  getting on in the world. And
that other  old mosey lunatic in those  duds. Hard time she must  have  with
him.
     U.P.: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote
it for a lark in the Scotch house, I bet anything. Round to Menton's office.
His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods.
     He  passed the Irish  Times. There might be  other answers lying there.
Like  to answer them all.  Good  system  for criminals. Code. At their lunch
now.  Clerk  with the glasses there doesn't know me. O, leave them  there to
simmer.  Enough bother wading through forty-four of them. Wanted smart  lady
typist to  aid  gentleman in  literary work.  I  called you naughty  darling
because I do not like that other world. Please tell  me what is the meaning.
Please tell me what perfume  does your wife. Tell me who made the world. The
way they spring those questions  on you. And the other one Lizzie  Twigg. My
literary efforts have had the good fortune to  meet with the approval of the
eminent poet A. E. (Mr  Geo Russell). No time to do her hair drinking sloppy
tea with a book of poetry.
     Best paper by long chalks for a small  ad. Got the provinces now.  Cook
and  general,  exc  cuisine,  housemaid  kept.  Wanted  live man  for spirit
counter. Resp girl (R.  C.) wishes  to hear  of post in  fruit or pork shop.
James Carlisle made  that. Six and  a half percent dividend. Made a big deal
on Coates's shares.  Ca'canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the toady news.
Our  gracious  and  popular vicereine.  Bought  the  Irish  Field  now. Lady
Mountcashel  has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out with the
Ward Union staghounds  at the  enlargement  yesterday at Rathoath. Uneatable
fox.  Pothunters too.  Fear injects juices  make it  tender enough for them.
Riding  astride. Sit  her  horse  like a  man.  Weightcarrying  huntress. No
sidesaddle or pillion for her,  not for Joe. First to the meet and in at the
death. Strong  as a  brood mare  some of  those horsey women. Swagger around
livery stables. Toss off a  glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. That
one  at  the  Grosvenor  this  morning.  Up  with her on the  car: wishwish.
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. Eating with a stopwatch,
thirtytwo chews to the minute. Still his  muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed
to  be well connected. Theodore's cousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative
in every family. Hardy  annuals  he  presents her with.  Saw him out  at the
Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one
in  a marketnet. The squallers.  Poor thing! Then having to  give the breast
year after year  all hours of the night. Selfish those t.t's are. Dog in the
manger. Only one lump of sugar in my tea, if you please.
     He  stood  at Fleet street crossing.  Luncheon interval a  sixpenny  at
Rowe's? Must look up  that  ad in the national library. An eightpenny in the
Burton. Better. On my way.
     He walked on past Bolton's  Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot
to tap Tom Kernan.
     Sss.  Dth,  dth, dth!  Three  days  imagine groaning on  a  bed with  a
vinegared  handkerchief round  her forehead,  her  belly  swollen out! Phew!
Dreadful simply! Child's head too big: forceps. Doubled up inside her trying
to butt its way out blindly,  groping for  the way out. Kill  me that would.
Lucky Molly  got over hers lightly.  They ought  to invent something to stop
that.  Life  with hard labour. Twilightsleep idea: queen Victoria  was given
that. Nine she had. A good  layer. Old woman that lived in a shoe she had so
many children. Suppose he was  consumptive. Time  someone  thought  about it
instead of  gassing  about the what was it the pensive bosom  of the  silver
effulgence.  Flapdoodle  to  feed  fools  on. They  could  easily  have  big
establishments. Whole thing  quite painless out of all the  taxes give every
child born five quid at compound interest up to twentyone, five  per cent is
a hundred shillings and  five tiresome pounds,  multiply by  twenty  decimal
system, encourage people to put  by  money save hundred  and  ten  and a bit
twentyone years want to  work it  out on paper come to a tidy sum, more than
you think.
     Not stillborn  of  course.  They are  not even registered.  Trouble for
nothing.
     Funny  sight two  of them  together, their bellies out. Molly  and  Mrs
Moisel. Mothers' meeting. Phthisis retires for the time being, then returns.
How flat  they look  after all of a sudden! Peaceful eyes.  Weight off their
minds. 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 nyumyum. Got her
hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son. His first bow to the public. Head like a
prize pumpkin.  Snuffy Dr Murren. People knocking them up  at all hours. For
God'sake doctor. Wife In her throes. Then keep them waiting months for their
fee.  To attendance  on your  wife. No gratitude in people.  Humane doctors,
most of them.
     Before the huge high door of the Irish  house of parliament a flock  of
pigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who will we do it  on? I pick
the fellow in black. Here goes. Here's good luck. Must be thrilling from the
air.  Apjohn,  myself and  Owen Goldberg up  in the trees  near  Goose green
playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me.
     A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian
file.  Goose  step.  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 into groups and scattered,
saluting towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment to attack one in
pudding  time.  A  punch  in  his  dinner.  A  squad  of  others,   marching
irregularly,  rounded  Trinity railings, making  for the station. Bound  for
their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive soup.
     He crossed  under  Tommy Moore's roguish finger. They did right  to put
him up  over a urinal: meeting of the waters.  Ought to be places for women.
Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. There  is  not in this  wide
world a vallee. Great song of  Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up to the very
last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's wasn't she?
     He gazed after the last broad tunic.  Nasty  customers to tackle.  Jack
Power could a tale unfold: father a G  man.  If  a  fellow gave them trouble
being  lagged  they let him  have it hot  and heavy in  the bridewell. Can't
blame  them after all with the job  they have especially  the young hornies.
That horse policeman 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. Luck 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  mortar-boards.
Looking for trouble. Still I got to  know that young Dixon  who dressed that
sting for me in  the Mater and now he's in  Holles street where Mrs Purefoy.
Wheels within  wheels. Police  whistle in my ears still. All skedaddled. Why
he fixed on me. Give me in charge. Right here it began.
     -- Up the Boers!
     -- Three cheers for De Wet!
     -- We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree.
     Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling  their guts out. Vinegar hill.
The Butter exchange band. Few years' time half of them magistrates and civil
servants.  War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same  fellows used  to
whether on the scaffold high.
     Never know who you're talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey  Duff in
his  eye. Like that Peter or Denis or  James Carey that blew the gaff on the
invincibles.  Member of  the corporation too. Egging raw youths on to get in
the know. All the time drawing secret service pay from  the castle. Drop him
like a hot potato. Why those  plain clothes men are always courting slaveys.
Easily  twig  a man used to uniform.  Square-pushing 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, get along with  your great times  coming. Barmaids too.  Tobacco
shopgirls.
     James Stephens' idea was the best. He knew them. Circles of ten so that
a  fellow couldn't round on more than his own ring.  Sinn Fein. Back out you
get  the  knife. Hidden hand.  Stay in, the firing squad. Turnkey's daughter
got him out of  Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting up in the Buckingham Palace
hotel under their very noses. Garibaldi.
     You  must  have a  certain fascination: Parnell, Arthur  Griffith  is a
squareheaded fellow but he  has no go in him for the mob. Want to  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.  Shove  us  over  those apricots,  meaning
peaches. The not far distant day. Home Rule sun rising up in the northwest.
     His smile faded as  he  walked,  a heavy cloud  hiding the  sun slowly,
shadowing  Trinity's  surly  front.   Trams  passed  one  another,  ingoing,
outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same; day after day:  squads
of police marching  out,  back: trams  in,  out.  Those two loonies mooching
about.  Dignam carted off.  Mina Purefoy  swollen belly on a bed groaning to
have a child tugged out of her. One born every second somewhere. Other dying
every second. Since  I fed the birds  five minutes. Three hundred kicked the
bucket. Other three hundred born,  washing the blood off,  all are washed in
the blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.
     Cityful passing away,  other  cityful coming,  passing away  too: other
coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of pavements,
piledup bricks, stones. Changing  hands.  This  owner,  that. Landlord never
dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets his  notice  to quit.
They buy the place up with gold and still they have all the gold. Swindle in
it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn away age after age. Pyramids in sand.
Built on bread and onions.  Slaves. Chinese wall. Babylon. Big  stones left.
Round towers. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt, Kerwan's  mushroom
houses, built of breeze. Shelter for the night.
     No one is anything.
     This is  the very worst hour of the day.  Vitality.  Dull, gloomy: hate
this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.
     Provost's house.  The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Well tinned in
there.  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 silver
ware in Walter Sexton's window opposite 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 Boulger used to  come out on his high
horse,  cocked hat, puffed, powdered and  shaved. Look at the woebegone walk
of  him. Eaten  a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have a pain. Great man's
brother: his brother's  brother. He'd look nice  on  the city  charger. Drop
into  the D. B. C.  probably  for  his coffee, play chess there. His brother
used men as pawns.  Let them all go to pot. Afraid to pass a  remark on him.
Freeze them up with that eye of his. That's the fascination: the name. All a
bit touched. Mad Fanny and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with
scarlet harness. Bolt upright like  surgeon M'Ardle. Still David Sheehy beat
him for south  Meath. Apply for the Chiltern Hundreds and retire into public
life. The patriot's  banquet. Eating orangepeels in the  park. Simon Dedalus
said when they put  him in parliament that Parnell would  come back from the
grave and lead him out of the House of Commons by the arm.
     Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whose heads is the head upon which the
ends  of  the world  have forgotten  to come  while the other speaks with  a
Scotch accent. The tentacles...
     They  passed  from  behind  Mr  Bloom  along  the  curbstone. Beard and
bicycle. Young woman.
     And  there he is too. Now that's  really  a  coincidence:  second-time.
Coming events cast their shadows  before.  With the approval  of the eminent
poet  Mr Geo Russell. That might  be Lizzie Twigg with him. A. E.: what does
that mean? Initials  perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur  Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed
El Esquire. What  was he saying? The ends of the world with a Scotch accent.
Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism. Holding forth. She's taking
it all in. Not saying a word. To aid gentleman in literary work.
     His eyes followed  the high figure in homespun,  beard  and  bicycle, a
listening woman  at his side. Coming  from the vegetarian. Only weggebobbles
and fruit. Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue
you through all  eternity. They  say it's healthier. Wind and watery though.
Tried it. Keep  you on the run all day.  Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night.
Why  do they call  that thing they gave me nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians.
To give  you the idea you are eating rumpsteak. Absurd. Salty too. They cook
in soda. Keep you sitting by the tap all night.
     Her stockings are loose over her ankles.  I detest  that: so tasteless,
Those literary etherial people they  are all.  Dreamy,  cloudy, symbolistic.
Esthetes they  are. I  wouldn't be surprised if it was that kind of food you
see  produces  the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example  one of
those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts; you couldn't  squeeze
a line of poetry out of him.  Don't know what poetry is even. Must be  in  a
certain mood.
     The dreamy cloudy gull
     Waves o'er the waters dull.
     He  crossed at Nassau street  corner  and  stood before the  window  of
Yeates  and Son, pricing the field glasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's
and have a chat  with young Sinclair? Well-mannered fellow. Probably at  his
lunch. Must get those  old  glasses  of  mine set right. Grz 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 cloak
rooms. What do  they  be thinking  about? Women  too.  Incredible. Last year
travelling to Ennis had to pick up that  farmer's daughter's bag and hand it
to her at  Limerick junction. Unclaimed money too. There's a little watch up
there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses by.
     His lids came down  on the lower rims of  his irides. Can't see  it. If
you imagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it.
     He  faced  about and, standing between the awnings, held out his  right
hand  at arm's  length  towards  the sun.  Wanted to  try  that often.  Yes:
completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. Must be
the focus where the  rays cross. If I had black  glasses. Interesting. There
was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we were  in Lombard street west.
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  art 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 again to his side.
     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, she said. I believe there
is.
     He went on by la Maison Claire.
     Wait. The  full moon was the  night we  were  Sunday  fortnight exactly
there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon.
She was humming: The young  May moon  she's beaming, love. He  other side of
her.  Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp  is gleaming, love.  Touch. Fingers.
Asking. Answer. Yes.
     Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.
     Mr Bloom, quick breathing, slowlier walking, passed Adam court.
     With  a  keep quiet relief, his eyes  took note:  this  is  street here
middle of the  day  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 as
sober as a judge.
     Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do him
good.  Where  Pat  Kinsella  had  his  Harp theatre before Whitbred ran  the
Queen's. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault business with his harvestmoon  face
in a poky bonnet. Three  Purty Maids from School. How time flies eh? Showing
long  red   pantaloons  under  his   skirts.  Drinkers,   drinking,  laughed
spluttering, their drink against their breath.  More power, Pat. Coarse red:
fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take  off that white hat. His parboiled
eyes. Where  is  he now? Beggar somewhere.  The harp that once did starve us
all.
     I was happier then. Or was that I?  Or am I now  I? Twenty-eight 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,
silk, dames  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. Country bred 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 х santa! Tara tara.  Great chorus that. Tara. Must  be washed
in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.
     Pincushions. I'm a long  time  threatening to  buy one. Stick  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,  silk webs, silver,  rich  fruits, spicy from  Jaffa.  Agendath
Netaim. Wealth of the world.
     A  warm human plumpness settled down  on  his brain. His brain yielded.
Perfume of embraces  all him assailed.  With hungered  flesh  obscurely,  he
mutely craved to adore.
     Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.
     He  turned  Combridge's  corner,  still  pursued.  Jingling  hoofthuds.
Perfumed  bodies, warm, full. All kissed,  yielded: In  deep summer  fields,
tangled  pressed grass, in  trickling hallways  of tenements,  along  sofas,
creaking beds.
     -- Jack, love!
     -- Darling!
     -- Kiss me, Reggy!
     -- My boy!
     -- Love!
     His heart  astir he pushed in  the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink
gripped his trembling  breath: pungent  meatjuice,  slop 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:  no teeth  to chewchewchew  it. Chump chop from the
grill. Bolting  to get it over.  Sad booser's  eyes. Bitten off more than he
can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves  as others see us. Hungry man is  an
angry man. Working tooth and jaw. Don't!  O! A bone! That last pagan king of
Ireland Cormac  in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty  southward of the
Boyne.  Wonder  what he  was  eating. Something  galoptious.  Saint  Patrick
converted him to Christianity. Couldn't swallow it all however.
     -- Roast beef and cabbage.
     -- One stew.
     Smells  of  men.  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.
     An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the bailiff,
standing  at the  bar blew the foamy  crown from his tankard.  Well  up:  it
splashed yellow near his  boot.  A diner, knife and fork  upright, elbows on
table,  ready  for  a second helping stared towards  the foodlift across his
stained square of newspaper. Other chap telling him something with his mouth
full.  Sympathetic listener. Table talk. I  munched hum un thu Unchster Bunk
un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith?
     Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said.
     -- Not here. Don't see him.
     Out. I hate dirty eaters.
     He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Stopgap.
Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.
     -- Roast and mashed here.
     -- Pint of stout.
     Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail. Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff.
     He  came out into  clearer air and turned back  towards Grafton street.
Eat or be eaten. Kill! Kill!
     Suppose that communal kitchen years to  come perhaps. All trotting down
with porringers and tommycans to be filled.  Devour contents in  the street.
John Howard Parnell example the provost of  Trinity every mother's son don't
talk of your provosts  and  provost of Trinity  women and children,  cabmen,
priests,  parsons, fieldmarshals, archbishops.  From Ailesbury  road,  Clyde
road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin  union,  lord  ma 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 soup pot
as big as the Phoenix Park. Harpooning  flitches and hindquarters out of it.
Hate people all round you. City Arms hotel table d'hтte 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 Italian organgrinders  crisp  of
onions, mushrooms  truffles.  Pain  to  animal  too.  Pluck  and draw  fowl.
Wretched brutes there at the  cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to  split
their skulls  open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh.  Staggering bob. Bubble
and squeak. Butchers' buckets wobble 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, smoking hot, 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?
     -- Hellow, 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 mustered  and  bred there. Potted  meats. What is home
without Plumtree's  potted  meat?  Incomplete.  What a stupid  ad! Under the
obituary notices they  stuck  it. All  up a plumtree  Dignam's  potted meat.
Cannibals  would with  lemon  and  rice.  White  missionary too salty.  Like
pickled pork.  Expect the chief consumes  the parts of  honour. Ought to  be
tough from exercise. His  wives in  a row  to watch the effect. There  was a
right  royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of the reverend
Mr MacTrigger. With it an  abode of bliss. Lord knows what concoction. Cauls
mouldy  tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle  find the meat. Kosher.
No meat and milk together.  Hygiene that was what they  call now. Yom Kippur
fast  spring  cleaning of  inside. Peace  and war depend  on  some  fellow's
digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese.  Slaughter  of innocents.
Eat, drink  and  be merry.  Then  casual wards full  after. Heads  bandaged.
Cheese digests all but itself. Mighty cheese.
     -- Have you a cheese sandwich?
     -- Yes, sir.
     Like a few olives too if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of
burgundy; take away  that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a  cucumber. Tom
Kernan can dress. Puts  gusto into it. Pure olive oil.  Milly served me that
cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take  one Spanish onion. God  made food, the
devil the cooks. Devilled crab.
     -- Wife well?
     -- Quite well, thanks... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?
     -- Yes, sir.
     Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.
     -- Doing any singing those times?
     Look at  his mouth.  Could whistle  in his own ear. Flap ears to match.
Music. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Still better tell him. Does no
harm. Free ad.
     -- She's engaged for  a big tour end of this month. You may  have heard
perhaps.
     -- No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up?
     The curate served.
     -- How much is that?
     -- Seven d., sir... Thank you, sir.
     Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. Mr MacTrier. Easier than
the  dreamy creamy stuff.  His  five hundred wives.  Had  the time of  their
lives.
     -- Mustard, sir?
     -- Thank you.
     He  studded  under  each lifted strip yellow blobs. Their lives. I have
it. It grew bigger and bigger and bigger.
     -- Getting it  up?  he said. Well, it's  like a company idea, you  see.
Part shares and part profits.
     -- Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket
to scratch his groin. Who is this was  telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed
up in it?
     A warm shock of air heat  of  mustard  hauched 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
boxing match Myler Keogh won again that  soldier in the Portobello barracks.
By  God, he had the  little kipper down  in the county Carlow he was telling
me...
     Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up.
     -- For near a month, man, before it came off.  Sucking duck eggs by God
till further orders.  Keep him  off the  boose, see? O, by God, Blazes  is a
hairy chap.
     Davy Byrne came forward  from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves,
cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring's blush. Whose smile
upon each  feature plays with such  and such  replete. Too much  fat  on the
parsnips.
     -- And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give
us a good one for the Gold cup?
     -- I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on
a horse.
     -- You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.
     Mr Bloom ate his  strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of
disgust, pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his wine
soothed his palate. Not  logwood that.  Tastes fuller this weather  with the
chill off.
     Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like
the way it curves there.
     --  I  wouldn't  do anything at all in that  line, Davy Byrne  said. It
ruined many a man the same horses.
     Vintners'  sweepstake. Licensed for the  sale of beer, wine and spirits
for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.
     -- True for  you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're  in the know. There's
no straight sport 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 petty cash 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 numskull. 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. Dog's
cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling stomach's Skye  terrier in the
City   Arms   hotel.  Molly   fondling   him  in   her   lap.  O   the   big
doggy-bowwowsywowsy!
     Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread  mustard a moment mawkish
cheese. Nice wine it  is.  Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath  of
course does that. Just a bite or two. Then  about  six  o'clock I  can. Six,
six. Time will be gone then. She...
     Mild fire of wine kindled  his veins.  I wanted that badly. Felt so off
colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves  of tins, sardines,  gaudy lobsters'
claws.  All  the  odd  things  people  pick  up  for  food.  Out of  shells,
periwinkles with  a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat,
out of the sea  with bait on a hook. Silly fish  learn nothing in a thousand
years. If you didn't  know risky putting anything into your mouth. Poisonous
berries. Johnny  Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour  warns you
off.  One  fellow told another and so on. Try it on the dog first. Led on by
the  smell  or  the  look.  Tempting  fruit.  Ice  cones.  Cream.  Instinct.
Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes
but  what  about oysters? Unsightly like  a clot of  phlegm.  Filthy shells.
Devil to open them too. Who  found  them out? Garbage, sewage they  feed on.
Fizz and Red bank oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red
bank this morning. Was he oyster  old fish  at table. Perhaps he young flesh
in  bed.  No. June has  no  ar no oysters. But there are people like 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
иlite.  Crхme  de  la crхme.  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 ю la  duchesse de Parme. Just
as  well to write it on  the bill of  fare so you can know what you've eaten
too  many drugs spoil  the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it  with Edwards'
desiccated soup.  Geese  stuffed silly  for  them. Lobsters boiled alive: Do
ptake some ptarmigan. Wouldn't mind being a waiter  in a swell hotel.  Tips,
evening  dress, halfnaked ladies.  May I tempt you to a little more filleted
lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad.  And she did bedad. Huguenot name I
expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney I remember. Du, de la, French.
Still it's  the same fish,  perhaps  old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped
the guts out of making money, hand over fist, finger in fishes' gills, can't
write  his name on  a cheque, think  he  was painting the landscape with his
mouth twisted. Moooikill  A Aitcha Ha. Ignorant as a  kish of brogues, worth
fifty thousand pounds.
     Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.
     Glowing  wine  on  his  palate  lingered  swallowed.  Crushing  in  the
winepress grapes of  Burgundy. Sun's heat  it  is.  Seems  to a secret touch
telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild
ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple
by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of
undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat
she  had her hair, earwigs  In  the  heather  scrub my hand  under her nape,
you'll toss me all. O  wonder! Coolsoft  with ointments her hand touched me,
caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I  lay, full
lips full open,  kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me  in  my mouth the
seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet  and sour
with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting.
Soft, warm, sticky  grumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes  were, take me, willing
eyes.  Pebbles  fell.  She  lay still.  A goat.  No-one.  High on  Ben Howth
rhododendrons a  nannygoat walking surefooted,  dropping  currants. Screened
under ferns she  laughed  warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her; eyes,
her lips, her stretched neck, beating, woman s breasts full in her blouse of
nun's veiling, fat  nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was
kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.
     Me. And me now.
     Stuck, the flies buzzed.
     His  downcast  eyes followed  the  silent  veining of  the  oaken slab.
Beauty: it curves, curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves
the world admires. Can see  them library museum standing in the round  hall,
naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They don't  care what man looks.  All to
see. Never speaking, I mean to say to  fellows like  Flynn. Suppose she  did
Pygmalion  and  Galatea what  would  she say first? Mortal! Put  you in your
proper  place.  Quaffing  nectar  at  mess  with gods,  golden  dishes,  all
ambrosial.  Not  like  a  tanner lunch we have,  boiled mutton, carrots  and
turnips, bottle  of Allsop.  Nectar, imagine it drinking  electricity: gods'
food.  Lovely  forms  of woman sculped  Junonian.  Immortal lovely.  And  we
stuffing food in  one hole  and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth,
food:  have to feed it  like stoking an engine.  They have no. Never looked.
I'll look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something fall see if she.
     Dribbling  a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to  do
there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked, to
men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a  youth
enjoyed her, to the yard.
     When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:
     -- What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?
     -- He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does  canvassing for
the Freeman.
     -- I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?
     -- Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?
     -- I noticed he was in mourning.
     --  Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all
at home. You're right, by God. So he was.
     -- I never  broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely,  if  I see  a
gentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their minds.
     -- It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before
yesterday and he  coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife
has in  Henry  street  with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home to his
better half. She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast.
     -- And is he doing for the Freeman? Davy Byrne said.
     Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.
     -- He doesn't buy cream on the ads he  picks up. You can  make bacon of
that.
     -- How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.
     Nosey  Flynn made swift passes in  the air  with  juggling  fingers. He
winked.
     -- He's in the craft, he said.
     -- Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.
     --  Very much so, Nosey  Flynn said. Ancient  free and accepted  order.
Light, life and  love, by God. They give him a leg up. I was told that by a,
well, I won't say who.
     -- Is that a fact?
     --  O, it's a fine order,  Nosey  Flynn  said.  They stick to  you when
you're down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it, but they're as close
as damn it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it.
     Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:
     -- Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!
     -- There was one  woman,  Nosey Flynn said, hid herself  in a  clock to
find  out what they do  be doing. But  be  damned but they smelt her out and
swore her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of the Saint Legers of
Doneraile.
     Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes:
     -- And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw  him in here
and I never once saw him, you know, over the line.
     -- God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips
off when the fun gets too hot. Didn't you see him look at his watch? Ah, you
weren't there. If you  ask  him to have a drink first  thing he does he outs
with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare to God he does.
     -- There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd say.
     -- He's not too  bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling  it up.  He  has 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,  a
plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.
     -- Day, Mr Byrne.
     -- Day, gentlemen.
     They paused at the counter.
     -- Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked.
     -- I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.
     -- Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.
     -- I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.
     -- How much? Paddy Leonard cried.  Since when, for  God's  sake? What's
yours, Tom?
     -- How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.
     For  answer  Tom  Rochford  pressed  his hand  to  his  breastbone  and
hiccupped.
     -- Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.
     -- Certainly, sir.
     Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.
     -- Lord love a duck, he said, look at what I'm standing drinks to! Cold
water and gingerpop! Two fellows that  would suck whisky off a sore leg.  He
has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip.
     -- Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.
     Tom  Rochford spilt powder  from a twisted paper  into  the  water  set
before him.
     -- That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.
     -- Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.
     Tom Rochford nodded and drank.
     -- Is it Zinfandel?
     -- Say nothing, Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my
own.
     --  Tell  us if  you're  worth your salt and be  damned to  you,  Paddy
Leonard said. Who gave it to you?
     Mr Bloom on his way Out raised three fingers in greeting.
     -- So long, Nosey Flynn said.
     The others turned.
     -- That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.
     -- Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two
of your small Jamesons after that and a...
     -- Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.
     -- Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.
     Mr  Bloom walked towards  Dawson street, his tongue  brushing his teeth
smooth.  Something green it would have to be: spinach say.  Then with  those
Rжntgen rays searchlight you could.
     At Duke lane a  ravenous terrier choked  up  a sick knuckly  cud on the
cobble stones and lapped it with  new  zest.  Surfeit. Returned with  thanks
having  fully digested the  contents.  First sweet  then  savoury.  Mr Bloom
coasted warily.  Ruminants.  His second  course. Their  upper jaw they move.
Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything  with that invention of his. Wasting
time explaining it to Flynn's mouth. Lean people long mouths. Ought to be  a
hall  or a place where  inventors could  go in and  invent free. Course then
you'd have all the cranks pestering.
     He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo, the closes of the bars:
     Don Giovanni, a cenar teco
     M'invitasti.
     Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some  chap
in  the  blues.  Dutch courage. That Kilkenny People in the national library
now I must.
     Bare  clean closestools, waiting,  in the  window  of  William  Miller,
plumber, turned  back his  thoughts. They could:  and watch it all  the  way
down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of the  ribs years after,  tour round
the body, changing biliary duct, spleen squirting liver, gastric juice coils
of intestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have  to stand  all  the
time with his insides entrails on show. Science.
     -- A cenar teco.
     What does that teco mean? Tonight perhaps.
     Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited
     To come to supper tonight,
     The rum the rumdum.
     Doesn't go properly.
     Keyes: two  months if  I get  Nannetti to. That'll  be  two pounds ten,
about two pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Presscott'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  watering  places?  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? Bird's Nest. Women run him. They say they used to give pauper children
soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato blight. Society over
the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews. Same bait. Why we left
the church of Rome?
     A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No
tram in sight. Wants to cross.
     -- Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.
     The blind stripling did not answer. His  wall  face 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  brilliantined  hair  just  when I  was. Horse drooping. Driver in  John
Long's. Slaking his drouth.
     -- There's a  van there, Mr  Bloom said,  but it's not moving. I'll see
you across. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?
     -- Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.
     -- Come, Mr Bloom said.
     He  touched  the  thin elbow gently:  then took the limp seeing hand to
guide it forward.
     Say something  to  him. Better not do  the condescending. They mistrust
what you tell them. Pass a common remark:
     -- The rain kept off.
     No answer.
     Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Tastes all  different
for him.  Have to be spoonfed  first.  Like  a child's hand  his hand.  Like
Milly's  was. Sensitive.  Sizing me up I daresay from my  hand. Wonder if he
has a name, Van. Keep his  cane clear of  the horse's legs tired drudge  get
his doze. That's right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a horse.
     -- Thanks, sir.
     Knows I'm a man. Voice.
     -- Right now? First turn to the left.
     The blind  stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his  way, drawing
his cane back, feeling again.
     Mr Bloom walked behind  the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone
tweed. Poor young fellow!  How on earth did he know that van was there? Must
have  felt  it.  See things  in their  foreheads perhaps.  Kind of  sense of
volume. Weight. Would he feel it if something was removed? Feel a gap. Queer
idea of Dublin  he  must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he
walk in a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow
going in to be a priest.
     Penrose! That was that chap's name.
     Look at  all the things they can learn to do. Read  with their fingers.
Tune pianos. Or  we  are surprised  they  have any brains.  Why  we think  a
deformed person or a hunchback clever if he says something we  might say. Of
course the other senses are more. Embroider. Plait  baskets. People ought to
help. Work basket I could buy 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 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 temperature when he touches her  with fingers must  almost see the
lines, the curves. His hands on her hair, for instance. Say it was black for
instance.  Good.  We  call  it  black.  Then passing  over  her white  skin.
Different feel perhaps. Feeling of white.
     Postoffice.  Must answer.  Fag today.  Send  her  a  postal  order  two
shillings half a crown. Accept my little present. Stationer's just here too.
Wait. Think over it.
     With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair  combed back above
his ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine straw. Then  gently his finger felt the
skin of his right cheek. Downy hair there too. Not smooth enough. The  belly
is the smoothest. No-one about. There he goes into Frederick street. Perhaps
to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Might be settling my braces.
     Walking by Doran's public  house he slid his hand between waistcoat and
trousers and,  pulling  aside his shirt  gently,  felt a  slack fold of  his
belly. But I know it's whiteyellow. Want to try in the dark to see.
     He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.
     Poor fellow! Quite a boy. Terrible. Really terrible. What  dreams would
he have, not seeing? Life a  dream for him. Where  is the justice being born
that  way?  All those  women  and children  excursion  beanfeast  burned and
drowned in New York. Holocaust. Karma they call that transmigration for sins
you did in  a  past life the reincarnation  met him pike-hoses.  Dear, dear,
dear. Pity of course: but somehow you can't cotton on to them someway.
     Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons' hall. Solemn as Troy.
After his good lunch  in  Earlsfort terrace.  Old  legal cronies  cracking a
magnum.  Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the bluecoat school. I
sentenced him to ten years. I suppose he'd turn up his nose at that  stuff I
drank. Vintage wine for them, the year marked on a dusty bottle. Has his own
ideas  of  justice in  the  recorder's  court.  Wellmeaning old  man. Police
chargesheets  crammed with  cases  get their percentage manufacturing crime.
Sends them  to the rightabout.  The devil on moneylenders. Gave Reuben  J. a
great strawcalling. Now he's really what  they call a dirty jew. Power those
judges have. Crusty old topers in  wigs.  Bear with  a sore paw. And may the
Lord have mercy on your soul.
     Hello,  placard. Mirus  bazaar.  His excellency  the  lord  lieutenant.
Sixteenth today it is. In aid of funds for Mercer's  hospital.  The  Messiah
was  first  given  for  that.  Yes  Handel.  What  about  going  out  there.
Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use sticking to him like a leech. Wear out
my welcome. Sure to know someone on the gate.
     Mr Bloom came to Kildare Street. First I must. Library.
     Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.
     His heart  quopped softly. To the right.  Museum. Goddesses. He swerved
to the right.
     Is it? Almost certain.  Won't look. Wine  in  my face.  Why did  I? Too
heady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Not see. Get on.
     Making for  the museum gate with long windy strides 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 for.
     He thrust back quickly Agendath.
     Afternoon she said.
     I am looking for that.  Yes, that.  Try  all pockets. Handker. Freeman.
Where did I ? Ah, yes. Trousers. Purse. Potato. Where did I ?
     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! Yes. Gate.
     Safe!



    Ulysses 9: Scylla and Charybdis


     URBANE, TO COMFORT THEM, THE QUAKER LIBRARIAN PURRED:
     -- And we have, have we not,  those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister?
A great poet  on a great brother poet. A hesitating soul taking arms against
a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as one sees in real life.
     He  came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking and a step
backward a sinkapace on the solemn floor.
     A noiseless attendant,  setting open the door but slightly, made him  a
noiseless beck.
     --  Directly,  said he, creaking to go, albeit lingering. The beautiful
ineffectual dreamer who  comes to grief against hard facts. One always feels
that Goethe's judgments are so true. True in the larger analysis.
     Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. Bald, most zealous by the door
he gave his  large  ear all to  the attendant's  words: heard them: and  was
gone.
     Two left.
     -- Monsieur de la Palisse,  Stephen sneered, was  alive fifteen minutes
before his death.
     --  Have you  found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton asked  with
elder's gall, to write Paradise Lost at your dictation? The Sorrows of Satan
he calls it.
     Smile. Smile Cranly's smile.
     First he tickled her
     Then he patted her
     Then he passed the female catheter.
     For he was a medical
     jolly old medi.
     --  I feel you would need one more  for Hamlet.  Seven is dear  to  the
mystic mind. The shining seven W. B. calls them.
     Glittereyed, his rufous skull  close to his greencapped desklamp sought
the  face,  bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an  ollav, holyeyed. He laughed
low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.
     Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood
     Tears such as angels weep.
     Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.
     He holds my follies hostage.
     Cranly's  eleven  true  Wicklowmen to  free  their sireland. Gaptoothed
Kathleen, her four beautiful  green  fields, the  stranger in her house. And
one more to hail him: ave, rabbi. The  Tinahely twelve. In the shadow of the
glen  he  cooees for them.  My  soul's youth I gave  him,  night  by  night.
Godspeed. 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 mind into contact with the eternal wisdom, Plato's world of ideas.
All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.
     A.  E. has been telling some yankee interviewer. Wall, tarnation strike
me!
     --  The schoolmen  were schoolboys  first, Stephen said  superpolitely.
Aristotle was once Plato's schoolboy.
     -- And  has remained so,  one should hope, John Eglinton sedately said.
One can see him, a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm.
     He laughed again at the now smiling bearded face.
     Formless  spiritual.  Father,  Word  and  Holy  Breath. Allfather,  the
heavenly  man.  Hiesos Kristos,  magician  of the beautiful,  the Logos  who
suffers in us at every moment. This  verily is that. I am  the fire upon the
altar. I am the sacrificial butter.
     Dunlop, Judge, the noblest Roman of  them  all, A. E., Arval,  the Name
Ineffable, in heaven hight, K. H., their master, whose identity is no secret
to adepts. Brothers of the great white lodge always watching to see  if they
can help. The Christ with the bridesister, moisture  of  light,  born of  an
ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the plane of buddhi. The life
esoteric is not for ordinary person. O. P. must work  off bad  karma  first.
Mrs  Cooper  Oakley once glimpsed our  very  illustrious sister  H.  P.  B's
elemental.
     O, fie!  Out on't!  Pfuiteufel! You naughtn't  to look,  missus, so you
naughtn't when a lady's ashowing of her elemental.
     Mr  Best entered, tall, young, mild, light.  He  bore in his  hand with
grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.
     -- That model  schoolboy,  Stephen  said,  would find Hamlet's  musings
about the afterlife of his princely  soul, the improbable, insignificant and
undramatic monologue, as shallow as Plato's.
     John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth:
     -- Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle
with Plato.
     -- Which of the two, Stephen  asked, would have  banished  me from  his
commonwealth?
     Unsheathe  your  dagger  definitions.  Horseness  is  the  whatness  of
allhorse.  Streams of  tendency  and eons  they worship.  God:  noise in the
street: very peripatetic. Space:  what you damn  well  have  to see. Through
spaces  smaller  than  red globules of  man's  blood  they creepycrawl after
Blake's  buttocks  into eternity of  which  this vegetable world  is  but  a
shadow.  Hold to the now, the here,  through which all future plunges to the
past.
     Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague.
     -- Haines is gone, he said.
     -- Is he?
     -- I was showing him Jubainville's book. He's quite enthusiastic, don't
you know,  about  Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht. I couldn't  bring him  in to
hear the discussion. He's gone to Gill's to buy it.
     Bound thee forth, my booklet, quick
     To greet the callous public.
     Writ, I ween, 'twas not my wish
     In lean unlovely English.
     The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined.
     We feel in England.  Penitent thief.  Gone.  I smoked his baccy.  Green
twinkling stone. An emerald set in the ring of the sea.
     -- People do not know how dangerous lovesongs can be,  the auric egg of
Russell warned occultly.  The movements which work revolutions in  the world
are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside.
For them the  earth is not an exploitable ground but the living  mother. The
rarefied air of the academy and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the
musichall song, France produces the  finest flower of corruption in Mallarmи
but the desirable life is  revealed only to the poor  of  heart, the life of
Homer's Ph&Aelig;acians.
     >From these words Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen.
     -- Mallarmи, 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 promхne, lisant  au  livre  de lui-mйme, 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
     Piхce de Shakespeare
     He repeated to John Eglinton's newgathered frown:
     -- Piиce  de Shakespeare, don't  you  know. It's  so French, the French
point of view. Hamlet ou...
     -- The absentminded beggar, Stephen ended.
     John Eglinton laughed.
     -- Yes, I suppose it would be, he said. Excellent people, no doubt, but
distressingly shortsighted in some matters.
     Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.
     -- A deathsman of the soul Robert Greene called him,  Stephen said. Not
for nothing was he a butcher's son wielding the sledded poleaxe and spitting
in  his palm. Nine lives are  taken off for his father's one, Our Father who
art  in purgatory. Khaki Hamlets  don't hesitate to shoot. The bloodboltered
shambles in act five is  a  forecast  of the concentration  camp  sung by Mr
Swinburne.
     Cranly, I his mute orderly, following battles from afar.
     Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom none
     But we had spared...
     Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. The devil and the deep sea.
     -- He will have it  that Hamlet is a ghoststory, John Eglinton said for
Mr  Best's behoof. Like the  fat boy in Pickwick he  wants to make our flesh
creep.
     List! List! O List!
     My flesh hears him: creeping, hears.
     If thou didst ever...
     -- What  is a ghost?  Stephen  said with tingling  energy.  One who has
faded  into impalpability through death, through  absence, through change of
manners. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt  Paris lies
from  virgin  Dublin. Who is the  ghost from limbo patrum, returning  to the
world that has forgotten him? Who is king Hamlet?
     John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge:
     Lifted.
     -- It is this hour  of a day  in mid June, Stephen said, begging with a
swift glance their hearing. The flag is up on the playhouse by the bankside.
The bear Sackerson  growls in the pit  near it, Paris garden. Canvasclimbers
who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings.
     Local colour. Work in all you know. Make them accomplices.
     -- Shakespeare has left the huguenot's house in Silver street and walks
by  the swanmews along the riverbank. But he does  not stay to feed  the pen
chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. The swan of  Avon has other
thoughts.
     Composition of place. Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me!
     -- The  play begins. A player comes on under the shadow, made up in the
castoff mail of  a court  buck, a wellset man with a bass  voice. It  is the
ghost, the king,  a king and no king, and the player is Shakespeare  who has
studied Hamlet all the years of his life which were not  vanity in  order to
play  the part of the  spectre. He  speaks the  words to Burbage, the  young
player who stands before him beyond the rack of cerecloth, calling  him by a
name:
     Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit
     bidding him list. To a son he speaks,  the son of his soul, the prince,
young Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, who has died in
Stratford that his namesake may live for ever.
     -- Is it possible that that player Shakespeare, a ghost by absence, and
in the  vesture  of buried Denmark, a ghost by death, speaking his own words
to his  own  son's name (had Hamnet  Shakespeare  lived he would  have  been
prince Hamlet's twin)  is  it possible, I want to know, or probable  that he
did not draw  or foresee the logical conclusion of those  premises: you  are
the dispossessed son: I am the murdered  father: your  mother is the  guilty
queen. Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway?
     -- But  this prying into the family life of a  great man, Russell began
impatiently.
     Art thou there, truepenny?
     --  Interesting only to the parish clerk. I mean,  we have the plays. I
mean  when we read the  poetry  of King Lear what is it to  us how  the poet
lived? As for living, our servants can do  that for  us, Villiers  de l'Isle
has said.  Peeping and prying into  greenroom gossip of the day, the  poet's
drinking, the poet's debts. We have King Lear: and it is immortal.
     Mr Best's face appealed to, agreed.
     Flow over them with your waves and with your waters,
     Mananaan, Mananaan MacLir...
     How now, sirrah, that pound he lent you when you were hungry?
     Marry, I wanted it.
     Take thou this noble.
     Go  to!  You spent most  of  it  in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's
daughter. Agenbite of inwit.
     Do you intend to pay it back?
     O, yes.
     When? Now?
     Well... no.
     When, then?
     I paid my way. I paid my way.
     Steady on. He's from beyant Boyne  water. The northeast corner. You owe
it.
     Wait. Five  months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got
pound.
     Buzz. Buzz.
     But  I,  entelechy,  form  of  forms,  am  I by  memory  because  under
everchanging forms.
     I that sinned and prayed and fasted.
     A child Conmee saved from pandies.
     I, I and I. I.
     A.E.I.O.U.
     -- Do you mean  to fly in the face of the tradition of three centuries?
John Eglinton's carping voice asked.  Her ghost  at least  has been laid for
ever. She died, for literature at least, before she was born.
     -- She died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was born. She
saw him into and out of the world. She took his first embraces. She bore his
children and she laid pennies on his eyes to keep his eyelids closed when he
lay on his deathbed.
     Mother's deathbed. Candle. The sheeted mirror. Who brought me into this
world   lies   there,  bronzelidded,  under  few   cheap   flowers.  Liliata
rutilantium.
     I wept alone.
     John Eglinton looked in the tangled glowworm of his lamp.
     -- The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, and got
out of it as quickly and as best he could.
     -- Bosh! Stephen  said rudely. A man of  genius makes no  mistakes. His
errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.
     Portals   of   discovery  opened  to   let  in  the  quaker  librarian,
softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous.
     -- A  shrew, John  Eglinton  said shrewdly,  is not a useful portal  of
discovery, one should imagine. What useful discovery did Socrates learn from
Xanthippe?
     -- Dialectic, Stephen  answered:  and  from  his  mother how  to  bring
thoughts into the  world. What he  learnt from his  other wife  Myrto (absit
nomen!) Socratididion's Epipsychidion, no man, not  a woman, will ever know.
But  neither  the midwife's lore  nor  the caudlectures  saved  him from the
archons of Sinn Fein and their noggin of hemlock.
     -- But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's quiet voice  said  forgetfully. Yes,  we
seem to be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.
     His look  went from brooder's  beard  to carper's  skull, to remind, to
chide  them  not unkindly, then to the  baldpink lollard  costard, guiltless
though maligned.
     -- He  had  a good  groatsworth of wit,  Stephen  said,  and no  truant
memory.  He  carried  a  memory  in his wallet  as he  trudged to  Romeville
whistling The girl I left behind me. If the  earthquake  did not  time it we
should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in his form, the cry of hounds,
the studded bridle and her  blue windows. That memory, Venus and Adonis, lay
in  the bedchamber of every  light-of-love in London. Is Katharine the shrew
illfavoured?  Hortensio  calls  her  young  and beautiful. Do  you think the
writer  of Antony and  Cleopatra, a passionate pilgrim, had his eyes in  the
back of his  head that  he chose the ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to lie
withal? Good: he left  her and gained the world of men. But his boywomen are
the  women of a boy. Their life, thought, speech  are lent them by males. He
chose badly? He was chosen, it seems  to me. If others  have  their will Ann
hath a  way. By  cock, she was to blame. She put the comether on  him, sweet
and twentysix. The greyeyed goddess who bends  over the boy Adonis, stooping
to conquer, as prologue  to the swelling act, is a boldfaced Stratford wench
who tumbles in a cornfield a lover younger than herself.
     And my turn? When?
     Come!
     --  Ryefield,  Mr  Best  said  brightly, gladly,  raising his new book,
gladly brightly.
     He murmured then with blonde delight for all:
     Between the acres of the rye
     These pretty countryfolk would lie.
     Paris: the wellpleased pleaser.
     A tall figure  in  bearded homespun rose  from shadow  and unveiled its
cooperative watch.
     -- I am afraid I am due at the Homestead.
     Whither away? Exploitable ground.
     -- Are you going, John  Eglinton's active eyebrows asked.  Shall we see
you at Moore's tonight? Piper is coming.
     -- Piper! Mr Best piped. Is Piper back?
     Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper.
     -- I don't  know if I can. Thursday. We have our  meeting. If I can get
away in time.
     Yogibogeybox  in Dawson  chambers.  Isis  Unveiled. Their Pali  book we
tried to pawn. Crosslegged under an umbrel  umbershoot  he thrones an  Aztec
logos, functioning  on  astral  levels,  their  oversoul,  mahamahatma.  The
faithful hermetists await the light, ripe for chelaship, ringroundabout him.
Louis  H.  Victory. T. Caulfield Irwin. Lotus ladies  tend them  i'the eyes,
their  pineal  glands aglow. Filled  with his  god he  thrones,  Buddh under
plantain.  Gulfer of  souls, engulfer.  Hesouls, shesouls, shoals  of souls.
Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they bewail.
     In quintessential triviality
     For years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt.
     --  They say we are  to have  a literary surprise, the quaker librarian
said, friendly and earnest. Mr Russell, rumour has it, is gathering together
a sheaf of our younger poets' verses. We are all looking forward anxiously.
     Anxiously  he  glanced  in the  cone  of  lamplight where  three faces,
lighted, shone.
     See this. Remember.
     Stephen   looked   down  on  a  wide  headless  caubeen,  hung  on  his
ashplanthandle  over his knee. My  casque and sword. Touch lightly  with two
index  fingers.  Aristotle's  experiment.  One or two? Necessity is  that in
virtue of which it is impossible that  one  can be otherwise. Argai, one hat
is one hat.
     Listen.
     Young Colum and Starkey. George Roberts is  doing  the commercial part.
Longworth will give  it  a good puff in the Express.  O,  will  he? I  liked
Colum's Drover. Yes, I think  he has that queer thing, genius.  Do you think
he  has genius really? Yeats admired his line:  As in wild  earth a  Grecian
vase. Did he?  I hope you'll  be able to  come  tonight. Malachi Mulligan is
coming too. Moore  asked him to bring Haines. Did you  hear  Miss Mitchell's
joke  about Moore and  Martyn?  That  Moore  is  Martyn's wild oats? Awfully
clever, isn't it?  They remind  one  of  don  Quixote  and Sancho Panza. Our
national  epic has yet to be written, Dr Sigerson says. Moore is the man for
it. A knight of the rueful countenance here in Dublin. With  a saffron kilt?
O'Neill Russell?  O,  yes,  he  must  speak  the grand  old  tongue. And his
Dulcinea?  James  Stephens is  doing some clever  sketches. We  are becoming
important, it seems.
     Cordelia. Cordoglio. Lir's loneliest daughter.
     Nookshotten. Now your best French polish.
     -- Thank you very much,  Mr Russell, Stephen said,  rising. If you will
be so kind as to give the letter to Mr Norman...
     -- O,  yes. If he considers it important it will go in. We have so much
correspondence.
     -- I understand, Stephen said. Thanks.
     Good ild you. The pigs' paper. Bullockbefriending.
     -- Synge has  promised me an article for Dana  too. Are we going to  be
read? I feel we are. The Gaelic league wants something in Irish. I  hope you
will come round tonight. Bring Starkey.
     Stephen sat down.
     The quaker librarian came from the leavetakers. Blushing his mask said:
     -- Mr Dedalus, your views are most illuminating.
     He creaked to and fro,  tiptoing up nearer  heaven by the altitude of a
chopine, and, covered by the noise of outgoing, said low:
     -- Is it your view, then, that she was not faithful to the poet?
     Alarmed face asks me. Why did he come? Courtesy or an inward light?
     --  Where there is a reconciliation, Stephen said, there must have been
first a sundering.
     -- Yes.
     Christfox in leather trews, hiding,  a  runaway  in blighted  treeforks
from hue and cry.  Knowing no vixen,  walking lonely in the chase.  Women he
won  to him, tender  people,  a whore of Babylon, ladies  of justices, bully
tapsters' wives. Fox  and geese. And  in New  Place a slack dishonoured body
that once was  comely, once as sweet, as fresh  as cinnamon, now her  leaves
falling, all, bare, frighted of the narrow grave and unforgiven.
     -- Yes. So you think.
     The door closed behind the outgoer.
     Rest  suddenly  possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of  warm  and
brooding air.
     A vestal's lamp.
     Here he ponders things that were  not:  what Caesar would have lived to
do  had he  believed the soothsayer:  what might have been: possibilities of
the possible  as possible: things not known: what name Achilles bore when he
lived among women.
     Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words.
Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. And  I heard the  voice of
that Egyptian highpriest. In painted chambers loaded with tilebooks.
     They are still. Once quick  in the brains of men. Still: but an itch of
death is in them, to tell me in  my ear  a maudlin  tale, urge  me to  wreak
their will.
     -- Certainly, John Eglinton mused,  of  all  great  men he is the  most
enigmatic. We know nothing but that he lived and suffered. Not even so much.
Others abide our question. A shadow hangs over all the rest.
     -- But Hamlet is so personal, isn't it? Mr Best pleaded. I mean, a kind
of private paper, don't you know, of his private life. I mean I don't care a
button, don't you know, who is killed or who is guilty...
     He  rested  an innocent book  on  the  edge  of  the  desk, smiling his
defiance. His private papers in the original. Ta  an bad ar an tir. Taim imo
shagart. Put beurla on it, littlejohn.
     Quoth littlejohn Eglinton:
     -- I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi  Mulligan told us but
I may as well warn  you that if you want to shake my belief that Shakespeare
is Hamlet you have a stern task before you.
     Bear with me.
     Stephen  withstood  the  bane  of  miscreant eyes, glinting stern under
wrinkled brows. A basilisk. E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca. Messer Brunetto,
I thank thee for the word.
     -- As we, or mother Dana, weave  and unweave our bodies, Stephen  said,
from  day  to  day, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so  does the artist
weave and unweave his image. And  as the mole on my right breast is where it
was when I  was born, though  all my body has been woven of new  stuff  time
after time, so through  the ghost  of  the unquiet father  the image of  the
unliving son  looks forth. In the intense  instant of  imagination, when the
mind, Shelley  says, is a fading coal, that which I was is that which  I  am
and that which in possibility I may come to be. So in the future, the sister
of the past, I may see  myself as I sit here now but by reflection from that
which then I shall be.
     Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at that stile.
     -- Yes, Mr Best said youngly, I feel Hamlet quite young. The bitterness
might  be from the father but the passages with Ophelia are surely from  the
son.
     Has the wrong sow by the lug. He is in my father. I am in his son.
     -- That mole is the last to go, Stephen said, laughing.
     John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow.
     -- If  that were  the birthmark of genius,  he  said, genius would be a
drug  in  the  market. The  plays  of Shakespeare's later  years which Renan
admired so much breathe another spirit.
     -- The spirit of reconciliation, the quaker librarian breathed.
     -- There can be no reconciliation, Stephen said, if there  has not been
a sundering.
     Said that.
     -- If you want to know what are the events which cast their shadow over
the hell of time of King  Lear, Othello, Hamlet, Troilus and  Cressida, look
to see  when and  how the shadow lifts.  What  softens the  heart of  a man,
Shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles, prince of
Tyre?
     Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.
     -- A child, a girl placed in his arms, Marina.
     --  The  leaning  of  sophists  towards  the bypaths of  apocrypha is a
constant quantity, John Eglinton detected. The highroads are dreary but they
lead to the town.
     Good Bacon: gone  musty.  Shakespeare Bacon's wild oats. Cypherjugglers
going  the  highroads. Seekers on  the great quest. What  town good masters?
Mummed  in names: A. E., eon: Magee, John Eglinton. East of the sun, west of
the moon: Tir na n-og. Booted the twain and staved.
     How many miles to Dublin?
     Three score and ten, sir.
     Will we be there by candlelight?
     --  Mr  Brandes  accepts it, Stephen  said, as  the  first  play of the
closing period.
     -- Does  he? What does Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus, as some aver
his name is, say of it?
     -- Marina, Stephen said, a child of storm, Miranda, a wonder,  Perdita,
that which was  lost.  What was lost is  given  back to him:  his daughter's
child. My dearest wife, Pericles says, was like this maid. Will any man love
the daughter it he has not loved the mother?
     --  The  art of being a  grandfather, Mr Best gan  murmur. L'art d'йtre
grand...
     -- 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 repeat himself.
     The benign forehead of the quaker librarian enkindled rosily with hope.
     -- I hope Mr Dedalus will  work out his theory for the enlightenment of
the  public. And  we ought to mention another  Irish  commentator, Mr George
Bernard  Shaw.  Nor  should  we forget Mr  Frank  Harris.  His  articles  on
Shakespeare in the Saturday  Review  were surely brilliant.  Oddly enough he
too draws for us an  unhappy relation with the dark lady of the sonnets. The
favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. I  own that if the poet
must  be rejected, such  a rejection would seem  more in harmony with - what
shall I say? - our notions of what ought not to have been.
     Felicitously  he  ceased and held  a meek head  among  them, auk's egg,
prize of their fray.
     He thous and thees her with grave husbandwords. Dost love, Miriam? Dost
love thy man?
     -- That may be too,  Stephen said. There is 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 had  written Romeo  and Juliet. Why? Belief
in himself has  been untimely killed.  He was overborne in a cornfield first
(ryefield, I should say) and he will never be a victor in his own eyes after
nor play victoriously the  game of laugh and lie down. Assumed dongiovannism
will not save him. No later undoing will undo the first undoing. The tusk of
the boar has wounded him  there-where love lies  ableeding. If the shrew  is
worsted yet there remains  to her woman's invisible weapon. There is, I feel
in the  words,  some goad of the flesh  driving  him into a  new  passion, a
darker shadow of the first, darkening even his own understanding of himself.
A life fate awaits him and the two rages commingle in a whirlpool.
     They list. And in the porches of their ears I pour.
     -- The soul  has been before stricken mortally, a poison poured  in the
porch of  a sleeping ear. But those  who are done to  death  in sleep cannot
know  the manner of their quell unless  their Creator endow their souls with
that  knowledge in  the life to come. The  poisoning and  the beast with two
backs that  urged  it  king  Hamlet's ghost  could not  know of were  he not
endowed  with knowledge  by his creator. That  is why the speech  (his  lean
unlovely  English)  is  always  turned  elsewhere,  backward.  Ravisher  and
ravished,  what  he  would  but  would  not,  go  with  him  from  Lucrece's
bluecircled  ivory   globes   to  Imogen's  breast,  bare,  with  its   mole
cinquespotted. He goes back, weary  of the creation he has  piled up to hide
him from himself,  an  old dog licking an old sore. But, because loss is his
gain, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by
the wisdom he has written or by the laws he has  revealed. His beaver is up.
He is a ghost, a shadow now,  the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you will,
the sea's voice, a voice heard only in the heart of him who is the substance
of his shadow, the son consubstantial with the father.
     -- Amen! responded from the doorway.
     Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?
     Entr'acte.
     A ribald face,  sullen as  a  dean's, Buck Mulligan came forwards  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 Din verlachst wirst Du noch dienen.
     Brodd of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most.
     He Who Himself begot, middler the Holy Ghost, and Himself sent himself,
Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped
and whipped, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree,  Who let
Him  bury, stood up, harrowed  hell,  fared  into  heaven  and  there  these
nineteen  hundred years  sitteth on the right hand  of His Own Self  but yet
shall  come in the latter day to doom the quick and dead when  all the quick
shall be dead already.
     He lifts hands. Veils fall.  O,  flowers!  Bells with  bells with bells
aquiring.
     --   Yes,  indeed,  the  quaker  librarian  said.  A  most  instructive
discussion, Mr Mulligan, I'll be bound,  has his theory too of  the play and
of Shakespeare. All sides of life should be represented.
     He smiled on all sides equally.
     Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled:
     -- Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name.
     A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features.
     -- To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like
Synge.
     Mr Best turned to him:
     -- Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He'll see you after at
the D. B. C. He's gone to Gill's to buy Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht.
     -- I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here?
     --  The bard's fellowcountrymen,  John Eglinton  answered,  are  rather
tired perhaps  of  our brilliancies  of  theorising. I hear that  an actress
played Hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. Vining
held that the prince was a woman. Has no-one made him out to be an Irishman?
Judge  Barton, I  believe,  is  searching  for  some clues.  He swears  (His
Highness not His Lordship) by saint Patrick.
     -- The most brilliant of all  is  that  story of Wilde's, Mr Best said,
lifting his brilliant notebook. That Portrait  of Mr W. H. where  he  proves
that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all hues.
     -- For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked.
     Or Hughie Wills. Mr William Himself. W. H.: who am I?
     -- I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, amending  his gloss easily.
Of course  it's all  paradox, don't you  know, Hughes and hews and  hues the
colour, but it's so typical the way he  works  it out. It's the very essence
of Wilde, don't you know. The light touch.
     His glance  touched their faces  lightly as he smiled, a  blond ephebe.
Tame essence of Wilde.
     You're  darned  witty. Three  drams  of usquebaugh you  drank  with Dan
Deasy's ducats.
     How much did I spend? O, a few shillings.
     For a plump of pressmen. Humour wet and dry.
     Wit. You would give your five  wits for youth's proud livery  he pranks
in. Lineaments of gratified desire.
     There  be many  mo.  Take  her for me.  In  pairing time.  Jove, a cool
ruttime send them. Yea, turtledove her.
     Eve. Naked wheatbellied sin. A snake coils her, fang in's kiss.
     -- Do you think  it is only a paradox, the quaker librarian was asking.
The mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious.
     They talked seriously of mocker's seriousness.
     Buck  Mulligan's again heavy face eyed  Stephen awhile. Then, his  head
wagging, he came near, drew  a  folded telegram  from his pocket. His mobile
lips read, smiling with new delight.
     -- Telegram! he said. Wonderful inspiration! Telegram! A papal bull!
     He sat on a corner of the unlit desk, reading aloud joyfully:
     --  The sentimentalist  is  he who  would  enjoy  without incurring the
immense  debtorship for a  thing done. Signed: Dedalus. Where did you launch
it from? The kips? No. College Green. Have you drunk the four quid? The aunt
is going to call on  your unsubstantial father.  Telegram! Malachi Mulligan,
the Ship,  lower Abbey street. O,  you  peerless mummer!  O, you priestified
kinchite!
     Joyfully he thrust the message and envelope into a pocket but keened in
querulous brogue:
     --  It's  what I'm  telling you, mister honey,  it's queer and sick  we
were, Haines and myself, the time himself brought it in. 'Twas murmur we did
for a  gallus potion would rouse  a  friar,  I'm thinking, and he limp  with
leching. And we one hour and two hours and three  hours in Connery's sitting
civil waiting for pints apiece.
     He wailed!
     -- And  we to be there,  mavrone, and you to be unbeknownst  sending us
your conglomerations the way we to have our tongues out a yard long like the
drouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful.
     Stephen laughed. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan bent down:
     -- The tramper Synge is looking  for  you, he  said, to murder  you. He
heard  you  pissed on his halldoor in  Glasthule. He's  out in pampooties to
murder you.
     -- Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your contribution to literature.
     Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back,  laughing to  the dark eavesdropping
ceiling.
     -- Murder you! he laughed.
     Harsh  gargoyle face  that  warred against  me over our mess of hash of
lights  in rue Saint-Andrи-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  and out. In the daylit  corridor  he
talked with voluble pains of zeal, in duty bound, most fair, most kind, most
honest broadbrim.
     -- This gentleman? Freeman's Journal? Kilkenny People? To be sure. Good
day, sir. Kilkenny... We have certainly...
     A patient silhouette waited, listening.
     --   All  the  leading  provincial...  Northern   Whig,  Cork  Examiner
Enniscorthy  Guardian,  1903...  Will you  please?...  Evans,  conduct  this
gentleman... If  you just follow  the  atten...  Or  please allow me... This
way... Please, sir...
     Voluble, dutiful, he led the way to all the provincial papers, a bowing
dark figure following his hasty heels.
     The door closed.
     -- The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried.
     He jumped up and snatched the card.
     -- What's his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom.
     He rattled on.
     -- Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no more. I found him  over in the
museum when I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. The Greek mouth  that has
never been twisted  in prayer. Every day we must do homage  to  her. Life of
life, thy lips enkindle.
     Suddenly he turned to Stephen:
     -- He knows you. He knows  your old fellow. O, I fear me, he is Greeker
than the Greeks. His pale Galilean eyes were upon  her  mesial groove. Venus
Kallipyge. O, the thunder of those loins! The god pursuing the maiden hid.
     We want to hear more, John Eglinton decided with Mr Best's approval. We
begin to be  interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of her, if at all,
as a patient Griselda, a Penelope stayathome.
     -- Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, took the palm of beauty
from  Kyrios  Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the wooden mare  of  Troy in
whom a score of heroes  slept, and handed it  to poor Penelope. Twenty years
he lived in London and, during part of that time, he drew  a salary equal to
that of the lord  chancellor of Ireland. His  life was rich.  His  art, more
than the art of feudalism, as Walt Whitman called it, is the art of surfeit.
Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, sugar of roses, marchpane,
gooseberried  pigeons, ringocandies. Sir Walter Raleigh, when they  arrested
him, had half a million francs on his back including a pair  of fancy stays.
The  gombeen woman Eliza  Tudor had underlinen  enough to  vie  with  her of
Sheba. Twenty years  he dallied there between  conjugal love and  its chaste
delights and  scortatory love and its foul pleasures. You know  Manningham's
story of the  burgher's  wife who bade Dick Burbage to her bed after she had
seen  him in Richard III and how Shakespeare, overhearing, without  more ado
about nothing, took the cow by  the horns and, when Burbage came knocking at
the gate, answered from  the  capon's  blankets: William  the conqueror came
before Richard III. And the gay lakin, Mistress Fitten, 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 every cockcanary.
     Buck Mulligan, his pious eyes upturned, prayed:
     -- Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!
     --  And  Harry  of  six wives'  daughter and  other  lady friends  from
neighbour  seats,  as  Lawn Tennyson, gentleman  poet, sings.  But all those
twenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope in Stratford was doing behind
the diamond panes?
     Do and do. Thing done. In a rosery of Fetter Lane of Gerard, herbalist,
he  walks, greyedauburn.  An azured harebell like her  veins. Lids of Juno's
eyes, violets. He walks. One life is all. One body.  Do. But do. Afar,  in a
reek of lust and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.
     Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk sharply.
     -- Whom do you suspect? he challenged.
     -- Say that he is the spurned lover  in the sonnets. Once spurned twice
spurned. But the court wanton spurned him for a lord, his dearmylove.
     Love that dare not speak its name.
     -- As an Englishman, you mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he loved  a
lord.
     Old wall where sudden lizards flash. At Charenton I watched them.
     -- It seems so, Stephen said, when he wants to do for him, and  for all
other  and singular  uneared  wombs, the holy office an ostler does  for the
stallion. Maybe, like Socrates, he had a midwife to mother as he had a shrew
to wife. But she,  the giglot  wanton, did not break a bedvow. Two deeds are
rank in that  ghost's mind: a broken vow and  the dullbrained yokel on  whom
her favour  has declined, deceased husband's brother.  Sweet  Ann I take it,
was hot in the blood. Once a wooer twice a wooer.
     Stephen turned boldly in his chair.
     --  The burden of proof is with you not with me,  he said, frowning. If
you deny that in the fifth scene of Hamlet he  has branded her with  infamy,
tell  me why there  is no mention of her during the thirtyfour years between
the day she married  him  and the day  she buried him.  All  those women saw
their men down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Ann, her poor
     dear Willun, when he went and died on her, raging that he was the first
to go, Joan, her four brothers, Judith, her husband and all her sons, Susan,
her husband  too, while  Susan's  daughter,  Elizabeth,  to use granddaddy's
words, wed her second, having killed her first.
     O  yes, mention  there is.  In the  years when he was  living richly in
royal  London to pay  a debt  she  had to  borrow forty shillings  from  her
father's shepherd. Explain you then. Explain the swansong too wherein he has
commended her to posterity.
     He faced their silence.
     To whom thus Eglinton:
     You mean the will.
     That has been explained, I believe, by jurists.
     She was entitled to her widow's dower
     At common law. His legal knowledge was great
     Our judges tell us.
     Him Satan fleers,
     Mocker:
     And therefore he left out her name
     >From the first draft but he did not leave out
     The presents for his granddaughter, for his daughters,
     For his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford
     And in London. And therefore when he was urged,
     As I believe, to name her
     He left her his Secondbest
     Bed.
     Punkt
     Leftherhis
     Secondbest
     Bestabed
     Secabest
     Leftabed.
     Woa!
     -- Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton observed, as
they have still if our peasant plays are true to type.
     -- He was a rich countrygentleman, Stephen said,  with  a  coat of arms
and  landed  estate at Stratford and a house in Ireland  yard, a  capitalist
shareholder, a  bill  promoter, a tithefarmer. Why did he not  leave her his
best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of her nights in peace?
     --  It is  clear that  there were two beds, a best and a secondbest, Mr
Secondbest Best said finely.
     --  Separatio  a mensa et a thalamo,  bettered  Buck  Mulligan  and was
smiled on.
     --  Antiquity   mentions  famous   beds,   Second  Eglinton   puckered,
bedsmiling. Let me think.
     -- Antiquity  mentions that Stagyrite  schoolurchin  and  bald  heathen
sage,  Stephen said, who  when dying  in  exile frees and endows his slaves,
pays tribute to his elders, wills  to be laid in earth near the bones of his
dead wife and bids his friends be kind to an old mistress (don't forget Nell
Gwynn Herpyllis) and let her live in his villa.
     -- Do you mean he died so? Mr Best asked with slight concern. I mean...
     -- He died dead drunk, Buck  Mulligan  capped. A quart of ale is a dish
for a king. O, I must tell you what Dowden said!
     -- What? asked Besteglinton.
     William Shakespeare and  company,  limited.  The people's William.  For
terms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield house...
     --  Lovely!  Buck  Mulligan  suspired amorously.  I  asked him what  he
thought  of the  charge of pederasty brought against the bard. He lifted his
hands and said: All we can  say is  that life ran very high in  those  days.
Lovely!
     Catamite.
     -- The sense of beauty leads us astray, said beautifulinsadness Best to
ugling Eglinton.
     Steadfast John replied severe:
     -- The  doctor  can tell us what those words mean. You can not eat your
cake and have it.
     Sayest thou so? Will they wrest from us, from me the palm of beauty?
     -- And the sense of  property, Stephen said. He drew Shylock out of his
own long pocket. The son of a  maltjobber and moneylender  he was himself  a
cornjobber  and moneylender  with  ten tods of  corn hoarded in  the  famine
riots. His borrowers  are  no  doubt  those divers  of  worship mentioned by
Chettle  Falstaff  who  reported  his  uprightness of  dealing.  He  sued  a
fellowplayer for the price of  a few bags of malt  and exacted his  pound of
flesh in interest for every money  lent. How else could Aubrey's  ostler and
callboy get rich quick? All events brought grist to his mill. Shylock chimes
with the jewbaiting that followed  the hanging and quartering of the queen's
leech Lopez, his  jew's heart being  plucked forth while the sheeny was  yet
alive:  Hamlet  and  Macbeth  with the  coming  to the  throne of  a  Scotch
philosophaster with a turn for witchroasting. The lost armada is his jeer in
Love's  Labour Lost. His pageants, the histories, sail fullbellied on a tide
of  Mafeking  enthusiasm. Warwickshire  jesuits  are  tried  and we  have  a
porter's theory of equivocation.  The Sea Venture  comes home  from Bermudas
and  the  play Renan  admired  is written  with Patsy Caliban,  our American
cousin. The sugared sonnets follow Sidney's. As for fay Elizabeth, otherwise
carroty 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
depth of the buckbasket.
     I  think you're  getting  on very nicely.  Just  mix  up  a mixture  of
theolologicophilolological. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere.
     -- Prove that he was a jew, John Eglinton dared, expectantly. Your dean
of studies holds he was a holy Roman.
     Sufflaminandus sum.
     --  He was  made in  Germany,  Stephen replied, as the  champion French
polisher of Italian scandals.
     --  A  myriadminded  man,   Mr  Best  reminded.  Coleridge  called  him
myriadminded.
     Amplius. In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia
inter multos.
     -- Saint Thomas, Stephen began...
     -- Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a chair.
     There he keened a wailing rune.
     -- Pogue mahone! Asushla machree! It's destroyed we are  from this day!
It's destroyed we are surely!
     All smiled their smiles.
     -- Saint Thomas, Stephen, smiling, said, whose gorbellied works I enjoy
reading  in the original, writing of incest from a standpoint different from
that of the new Viennese school Mr Magee spoke of, likens it in his wise and
curious way to an avarice of the emotions. He means that  the love so  given
to one near in  blood is covetously withheld from some stranger who,  it may
be, hungers for it. Jews, whom christians tax with avarice, are of all races
the  most  given  to  inter-marriage.  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 motor car is now and that its carvings were the  wonder of seven parishes.
In old age she takes up with gospellers (one stayed at New Place and drank a
quart  of sack the town 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 had  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 and father? I should say that
only family poets have family  lives. Falstaff  was not a family man. I feel
that the fat knight is his supreme creation.
     Lean, he lay back. Shy, deny  thy kindred, the  unco  guid. Shy supping
with the godless, he sneaks the cup. A sire in  Ultonian Antrim bade it him.
Visits  him here on quarter days. Mr Magee, sir, there's  a gentleman to see
you. Me? Says he's your father, sir. Give  me my Wordsworth. Enter Magee Mor
Matthew, a  rugged rough  rugheaded  kern,  in  strossers  with  a  buttoned
codpiece, his nether  stocks bemired with clauber of ten  forests, a wand of
wilding in his hand.
     Your own? He knows your old fellow. The widower.
     Hurrying to her  squalid deathlair  from gay  Paris on  the quayside  I
touched his hand. The voice, new warmth, speaking. Dr Bob Kenny is attending
her. The eyes that wish me well. But do not know me.
     --  A  father,  Stephen  said,  battling  against  hopelessness,  is  a
necessary  evil. He wrote the play in the months that followed  his father's
death. If you hold that he,  a greying  man with two marriageable daughters,
with thirtyfive  years  of life, nel mezzo del cammin  di  nostra vita, with
fifty of experience, is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you
must  hold that his seventyyear  old mother is the  lustful  queen.  No. The
corpse  of John  Shakespeare does not  walk the  night. From hour to hour it
rots  and  rots.  He  rests,  disarmed of  fatherhood,  having devised  that
mystical estate upon his  son. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first and last
man  who felt himself  with child. Fatherhood,  in  the sense  of  conscious
begetting, is  unknown  to  man.  It  is a  mystical  estate,  an  apostolic
succession,  from only begetter to only begotten. On that mystery and not on
the  madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the  mob of Europe
the church  is founded and  founded irremovably  because  founded,  like the
world,  macro-   and  microcosm,  upon  the  void.  Upon  incertitude,  upon
unlikelihood. Amor matris,  subjective and  objective  genitive, may  be the
only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father
of any son that any son should love him or he any son?
     What the hell are you driving at?
     I know. Shut up. Blast you! I have reasons.
     Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea.
     Are you condemned to do this?
     -- They are sundered by a bodily  shame  so steadfast that the criminal
annals of the world, stained with all other incests and bestialities, hardly
record its breach.  Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, lesbic sisters,
loves that  dare not speak their name, nephews with grandmothers,  jailbirds
with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. The sun unborn mars beauty: born, he
brings pain, divides affection, increases care. He  is a male: his growth is
his father's decline, his youth his  father's  envy, his friend his father's
enemy.
     In rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought it.
     -- What links them in  nature? An instant of blind rut. Am I father? If
I were?
     Shrunken uncertain hand.
     -- Sabellius, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the beasts of the
field, held that the Father was Himself His  Own Son. The bulldog  of Aquin,
with  whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him. Well: if the father who
has not a son be  not a father can the  son  who has not a father  be a son?
When Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or another  poet of the same name in
the  comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he was  not  the father  of  his own  son
merely but, being  no more a son, he was and felt  himself the father of all
his race,  the  father of  his own  grandfather, the  father of  his  unborn
grandson  who,  by  the same token,  never was born for nature, as Mr  Magee
understands her, abhors perfection.
     Eglintoneyes,  quick  with  pleasure,  looked  up  shybrightly.  Gladly
glancing, a merry puritan, through the twisted eglantine.
     Flatter. Rarely. But Flatter.
     --  Himself his own  father,  Sonmulligan told  himself. Wait. I am big
with child. I  have an unborn child in my brain.  Pallas Athena! A play! The
play's the thing! Let me parturiate!
     He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands.
     --  As  for his family,  Stephen said, his mother's name  lives in  the
forest of  Arden. Her death brought from  him  the scene  with  Volumnia  in
Coriolanus. His  boyson's  death is  the deathscene of  young Arthur in King
John.  Hamlet, the black prince, is Hamnet Shakespeare. Who the girls in The
Tempest,  in Pericles, in Winter's Tale are we know. Who Cleopatra, fleshpot
of Egypt, and Cressid  and  Venus  are we may  guess.  But  there is another
member of his family who is recorded.
     -- The plot thickens, John Eglinton said.
     The quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, quake, his mask, quake, with
haste, quake, quack.
     Door closed. Cell. Day.
     They list. Three. They.
     I you he they.
     Come, mess.
     STEPHEN He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard. Gilbert in his
old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one
time mass he  did and he seen  his brud Maister  Wull  the playwriter  up in
Lunnon in a wrastling play wud a man on's back. The playhouse sausage filled
Gilbert's soul. He is nowhere: but  an Edmund and a  Richard are recorded in
the works of sweet William.
     MAGEEGLINJOHN Names! What's in a name?
     BEST That is my name, Richard, don't you know. I hope you are  going to
say a good word for Richard, don't you know, for my sake.
     (Laughter.)
     BUCK MULLIGAN (Piano, diminuendo.)
     Then outspoke medical Dick
     To his comrade medical Davy...
     STEPHEN  In his trinity of  black Wills, the  villain shakebags,  Iago,
Richard  Crookback, Edmund in King  Lear, two bear the wicked uncles' names.
Nay, that last  play was written or being  written while his  brother Edmund
lay dying in Southwark.
     BEST I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don't want Richard, my name.
(Laughter.)
     QUAKERLYSTER (A tempo.) But he that filches from me my good name...
     STEPHEN (Stringendo.) He has hidden his own name, a fair name, William,
in the plays, a super here, a clown there, as a painter of old Italy set his
face in a dark corner of his canvas. He has revealed it in the sonnets where
there  is Will in overplus. Like John O'Gaunt his name  is dear to  him,  as
dear as the coat of arms 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. Autontimerumenos. Bonus  Stephanoumenos.  Where's your
configuration? Stephen,  Stephen, cut the bread even. S. D.: sua donna. Giю:
di lui. Gelindo risolve di non amar. 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 he.
     Mr Best's eagerquietly lifted his book to say:
     -- That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know,
we find also in the old Irish myths.  Just what you say. The  three brothers
Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don't you know, the fairytales. The third brother
that marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best prize.
     Best of Best brothers. Good, better, best.
     The quaker librarian springhalted near.
     -- I should like  to know, he said,  which  brother you... I understand
you to suggest there was misconduct with one of  the brothers... But perhaps
I am anticipating?
     He caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained.
     An attendant from the doorway called:
     -- Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants...
     -- O! Father Dineen! Directly.
     Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly gone.
     John Eglinton touched the foil.
     --  Come,  he  said.  Let us hear what you have to  say of  Richard and
Edmund. You kept them for the last, didn't you?
     -- In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie  and
nuncle  Edmund,  Stephen answered, I  feel I am asking  too much  perhaps. A
brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.
     Lapwing.
     Where  is your  brother?  Apothecaries' hall. My whetstone.  Him,  then
Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act.  Act speech. They mock
to try you. Act. Be acted on.
     Lapwing.
     I am tired of my voice, the voice of Esau. My kingdom for a drink.
     On.
     -- You will say  those names were already in the chronicles  from which
he took the stuff  of his plays.  Why  did he  take them rather than others?
Richard,  a  whoreson crookback,  misbegotten, makes  love to a widowed  Ann
(what's in a name?),  woos and wins her, a whoreson merry widow. Richard the
conqueror, third brother, came after William the  conquered.  The other four
acts of that play hang limply from that first.  Of all his  kings Richard is
the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the angel of the world.
Why is the underplot  of  King  Lear  in which Edmund figures lifted  out of
Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to a Celtic legend older than history?
     -- That  was  Will's way, John  Eglinton  defended. We  should not  now
combine a Norse saga with  an  excerpt from a novel  by George Meredith. Que
voulez-vous?  Moore would say.  He  puts  Bohemia  on the seacoast and makes
Ulysses quote Aristotle.
     -- Why? Stephen answered himself. Because the theme of the false or the
usurping or  the adulterous brother  or all three in  one is to Shakespeare,
what the poor is not, always  with him.  The note of banishment,  banishment
from the heart, banishment from  home,  sounds  uninterruptedly from The Two
Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain
fathoms in the earth and drowns his book. It doubles itself in the middle of
his life, reflects  itself in another,  repeats  itself, protasis, epitasis,
catastasis,  catastrophe. It repeats itself again when he is near the grave,
when  his  married daughter  Susan,  chip of  the old block,  is  accused of
adultery.  But  it was the original  sin that  darkened  his  understanding,
weakened his  will and  left in him a strong inclination to evil.  The words
are  those of my  lords  bishops  of  Maynooth: an  original sin  and,  like
original sin, committed by another in whose sin  he too  has  sinned. It  is
between  the  lines  of  his  last written  words,  it  is  petrified on his
tombstone under  which  her four  bones are  not  to  be  laid. Age  has not
withered it.  Beauty and peace  have  not  done it away.  It is in  infinite
variety everywhere in the  world he  has created, in Much Ado about Nothing,
twice in As you  like It, in The Tempest, in Hamlet, in Measure for Measure,
and in all the other plays which I have not read.
     He  laughed  to free his  mind from  his mind's bondage. Judge Eglinton
summed up.
     -- The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost and the prince. He
is all in all.
     -- He is, Stephen  said. The boy of  act one is  the mature  man of act
five.  All in all. In Cymbeline, in Othello he is bawd and cuckold. He  acts
and  is  acted on. Lover of an ideal or a perversion, like Josи 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  pхre?)  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 pиre and Hamlet fils. A king and a prince
at last  in  death, with  incidental  music. And,  what though  murdered and
betrayed, bewept by all frail  tender hearts for, Dane  or  Dubliner, sorrow
for  the dead is the only husband  from whom they refuse to  be divorced. If
you  like the epilogue look long on it: prosperous Prospero,  the  good  man
rewarded, Lizzie,  grandpa's lump of  love,  and nuncle Richie, the  bad man
taken off by poetic justice  to the place where the bad  niggers  go. Strong
curtain.  He found in the world  without as  actual what  was  in  his world
within  as possible.  Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today he
will find the sage seated on his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight  it  is
to  Judas  his steps will  tend. Every life is many days, day after  day. We
walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men,
wives,  widows,   brothers-in-love.  But  always   meeting  ourselves.   The
playwright who  wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly (He gave us
light first and the sun two days later), the lord of things as they are whom
the most Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, is doubtless  all in
all in all  of us, ostler and butcher, and would be bawd and cuckold too but
that  in  the  economy  of heaven,  foretold  by Hamlet, there are  no  more
marriages, glorified man, an androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself.
     -- Eureka! Buck Mulligan cried. Eureka!
     Suddenly  happied he jumped up and  reached in a stride John Eglinton's
desk.
     -- May I? he said. The Lord has spoken to Malachi.
     He began to scribble on a slip of paper.
     Take some slips from the counter going out.
     --  Those  who are married, Mr  Best, douce herald, said, all save one,
shall live. The rest shall keep as they are.
     He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.
     Unwed,  unfancied,  ware of  wiles,  they fingerponder nightly each his
variorum edition of The Taming of the Shrew.
     -- You are a delusion, said  roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have
brought us all this way  to show us a French  triangle. Do you believe  your
own theory?
     -- No, Stephen said promptly.
     -- Are you going  to write it? Mr Best  asked.  You  ought to make it a
dialogue, don't you know, like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.
     John Eclecticon doubly smiled.
     -- Well,  in  that case, he  said,  I  don't see why  you should expect
payment for it since you don't believe it yourself. Dowden believes there is
some mystery in Hamlet  but will say  no more. Herr Bleibtreu, the man Piper
met in Berlin, who  is working up  that  Rutland  theory,  believes that the
secret is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going to visit the present
duke,  Piper says, and  prove to him that his ancestor  wrote the  plays. It
will come as a surprise to his grace. But he believes his theory.
     I believe,  O Lord,  help my unbelief. That is,  help me  to believe or
help me to unbelieve? Who helps to believe?  Egomen. Who to unbelieve? Other
chap.
     -- You are the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of  silver.
Then  I  don't  know about  the next number. Fred  Ryan wants  space for  an
article on economics.
     Fraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me. Tide you over. Economics.
     -- For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this interview.
     Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and then
gravely said, honeying malice:
     -- I  called  upon the  bard Kinch  at his  summer  residence  in upper
Mecklenburgh  street  and found  him deep  in the study of the  Summa contra
Gentiles in  the company of two gonorrheal ladies,  Fresh Nelly and Rosalie,
the coalquay whore.
     He broke away.
     -- Come, Kinch. Come, wandering &Aelig;ngus 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 thoughts.
     What have I learned? Of them? Of me?
     Walk like Haines now.
     The constant readers' room.  In the readers' book Cashe  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 sputtered 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
public sweat of monks.
     He spat blank.
     Forgot: any  more than he forgot the  whipping lousy Lucy gave him. And
left the femme de trente ans.  And why no other children born? And his first
child a girl?
     Afterwit. Go back.
     The dour recluse still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling,
minion of pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair.
     Eh... I just eh... wanted... I forgot... he...
     -- Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there...
     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 fillibeg
     That never dared to slake his drouth,
     Magee that had the chinless mouth.
     Being afraid to marry on earth
     They masturbated for all they were worth.
     Jest on. Know thyself.
     Halted below me, a quizzer looks at me. I halt.
     --  Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan  moaned. Synge has  left off wearing
black to be like nature. Only crows, priests and English coal are black.
     A laugh tripped over his lips.
     -- Longworth is awfully sick, he  said, after what you wrote about that
old hake Gregory. O you inquisitional drunken jew jesuit! She gets you a job
on the paper and then you go and slate her drivel to Jaysus. Couldn't you do
the Yeats touch?
     He went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms:
     -- The most beautiful book that has come out of our country in my time.
One thinks of Homer.
     He stopped at the stairfoot.
     -- I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly.
     The  pillared  Moorish  hall,  shadows  entwined. Gone the  nine  men's
morrice with caps of indices.
     In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet:
     Everyman His own Wife
     or
     A Honeymoon in the Hand
     (a national immorality in three orgasms)
     by
     Ballocky Mulligan
     He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, saying:
     -- The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.
     He read, marcato:
     -- Characters:
     TOBY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole)
     CRAB (a bushranger)
     MEDICAL DICK
     and (two birds with one stone)
     MEDICAL DAVY
     MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier)
     FRESH NELLY
     and
     ROSALIE (the coalquay whore)
     He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on, followed by Stephen:
and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men:
     -- O, the night in the  Camden hall when  the daughters of Erin had  to
lift  their skirts  to step  over you  as you  lay in your mulberrycoloured,
multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!
     -- The  most innocent  son  of Erin, Stephen  said,  for whom they ever
lifted them.
     About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside.
     Part. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates leave his house today,
if Judas go forth tonight. Why? That lies in space which I in time must come
to, ineluctably.
     My will: his will that fronts me. Seas between.
     A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting.
     -- Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.
     The portico.
     Here I watched the birds for augury. &Aelig;ngus of the birds. They go,
they come. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men  wandered.  Street of harlots
after. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see.
     -- The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. Did you
see his  eye?  He looked upon  you to lust after you. I fear  thee,  ancient
mariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril. Get thee a breechpad.
     Manner of Oxenford.
     Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.
     A dark back went before them. Step of a pard, down, out by the gateway,
under portcullis barbs.
     They followed.
     Offend me still. Speak on.
     Kind air  defined the  coigns of  houses in Kildare street.  No  birds.
Frail from  the  housetops two plumes of  smoke ascended, pluming, and in  a
flaw of softness softly were blown.
     Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline, hierophantic:
from wide earth an altar.
     Laud we the gods
     And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
     >From our bless'd altars.



    Ulysses 10: Wandering Rocks


     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 justum est. Brother Swan was the person to see.
Mr  Cunningham's  letter. Yes.  Oblige  him,  if  possible.  Good  practical
catholic: useful at mission time.
     A  onelegged  sailor, swinging  himself onward  by lazy  jerks  of  his
crutches,  growled some  notes.  He jerked  short before the convent of  the
sisters of charity  and  held  out  a peaked cap  for aims 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.
looking so well and he begged to be remembered to Mr David Sheehy M. P. Yes,
he would certainly call.
     -- Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy.
     Father Conmee  doffed his silk hat, as he  took leave, at the jet beads
of her mantilla inkshining in the sun. And smiled yet again in going. He had
cleaned his teeth, he knew, with arecanut paste.
     Father  Conmee walked  and,  walking, smiled for  he thought  on Father
Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and cockney voice.
     -- Pilate! Wy don't you old back that owlin mob?
     A zealous man, however. Really he was. And really did great good in his
way. Beyond a doubt. He loved Ireland, he said,  and he loved  the Irish. Of
good family too would one think it? Welsh, were they not?
     O, lest he forget. That letter to father provincial.
     Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy
square. Yes: they were from Belvedere. The little house: Aha.  And were they
good boys at school? O. That was  very good now. And what was his name? Jack
Sohan. And his name? Ger. Gallaher.  And the other little man? His name  was
Brunny Lynam. O, that was a very nice name to have.
     Father Conmee gave a letter  from his breast to master Brunny Lynam and
pointed to the red pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon street.
     -- But mind you don't post yourself into the box, little man, he said.
     The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed.
     -- O, sir.
     -- Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Conmee said.
     Master Brunny Lynam ran across the road and put  Father Conmee's letter
to  father  provincial into the mouth of  the bright  red  letterbox, Father
Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoy square east.
     Mr Denis  J. Maginni, professor  of  dancing,  &c.,  in silk hat, slate
frockcoat  with silk  facings, white kerchief  tie, tight lavender trousers,
canary gloves and pointed patent boots,  walking with grave deportment  most
respectfully took the curbstone as he passed lady Maxwell  at the  corner of
Dignam's court.
     Was that not Mrs M'Guinness?
     Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed  to Father Conmee from the
farther  footpath  along which  she  smiled.  And  Father Conmee  smiled and
saluted. How did she do?
     A fine carriage she had. Like Mary, queen of Scots, something.  And  to
think that she was a pawnbroker. Well, now! Such a... what should he say?...
such a queenly mien.
     Father  Conmee walked down  Great  Charles  street and glanced  at  the
shutup free church on his left. The reverend T. R. Green 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 smelled incense on his  right hand  as he  walked.  Saint
Joseph's church,  Portland row. For aged and virtuous females. Father Conmee
raised his hat to  the Blessed  Sacrament. Virtuous:  but  occasionally they
were also badtempered.
     Near  Aldborough  house  Father  Conmee  thought  of  that  spendthrift
nobleman. And now it was an office or something.
     Father Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and was saluted
by Mr William Gallagher who stood  in the doorway of his shop. Father Conmee
saluted  Mr  William  Gallagher  and  perceived  the  odours  that came from
baconflitches  and ample cools of butter. He passed Grogan's the tobacconist
against  which newsboards leaned  and told  of a dreadful catastrophe in New
York. In America those things were continually happening. Unfortunate people
to die like that, unprepared. Still, an act of perfect contrition.
     Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the window of
which two unlabouring men lounged. They saluted him and were saluted.
     Father Conmee passed H.  J. O'Neill's funeral establishment where Corny
Kelleher totted figures  in the daybook while he chewed  a blade  of hay.  A
constable on his  beat  saluted Father Conmee and Father Conmee saluted  the
constable.  In  Youkstetter's,  the pork-butcher's, Father  Conmee  observed
pig's puddings, white and black and red, lying neatly curled in tubes.
     Moored  under  the  trees of  Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw a turf
barge,  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 where men might  dig it out and bring it to
town and hamlet to make fires in the houses of poor people.
     On Newcomen bridge the very reverend John Conmee S. J. of saint Francis
Xavier's church, upper Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward bound tram.
     Off an inward bound  tram stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley C. C. of
saint Agatha's church, north William street, on to Newcomen bridge.
     At Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound tram for
he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island.
     Father Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked with
care in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a sixpence and
five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalm  into his purse.  Passing
the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspector usually made his visit
when one  had  carelessly  thrown away  the  ticket.  The  solemnity  of the
occupants  of the car seemed to  Father  Conmee  excessive for a  journey so
short and cheap. Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.
     It  was a peaceful day. The gentleman with the glasses opposite  Father
Conmee  had finished explaining and  looked down.  His  wife,  Father Conmee
supposed. A tiny yawn opened the mouth of the wife of the gentleman with the
glasses. She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so gently, tiptapping
her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled tinily, sweetly.
     Father Conmee perceived her perfume in the car.  He perceived also that
the  awkward  man at the other side of her was  sitting on  the edge  of the
seat.
     Father Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with  difficulty in the
mouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head.
     At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an old
woman rose  suddenly  from her  place  to  alight. The conductor  pulled the
bellstrap to stay  the  car for her. She  passed out  with her  basket and a
market net: and Father Conmee  saw the conductor help her and net and basket
down:  and Father  Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed the end  of
the penny fare,  she was one  of those  good souls who had always to be told
twice bless you, my child,  that they have been  absolved, pray  for me. But
they had so many worries in life, so many cares, poor creatures.
     >From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grinned with thick niggerlips at
Father Conmee.
     Father Conmee thought of  the souls of black  and brown and  yellow men
and of his sermon of 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 Иlus, seemed to Father Conmee a reasonable  plea. Those were millions of
human souls created by God in His Own likeness to whom the faith had not (D.
V.) been brought. But they were  God's souls  created  by God.  It seemed to
Father Conmee a pity  that  they should all be  lost, a waste, if  one might
say.
     At  the  Howth road  stop Father Conmee  alighted, was saluted  by  the
conductor and saluted in his turn.
     The  Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father  Conmee, road and name.
The  joybells  were  ringing  in gay  Malahide.  Lord  Talbot  de  Malahide,
immediate  hereditary lord admiral  of Malahide and the seas adjoining. Then
came the  call to arms and  she was maid,  wife and widow in one  day. Those
were oldworldish  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 men's race on earth, and of the ways of God which were not our ways.
     Don John Conmee walked  and  moved in times of yore. He was  humane and
honoured there. He bore in mind  secrets  confessed and he smiled at smiling
noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with full fruit clusters. And
the hands of a bride  and of a bridegroom, noble  to noble, were impalmed by
don John Conmee.
     It was a charming day.
     The lychgate  of a  field  showed  Father  Conmee breadths of cabbages,
curtseying to him  with  ample underleaves. The sky showed  him  a  flock of
small white clouds going slowly down the wind. Moutonner, the French said. A
homely and just 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 wamked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till he
came to Res  in  Beati immaculati:  Principium verborum tuotum  veritas:  in
eternum omnia iudicia iustitu tu&Aelig;.
     A  flushed  young man came from  a gap of a hedge and after  him came a
young woman with wild nodding daisies in her hand.  The young man raised his
cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent and with slow care detached from
her light skirt a clinging twig.
     Father Conmee blessed  both gravely and  turned  a  thin  page  of  his
breviary.  Sin:  Principes  persecuti  sunt  me  gratis:  et  a  verbis tuis
formidavit cor meum.

     Corny Kelleher closed  his long daybook  and glanced  with his drooping
eye  at a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. He pulled himself erect, went
to it and, spinning  it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass furnishings.
Chewing  his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid  by and came to the doorway.
There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes and leaned against the
doorcase, looking idly out.
     Father John Conmee stepped into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge.
     Corny  Kelleher  locked  his  largefooted  boots  and  gazed,  his  hat
downtilted, chewing his blade of hay.
     Constable 57C, on his beat, stood to pass the time of day.
     -- That's a fine day, Mr Kelleher.
     -- Ay, Corny Kelleher said.
     -- It's very close, the constable said.
     Corny Kelleher sped  a silent  jet of  hayjuice arching  from his mouth
while a  generous  white arm from a window in Eccles  street  flung forth  a
coin.
     -- What's the best news? he asked.
     -- I seen that particular  party last evening, the  constable said with
bated breath.

     A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell's corner, skirting
Rabaiotti's icecream car, and jerked himself up Eccles street. Towards Larry
O'Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he growled unamiably
     -- For England...
     He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted
and growled:
     -- home and beauty.
     J.J. O'Molloy's white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was in the
warehouse with a visitor.
     A stout lady stopped, took a  copper coin from her purse and dropped it
into the cap held out to her. The  sailor grumbled thanks and 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 yellow-slobbered mouths.
     He swung himself forward in  vigorous  jerks, halted,  lifted his  head
towards a window and bayed deeply:
     -- home and beauty.
     The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a  bar or  two, ceased.
The  blind  of  the window  was  drawn aside. A card Unfurnished  Apartments
slipped from the sash and fell.
     A plump bare  generous arm shone, was  seen,  held  forth from a  white
petticoatbodice and taut shiftstraps. A woman's hand flung forth a coin over
the area railings. It fell on the path.
     One of  the urchins ran to  it,  picked it  up and dropped it into  the
minstrel's cap, saying:
     -- There, sir.

     Katey  and Boody  Dedalus  shoved  in  the door  of  the  closesteaming
kitchen.
     -- Did you put in the books? Boody asked.
     Maggy at  the  range rammed down a greyish  mass beneath bubbling  suds
twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.
     -- They wouldn't give anything on them, she said.
     Father Conmee  walked through Clongowes  fields, his  thinsocked ankles
tickled by stubble.
     -- Where did you try? Boody asked.
     -- M'Guinness's.
     Body stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table.
     -- Bad cess to her big face! she cried.
     Katey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes.
     -- What's in the pot? she asked.
     -- Shirts, Maggy said.
     Boody cried angrily:
     -- Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?
     Katey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked:
     -- And what's in this?
     A heavy fume gushed in answer.
     -- Peasoup, Maggy said.
     -- Where did you get it? Katey asked.
     -- Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said.
     The lacquey rang his bell.
     -- Barang!
     Boody sat down at the table and said hungrily:
     -- Give us it here!
     Maggy poured yellow  thick soup from  the  kettle  into a  bowl. Katey,
sitting opposite Boody,  said quietly,  as her fingertip lifted to her mouth
random crumbs.
     -- A good job we have that much. Where's Dilly?
     -- Gone to meet father, Maggy said.
     Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added:
     -- Our father who art not in heaven.
     Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey's bowl, exclaimed:
     -- Boody! For shame!
     A skiff, a crumpled  throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the
Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed around
the bridgepiers, sailing  eastward  past hulls and anchorchains, between the
Customhouse old dock and George's quay.

     The  blonde 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
car.
     -- Certainly, sir. Is it in the city?
     -- O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes.
     The blond girl handed him a docket and pencil.
     -- Will you write the address, sir?
     Blazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her.
     -- Send it at once, will you? he said. It's for an invalid.
     -- Yes, sir. I will, sir.
     Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket.
     -- What's the damage? he asked.
     The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits.
     Blazes Boylan  looked into the cut of  her  blouse. A young pullet.  He
took a red carnation from the tall stemglass.
     -- This for me? he asked gallantly.
     The blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie
a bit crooked, blushing.
     -- Yes, sir, she said.
     Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.
     Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with  more  favour, the stalk of the
red flower between his smiling teeth.
     -- May I say a word to your telephone, missy? he asked roguishly.

     -- Ma! Almidano Artifoni said.
     He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.
     Two carfuls  of  tourists  passed  slowly, their  women  sitting  fore,
gripping  frankly the handrests. Pale faces. 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  х  una bestia.  Х
peccato.  Perche la sua  voce... sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. Invece,
Lei si sacrifica.
     -- Sacrifizio incruento,  Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in
slow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.
     -- Speriamo, the round mustachioed face  said pleasantly. Ma, dia retta
a me. Ci rifletta.
     By the stern  stone hand of Grattan,  bidding halt,  an Inchicore  tram
unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.
     -- Ci riflettр, Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouser-leg.
     -- 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 bare-kneed gillies smuggling implements
of music through Trinity gates.

     Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library  copy of The Woman in White far
back in  her  drawer  and  rolled  a  sheet  of  gaudy  notepaper  into  her
typewriter.
     Too much  mystery business  in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion?
Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.
     The disk shot down the  groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them:
six.
     Miss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:
     -- 16 June 1904.
     Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's corner and the slab
where Wolfe Tone's  statue was  not, eeled themselves turning  H. E. L. Y.'S
and plodded back as they had come.
     Then  she  stared  at  the  large  poster  of Marie  Kendall,  charming
soubrette, and, listlessly  lolling, scribbled  on the  jotter sixteens  and
capital esses. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She's not nicelooking, is she?
The way she is holding up  her bit of a skirt. Wonder will that fellow be at
the  band tonight. If I could get that dressmaker to make a concertina skirt
like Susy Nagle's. They kick out grand. Shannon and all  the boatclub swells
never took  his eyes off  her. Hope to  goodness  he won't keep me here till
seven.
     The telephone rang rudely by her ear.
     -- Hello. Yes,  sir. No, sir. Yes, sir.  I'll ring them  up after five.
Only those two, sir, for Belfast and  Liverpool. All right, sir. Then I  can
go  after six if you're not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir. Twentyseven and
six. I'll tell him. Yes: one, seven, six.
     She scribbled three figures on an envelope.
     -- Mr Boylan l Hello! That gentleman from Sport was in looking for you.
Mr Lenehan, yes. He said he'll  be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes, sir.
I'll ring them up after five.

     Two pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch.
     -- Who's that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty?
     -- Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied, groping for foothold.
     -- Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said,  raising in  salute
his pliant lath among the flickering arches. Come on. Mind your steps there.
     The  vesta in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself  In  a long
soft flame  and was let  fall. At their feet its red speck died:  and mouldy
air closed round them.
     -- How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom.
     -- Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic
council chamber of saint Mary's abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed himself
a rebel in 1534.  This is  the  most  historic spot in  all Dublin. O'Madden
Burke is going to write  something about it one of these days.  The old bank
of Ireland was over  the  way till the  time of the union  and the  original
jews' temple was here too before they built their synagogue over in Adelaide
road. You were never here before, Jack, were you?
     -- No, Ned.
     -- He  rode down  through  Dame  walk, the refined accent said,  if  my
memory serves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court.
     -- That's right, Ned Lambert said. That's quite right, sir.
     -- If you will be so  kind then, the  clergyman said,  the next time to
allow me perhaps .
     --  Certainly, Ned  Lambert  said. Bring the  camera whenever you like.
I'll get those bags cleared away from the windows. You can take it from here
or from here.
     In the still  faint  light he  moved about, tapping with  his  lath the
piled seedbags and points of vantage on the floor.
     >From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.
     -- I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won't trespass
on your valuable time...
     -- You're welcome,  sir, Ned Lambert  said. Drop in whenever  you like.
Next week, say. Can you see?
     -- Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met you.
     -- Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.
     He followed  his guest to the  outlet and then  whirled  his lath  away
among the pillars. With J.J. O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's abbey
where  draymen were  loading floats with sacks  of  carob and palmnut  meal,
O'Connor, Wexford.
     He stood to read the card in his hand.
     -- The  reverend  Hugh C.  Love,  Rathcoffey.  Present  address:  Saint
Michael's, Sallins.  Nice young chap  he is.  He's writing a book about  the
Fitzgeralds he told me. He's well up in history, faith.
     The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging
twig.
     -- I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J.J. O'Molloy said.
     Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.
     -- God,  he cried. I forgot to  tell  him that  one  about the earl  of
Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? I'm bloody
sorry I did it, says he,  but I declare to God I  thought the archbishop was
inside.  He mightn't like it,  though. What? God, I'll tell him anyhow. That
was the great earl, the Fitzgerald  Mor. Hot  members they were all of them,
the Geraldines.
     The horses he passed started nervously  under  their slack harness.  He
slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:
     -- Woa, sonny!
     He turned to J.J. O'Molloy and asked:
     -- Well, Jack. What is it? What's the trouble? Wait a while. Holdhard.
     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... this morning...  poor  little... what  do  you call him...
Chow!... Mother of Moses!

     Tom  Rochford took  the top disk from  the pile he  clasped against his
claret waistcoat.
     -- See? he said. Say it's turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.
     He  slid  it into the  left  slot  for  them.  It shot down the groove,
wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: six.
     Lawyers  of  the  past,   haughty,  pleading,  beheld  pass   from  the
consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding  carrying the
costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward  and heard  rustling from the admiralty
division of King's bench to the court of appeal an elderly female with false
teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirt of great amplitude.
     -- See? he said. See now  the last  one  I put  in is  over here. Turns
Over. The impact. Leverage, see?
     He showed them the rising column of disks on the right.
     -- Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow  coming in late
can see what turn is on and what turns are over.
     -- See? Tom Rochford said.
     He  slid in a  disk  for himself:  and watched it shoot, wobble,  ogle,
stop: four. Turn Now On.
     -- I'll  see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and  sound  him.  One
good turn deserves another.
     -- Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience.
     -- Goodnight, M'Coy said abruptly, when you two begin.
     Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.
     -- But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked.
     -- Tooraloo, Lenehan said, see you later.
     He followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.
     -- He's a hero, he said simply.
     -- I know, M'Coy said. The drain, you mean.
     -- Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole.
     They  passed  Dan  Lowry's  musichall  where  Marie  Kendall,  charming
soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.
     Going  down the path of  Sycamore street  beside  the Empire  musichall
Lenehan showed M'Coy how  the whole thing was. One of those  manholes like a
bloody gaspipe and there  was  the  poor devil stuck down in it half  choked
with sewer gas. Down went  Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest  and all,  with
the  rope round him. And be damned but  he got the rope round the poor devil
and the two were hauled up.
     -- The act of a hero, he said.
     At  the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car  to gallop  past
them for Jervis street.
     --  This way, he said, walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam's
to  see Sceptre's starting  price.  What's the time by your  gold  watch and
chain?
     M'Coy  peered  into  Marcus  Tertius  Moses'  sombre  office,  then  at
O'Neill's clock.
     -- After three, he said. Who's riding her?
     -- O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is.
     While he  waited  in Temple  bar M'Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle
pushes of his toe from the path to the gutter. Fellow might  damn easy get a
nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.
     The  gates of the drive  opened wide  to  give egress to the vice-regal
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 dark-backed figure
scanned books on the hawker's cart.
     -- There he is, Lenehan said.
     -- Wonder what he is 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
river wall.
     Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's,
carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.
     -- There was a  big  spread out  at  Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said
eagerly. The annual dinner you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord mayor was
there,  Val Dillon  it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and
there was music. Bartell D'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard.
     -- I know, M'Coy broke in. My missus sang there once.
     -- Did she? Lenehan said.
     A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on  the windowsash of number 7
Eccles street.
     He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.
     -- But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the
catering  and yours  truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom  and the  wife were
there.  Lashings of stuff  we put up: port wine  and sherry  and  curaгao to
which  we did ample justice.  Fast  and  furious it was. After  liquids came
solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies.
     -- I know, M'Coy said. The year the missus was there...
     Lenehan linked his arm warmly.
     -- But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after
all  the  jollification and  when  we sallied forth it  was blue o'clock the
morning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter's night
on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one side of the
car and I  was with  the wife  on the  other.  We started  singing glees and
duets:  Lo, the early beam of morning. She was well primed with  a good load
of Delahunt's port under her bellyband. Every jolt the bloody car gave I had
her bumping up  against me. Hell's delights! She has  a fine pair, God bless
her. Like that.
     He held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning:
     -- I  was tucking the rug under  her and settling her boa all the time.
Know what I mean?
     His hands moulded ample  curves  of  air. He  shut  his eyes  tight  in
delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips.
     -- The  lad  stood  to attention anyhow,  he  said with a sigh. She's a
gamey mare  and no  mistake. Bloom  was pointing  out all the stars and  the
comets in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the  great bear  and
Hercules and the dragon and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was lost,
so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At last she spotted
a  weeny weeshy  one miles  away. And what star is that, Poldy? says she. By
God,  she  had Bloom cornered. That one,  is it?  says Chris Callinan,  sure
that's only  what you  might call a pinprick. By God,  he wasn't far wide of
the mark.
     Lenehan  stopped  and  leaned  on  the  riverwall,  panting  with  soft
laughter.
     -- I'm weak, he gasped.
     M'Coy's  white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave. Lenehan
walked  on  again. He  lifted  his yachtingcap  and scratched  his  hindhead
rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy.
     -- He's a cultured  allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously.  He's not
one of your  common or garden... you  know... There's a touch of the  artist
about old Bloom.

     Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk,
then  of Aristotle's  Masterpiece.  Crooked botched  print.  Plates: infants
cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows. Lots of
them like that at this  moment all over  the world.  All butting  with their
skulls to get out of it. Child born every minute somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.
     He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: Tales of the  Ghetto
by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.
     -- That I had, he said, pushing it by.
     The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.
     -- Them are two good ones, he said.
     Onions  of his breath came across the counter out of  his ruined mouth.
He bent  to  make a  bundle  of  the other books, hugged  them  against  his
unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain.
     On O'Connell bridge  many persons observed the grave deportment and gay
apparel of Mr Denis J. Maginni, professor of dancing &c.
     Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. Fair Tyrants by James Lovebirch.
Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.
     He opened it. Thought so.
     A woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: The man.
     No: she wouldn't like that much. Got her it once.
     He read the other title: Sweets of Sin. More in her line. Let us see.
     He read where his finger opened.
     -- All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on
wondrous gowns and costliest frillies. For him! For Raoul!
     Yes. This. Here. Try.
     -- Her mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands
felt for the opulent curves inside her dиshabillи.
     Yes. Take this. The end.
     -- You are late, he spoke hoarsely, eyeing her with a suspicious glare.
The  beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her queenly
shoulders and  heaving  embonpoint. An imperceptible smile played  round her
perfect lips as she turned to him calmly.
     Mr Bloom read again: The beautiful woman.
     Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his  flesh.  Flesh yielded 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,  spat phlegm on  the
floor. He  put his boot on what  he had  spat,  wiping his sole along it and
bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.
     Mr Bloom beheld it.
     Mastering his troubled breath, he said:
     -- I'll take this one.
     The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum.
     -- Sweets of Sin, he said, tapping on it. That's a good one.

     The lacquey by the  door  of  Dillon's  auctionrooms shook his handbell
twice again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet.
     Dilly Dedalus, listening by the curbstone, heard the beats of the bell,
the  cries of the auctioneer within.  Four  and nine. Those lovely curtains.
Five shillings. Cosy  curtains. Selling new at two  guineas. Any  advance on
five shillings? Going for five shillings.
     The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it:
     -- Barang!
     Bang of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint.
J. A.  Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their stretched necks
wagging, negotiated the curve by the College Library.
     Mr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, came  round from Williams's  row.
He halted near his daughter.
     -- It's time for you, she said.
     -- Stand up straight for the love of the Lord Jesus, Mr  Dedalus  said.
Are  you trying  to  imitate  your  uncle  John the cornetplayer,  head upon
shoulders? Melancholy God!
     Dilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed  his  hands on them and
held them back.
     -- Stand up straight, girl, he said. You'll get curvature of the spine.
Do you know what you look like?
     He let his head sink suddenly down and forward,  hunching his shoulders
and dropping his underjaw.
     -- Give it up, father, Dilly said. All the people are looking at you.
     Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache.
     -- Did you get any money? Dilly asked.
     --  Where would I get money? Mr Dedalus said. There is no-one in Dublin
would lend me fourpence.
     -- You got some, Dilly said, looking in his eyes.
     -- How do you know that? Mr Dedalus asked, his tongue in his cheek.
     Mr Kernan,  pleased with the order he had booked,  walked boldly  along
James's street.
     -- I know you did, Dilly answered. Were you in the Scotch house now?
     -- I  was not then, Mr Dedalus said, smiling.  Was it  the little  nuns
taught you to be so saucy? Here.
     He handed her a shilling.
     -- See if you can do anything with that, he said.
     -- I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give me more than that.
     -- Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said threateningly.  You're like the rest of
them, are you? An insolent pack  of  little bitches  since your  poor mother
died. But wait awhile. You'll all get a short shrift and a long day from me.
Low  blackguardism! I'm going  to get rid  of  you. Wouldn't  care if I  was
stretched out stiff. He's dead. The man upstairs is dead.
     He left her and walked on. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat.
     -- Well, what is it? he said, stopping.
     The lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.
     -- Barang!
     -- Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him.
     The  lacquey, aware  of comment, shook the  lolling clapper of his bell
but feebly:
     -- Bang!
     Mr Dedalus stared at him.
     -- Watch him, he  said. It's instructive. I wonder will  he allow us to
talk.
     -- You got more than that, father, Dilly said.
     -- I'm going to show you a  little trick, Mr  Dedalus  said. I'll leave
you  all where  Jesus left  the  jews. Look, that's all I  have.  I  got two
shillings from Jack Power and I spent twopence for a shave for the funeral.
     He drew forth a handful of copper coins nervously.
     -- Can't you look for some money somewhere? Dilly said.
     Mr Dedalus thought and nodded.
     -- I will, he said  gravely. I looked all along the gutter in O'Connell
street. I'll try this one now.
     -- You're very funny, Dilly said, grinning.
     -- Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies. Get a glass of  milk
for yourself and a bun or a something. I'll be home shortly.
     He put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on.
     The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out of
Parkgate.
     -- I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.
     The lacquey banged loudly.
     Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a pursing
mincing mouth:
     -- 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 are having.  Yes, indeed. Good for the country. Those farmers are
always grumbling. I'll just take a thimbleful of your best gin, Mr Crimmins.
A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible  affair that  General Slocum explosion.
Terrible,  terrible!  A  thousand casualties.  And  heartrending scenes. Men
trampling down women and children.  Most brutal thing. What do  they say was
the  cause? Spontaneous combustion: most scandalous revelation. Not a single
lifeboat would float and the  firehose all burst. What I can't understand is
how the inspectors ever  allowed  a boat  like  that...  Now you are talking
straight,  Mr  Crimmins. You know why? Palmoil.  Is that a  fact?  Without a
doubt. Well now, look at that. And America they say is the land of the free.
I thought we were bad here.
     I smiled at  him. America, I said, quietly, just like that. What is it?
The sweepings of every country  including our own. Isn't that true? That's a
fact.
     Graft, my dear sir. Well,  of course, where there's money going there's
always someone to pick it up.
     Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress  does  it. Nothing like a dressy
appearance. Bowls them over.
     -- Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?
     -- Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered stopping.
     Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter
Kennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson  street.
Well worth the  half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Never  built under three
guineas. Fits me down  to the ground. Some Kildare  street club  toff had it
probably. John Mulligan, the  manager of the  Hibernian bank, gave me a very
sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he remembered me.
     Aham! Must dress the character for those fellows.  Knight of the  road.
Gentleman.  And now, Mr Crimmins,  may  we have  the  honour of your  custom
again, sir. The  cup that  cheers but not inebriates, as the old saying  has
it.
     North  wall  and sir John Rogerson's quay, with hulls and anchorchains,
sailing  westward,  sailed by a skiff, a crumpled  throwaway, rocked  on the
ferry-wash, 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 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.
     Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michan's? Or no, there was a midnight
burial in Glasnevin.  Corpse brought in through  a secret door  in the wall.
Dignam is there now. Went  out in a puff. Well, well. Better turn down here.
Make a detour.
     Mr Kernan turned  and  walked down the slope  of Watling street  by the
corner of  Guinness's  visitors' waitingroom.  Outside the Dublin Distillers
Company's  stores an  outside  car  without fare or jarvey stood,  the reins
knotted  to  the  wheel.  Damn  dangerous  thing.  Some  Tipperary  bosthoon
endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway horse.
     Denis Breen  with  his tomes, weary  of having waited an  hour  in John
Henry Menton's office, led  his  wife  over O'Connell bridge, bound for  the
office of Messrs Collis and Ward.
     Mr Kernan approached Island street.
     Times  of  the  troubles.  Must  ask  Ned  Lambert  to  lend  me  those
reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. When you look back on it all now in a
kind  of retrospective arrangement.  Gaming at Daly's. No cardsharping then.
One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the table by a dagger. Somewhere
here Lord  Edward Fitzgerald  escaped from  major Sirr. Stables behind Moira
house.
     Damn good gin that was.
     Fine  dashing young nobleman. Good stock, of course. That ruffian, that
sham squire, with his violet gloves, gave him  away. Course they were on the
wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days. Fine poem that is: Ingram. They
were  gentlemen.  Ben Dollard does  sing  that ballad  touchingly.  Masterly
rendition.
     At the siege of Ross did my father fall.
     A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping,
leaping in their, in their saddles. Frockcoats. Cream sunshades.
     Mr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily.
     His  Excellency! Too  bad! Just missed that by a hair. Damn  it! What a
pity!

     Stephen  Dedalus  watched  through  the webbed  window  the  lapidary's
fingers prove a timedulled chain. Dust webbed  the window and the showtrays.
Dust  darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust  slept  on
dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of  cinnabar, on  rubies,  leprous
and winedark stones.
     Born  all  in the  dark wormy earth,  cold specks of fire, evil  lights
shining in the darkness. Where fallen  archangels flung  the stars  of their
brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them.
     She dances in  a foul gloom where gum burns 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  umbrella, one with a
midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled.
     The  whirr  of flapping leathern  bands and  hum  of dynamos  from  the
powerhouse urged Stephen  to be  on.  Beingless beings. Stop!  Throb  always
without you and the throb always within. Your  heart you sing of. I  between
them.  Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I. Shatter  them,
one and  both. But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter me you who can. Bawd
and butcher, were the words. I say! Not yet awhile. A look around.
     Yes, quite true.  Very  large and wonderful and keeps famous  time. You
say right, sir. A Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed.
     Stephen went down Bedford row, the handle  of the ash clacking  against
his shoulderblade. In Clohissey's window a faded 1860 print of Heenan boxing
Sayers held his eye. Staring backers with square  hats stood round the roped
prizering.  The  heavyweights in  light  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 Curи of
Ars. Pocket Guide to Killarney.
     I  might  find  here one of  my  pawned schoolprizes.  Stephano Dedalo,
alumno optimo, palmam ferenti.
     Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked  through the hamlet
of Donnycarney, murmuring vespers.
     Binding too good  probably,  what is this?  Eighth  and  ninth book  of
Moses. Secret of all secrets. Seal  of King David.  Thumbed pages:  read and
read. Who has passed here before me? How to soften chapped hands. Recipe for
white  wine vinegar.  How  to win  a  woman's love.  For  me  this. Say  the
following talisman three times with hands folded:
     -- Se et yilo nebrakada femininum! Amor me solo! Sanktus! Amen.
     Who wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most  blessed abbot Peter
Salanka to all true believers divulged. As good as any other abbot's charms,
as mumbling Joachim's. Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool.
     -- What are you doing here, Stephen.
     Dilly's high shoulders and shabby dress.
     Shut the book quick. Don't let see.
     -- What are you doing? Stephen said.
     A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides.  It
glowed as  she crouched feeding  the fire with broken boots.  I  told her of
Paris.  Late lieabed under a  quilt of old  overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck
bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. Nebrakada femininum.
     -- What have you there? Stephen asked.
     -- I bought it from the  other cart for a penny,  Dilly  said, laughing
nervously. Is it any good?
     My eyes they say she  has. Do others see me so? Quick, far  and daring.
Shadow of my mind.
     He took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal's French primer.
     -- What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French?
     She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips.
     Show no surprise. Quite natural.
     -- Here, Stephen said. It's all right. Mind  Maggy doesn't  pawn  it on
you. I suppose all my books are gone.
     -- Some, Dilly said. We had to.
     She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will
drown me with  her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me,  my
heart, my soul. Salt green death.
     We.
     Agenbite of inwit. Inwit's agenbite.
     Misery! Misery!

     -- Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?
     -- Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.
     They clasped hands loudly  outside Reddy and Daughter's. Father  Cowley
brushed his moustache often downward with a scooping hand.
     -- What's the best news? Mr Dedalus said.
     --  Why then  not much,  Father Cowley said. I'm barricaded  up, Simon,
with two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance.
     -- Jolly, Mr Dedalus said. Who is it?
     -- O, Father Cowley said. A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance.
     -- With a broken back, is it? Mr Dedalus asked.
     -- The same,  Simon, Father  Cowley  answered.  Reuben of that ilk. I'm
just waiting for Ben Dollard. He's going  to say  a word to Long John to get
him to take those two men off. All I want is a little time.
     He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big  apple bulging in
his neck.
     -- I know, Mr  Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He's always
doing a good turn for someone. Hold hard!
     He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.
     -- There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.
     Ben  Dollard's loose blue  cutaway  and  square  hat above  large slops
crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came towards them at
an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails.
     As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted:
     -- Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.
     -- Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.
     Mr  Dedalus  eyed with  cold  wandering  scorn various  points  of  Ben
Dollard's  figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley  with a nod,  he  muttered
sneeringly:
     -- That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day?
     -- Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I
threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.
     He  stood beside  them beaming on  them first and on his roomy  clothes
from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying:
     -- They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow.
     -- Bad luck to the jewman that  made them, Ben Dollard said.  Thanks be
to God he's not paid yet.
     -- And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked.
     Cashel  Boyle   O'Connor   Fitzmaurice  Tisdall   Farrell,   murmuring,
glasseyed, strode past the Kildare street club.
     Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a  chanter's mouth, gave forth
a deep note.
     -- Aw! he said.
     -- That's the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone.
     -- What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty? What? He turned to
both.
     -- That'll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also.
     The  reverend  Hugh C.  Love walked from the old Chapterhouse of  saint
Mary's  abbey  past  James  and Charles  Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended  by
Geraldines tall and  personable,  towards  the  Tholsel  beyond the Ford  of
Hurdles.
     Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them  forward,
his joyful fingers in the air.
     -- Come along  with me to  the subsheriff's office, he said.  I want to
show you  the new  beauty Rock  has  for  a  bailiff.  He's  a cross between
Lobengula and Lynchehaun. He's  well worth  seeing, mind  you. Come along. I
saw John Henry Menton casually in the Bodega  just now and it will cost me a
fall  if I  don't... wait awhile... We're on the right lay, Bob, believe you
me.
     -- For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said anxiously.
     Ben Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a dangling button
of his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he wiped  away the heavy
shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright.
     -- What few days? he boomed. Hasn't your landlord distrained for rent?
     -- He has, Father Cowley said.
     -- Then our  friend's writ is not worth the paper it's printed  on, Ben
Dollard  said. The  landlord  has  the prior  claim.  I  gave  him  all  the
particulars. 29 Windsor avenue. Love is the name?
     --  That's  right, Father  Cowley said.  The reverend  Mr Love.  He's a
minister in the country somewhere. But are you sure of that?
     -- You  can tell Barabbas from  me,  Ben Dollard said,  that he can put
that writ where Jacko put the nuts.
     He led Father Cowley boldly forward linked to his bulk.
     -- Filberts I  believe they were, Mr  Dedalus  said,  as he dropped his
glasses on his coatfront, following them.

     --  The  youngster will be all  right,  Martin Cunningham said, as they
passed out of the Castleyard gate.
     The policeman touched his forehead.
     -- God bless you, Martin Cunningham said, cheerily.
     He signed to the  waiting jarvey  who chucked  at the  reins and set on
towards Lord Edward street.
     Bronze by gold,  Miss Kennedy's head  by Miss  Douce's  head,  appeared
above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel.
     Yes,  Martin Cunningham said,  fingering  his beard. I  wrote to Father
Conmee and laid the whole case before him.
     -- You could try our friend, Mr Power suggested backward.
     -- Boyd? Martin Cunningham said shortly. Touch me not.
     John Wyse  Nolan, lagging  behind, reading the  list, came  after  them
quickly down Cork hill.
     On the steps of the City  hall Councillor Nannetti, descending,  hailed
Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending.
     The castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street.
     -- Look here Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them  at the Mail
office. I see Bloom put his name down for five shillings.
     -- Quite right, Martin Cunningham said,  taking the list.  And put down
the five shillings too.
     -- Without a second word either, Mr Power said.
     -- Strange but true, Martin Cunningham added.
     John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.
     -- I'll say there is much kindness in the jew, he quoted elegantly.
     They went down Parliament street.
     -- There's Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said, just heading for Kavanagh's.
     -- Righto, Martin Cunningham said. Here goes.
     Outside  la  Maison   Claire   Blazes   Boylan  waylaid  Jack  Mooney's
brother-in-law, humpy, tight, making for the liberties.
     John Wyse Nolan fell back  with Mr Power, while  Martin Cunningham took
the  elbow of  a dapper  little man  in  a  shower of  hail suit who  walked
uncertainly with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches.
     -- The assistant town clerk's corns are giving  him  some trouble, John
Wyse Nolan told Mr Power.
     They followed round the corner towards James Kavanagh's winerooms.  The
empty  castle  car fronted them  at  rest in Essex gate.  Martin Cunningham,
speaking always, showed often the list at which Jimmy Henry did not glance.
     -- And Long John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, as large as
life.
     The tall form of Long John Fanning filled the doorway where he stood.
     --  Good day, Mr Subsheriff,  Martin Cunningham said, as all halted and
greeted.
     Long John Fanning made no way for them. He removed his large Henry Clay
decisively and  his large fierce eyes  scowled intelligently over all  their
faces.
     -- Are the conscript fathers pursuing their  peaceful deliberations? he
said, with rich acrid utterance to the assistant town clerk.
     Hell open to christians they were  having, Jimmy Henry said  pettishly,
about their damned Irish language. Where was the marshal, he wanted to know,
to keep order in the  council chamber. And old Barlow the macebearer laid up
with  asthma, no  mace on the table, nothing in  order, no quorum  even  and
Hutchinson,  the  lord mayor, in Llandudno and little  Lorcan Sherlock doing
locum tenens for him. Damned Irish language, of our forefathers.
     Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips.
     Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the  peak  of his  beard, to
the assistant town clerk and the subsheriff, while John Wyse Nolan  held his
peace.
     -- What Dignam was that? Long John Fanning asked.
     Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot.
     -- O, my corns! he said plaintively.  Come  upstairs for goodness' sake
till I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!
     Testily he made room  for himself  beside Long John Fanning's flank and
passed in and up the stairs.
     --  Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff. I don't think
you knew him or perhaps you did, though.
     With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.
     --  Decent little  soul he was, Mr Power said  to the  stalwart back of
Long John Fanning ascending towards Long John Fanning in the mirror.
     --  Rather  lowsized,  Dignam  of  Menton's  office  that  was,  Martin
Cunningham said.
     Long John Fanning could not remember him.
     Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.
     -- What's that? Martin Cunningham said.
     All turned where they stood; John Wyse Nolan came down again.  From the
cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street, harness
and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. Gaily they went  past before his
cool  unfriendly eyes,  not  quickly.  In saddles  of the  leaders,  leaping
leaders, rode outriders.
     --  What was  it?  Martin  Cunningham asked,  as they went  on  up  the
staircase.
     -- The lord  lieutenant general and  general  governor of Ireland, John
Wyse Nolan answered from the stairfoot.

     As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his
panama to Haines.
     -- Parnell's brother. There in the corner.
     They chose  a  small  table near the  window opposite  a long-faced 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 mиlange, Haines said to the waitress.
     -- Two  mиlanges,  Buck Mulligan  said.  And  bring  us some scones and
butter and some cakes as well.
     When she had gone he said, laughing:
     -- We  call it D. B. C. because they have damn bad cakes.  O,  but  you
missed Dedalus on Hamlet.
     Haines opened his newbought book.
     --  I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare  is the happy  huntingground of all
minds that have lost their balance.
     The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street:
     -- England expects...
     Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.
     -- You  should see  him,  he said, when  his  body loses  its  balance.
Wandering &Aelig;ngus I call him.
     -- I  am sure  he has  an idиe  fixe,  Haines said,  pinching  his chin
thoughtfully with  thumb and forefinger. Now I  am speculating what it would
be likely to be. Such persons always have.
     Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.
     -- They drove his wits astray, he said, by  visions  of  hell. He  will
never capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white
death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy.  He can never be a poet. The
joy of creation.
     --  Eternal punishment,  Haines said, nodding  curtly. I see. I tackled
him this morning on belief. There  was something  on his mind,  I  saw. It's
rather interesting because Professor Pokorny of  Vienna makes an interesting
point out of that.
     Buck  Mulligan's  watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to
unload her tray.
     -- He can  find no trace  of  hell in ancient  Irish myth, Haines said,
amid  the cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny,
of retribution. Rather strange he should have just that  fixed idea. Does he
write anything for your movement?
     He  sank two lumps of sugar deftly  longwise through the whipped cream.
Buck Mulligan  slit a steaming  scone in  two and plastered butter over  its
smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.
     --  Ten  years, he said,  chewing  and laughing. He  is going  to write
something in ten years.
     -- Seems a long way off,  Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his  spoon.
Still, I shouldn't wonder if he did after all.
     He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.
     --  This is  real  Irish cream I take it, he said  with  forbearance. I
don't want to be imposed on.
     Elijah, skiff, light crumpled  throwaway,  sailed eastward by flanks of
ships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new  Wapping street
past  Benson's  ferry,  and  by  the  three-masted  schooner  Rosevean  from
Bridgwater with bricks.

     Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street, past Sewell's yard. Behind
him    Cashel    Boyle   O'Connor    Fitzmaurice    Tisdall   Farrell   with
stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house
and,  crossing, walked along  Merrion square.  Distantly behind  him a blind
stripling tapped his way by the wall of College Park.
     Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far  as  Mr
Lewis Werner's cheerful windows, then  turned and strode  back along Merrion
square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.
     At the corner of  Wilde's he halted, frowned at Elijah's name announced
on the Metropolitan Hall, frowned at the distant  pleasance of duke's  lawn.
His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. With ratsteeth bared he muttered:
     -- Coactus volui.
     He strode on for Clare street, grinding his fierce word.
     As he  strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway  of his  dustcoat
brushed  rudely from  its  angle  a slender  tapping cane and swept onwards,
having buffeted a thewless body. The  blind stripling turned his sickly face
after the striding form.
     -- God's curse on  you, he said sourly, whoever you are! You're blinder
nor I am, you bitch's bastard!

     Opposite Ruggy O'Donohoe's Master Patrick  Aloysius Dignam,  pawing the
pound and 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 fruit cake jawing the whole blooming time and sighing.
     After Wicklow lane the window of  Madame  Doyle,  court dress 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 sergeant-major
Bennett,  the Portobello  bruiser,  for a purse  of  fifty sovereigns,  God,
that'd be a good pucking match to see. Myler Keogh, that's the chap sparring
out to him with the green sash. Two  bar entrance, soldiers  half  price.  I
could easy do a bunk on ma. Master  Dignam on his left turned as  he turned.
That's me in mourning. When is it? May the twenty-second. Sure, the blooming
thing  is all  over. He turned to the right and  on his right  Master Dignam
turned, his cap awry, his  collar sticking up. Buttoning it  down, his  chin
lifted, he saw the image  of  Marie Kendall, charming  soubrette, beside the
two puckers. One of them mots that do be in the packets of fags Stoer smokes
that his old fellow welted hell out of him for one time he found out.
     Master Dignam got his collar down and dawdled on. The best pucker going
for  strength was  Fitzsimons.  One puck in the wind from that fellow  would
knock you into the middle of next week, man. But the best pucker for science
was Jem Corbet  before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings  out of him, dodging
and all.
     In Grafton street Master Dignam saw a red flower  in a toff's mouth and
a swell pair of  kicks on him and he listening to what the drunk was telling
him and grinning all the time.
     No Sandymount tram.
     Master Dignam walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to his
other hand. His  collar sprang up again and  he tugged it down. The blooming
stud was too small for the buttonhole of the  shirt, blooming end  to it. He
met schoolboys with satchels. I'm not going tomorrow either,  stay away till
Monday. He  met other  schoolboys.  Do  they  notice  I'm in mourning? Uncle
Barney said he'd get it into the paper tonight. Then they'll  all  see it in
the paper and read my name printed and pa's name.
     His face got all  grey instead of being red like it was and there was a
fly  walking  over it  up to his  eye. The scrunch that was  when they  were
screwing the screws  into the coffin: and the bumps  when they were bringing
it downstairs.
     Pa was inside  it and ma crying in the parlour and uncle Barney telling
the  men  how to get  it  round the bend.  A big coffin it was, and high and
heavylooking.  How was that? The last night pa was boosed he was standing on
the  landing there bawling out for his boots  to  go out  to Tunney's for to
boose more and  he looked butty and short in his shirt. Never see him again.
Death, that is.  Pa is dead. My father is dead. He told me  to be a good son
to ma. I couldn't hear the other things he said but I saw his tongue and his
teeth  trying to say it better. Poor  pa.  That was Mr Dignam, my father.  I
hope he is in purgatory now because he went  to  confession to father Conroy
on Saturday night.

     William  Humble,  earl  of  Dudley,  and  Lady  Dudley,  accompanied by
lieutenantcolonel  Hesseltine, 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  costsbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward saw him with
surprise. Past Richmond bridge  at  the doorstep of the  office of Reuben J.
Dodd,  solicitor,  agent  for the Patriotic Insurance  Company,  an  elderly
female about to  enter  changed her plan and retracing her steps  by  King's
windows smiled credulously  on the representative  of  His Majesty. From its
sluice in Wood quay wall  under Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out  in
fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. Above the crossblind of  the Ormond Hotel,
gold  by  bronze, Miss Kennedy's head  by  Miss  Douce's  head  watched  and
admired.  On  Ormond  quay  Mr  Simon  Dedalus,  steering his  way from  the
greenhouse for the subsheriff's office, stood still in midstreet and brought
his hat low. His Excellency graciously returned  Mr  Dedalus' greeting. From
Cahill's  corner  the  reverend   Hugh  C.  Love,   M.  A.,  made  obeisance
unperceived,  mindful of  lords deputies  whose hands benignant  had held of
yore rich  advowsons. On Grattan  bridge Lenehan and  M'Coy, taking leave of
each other, watched the  carriages go by. Passing by Roger  Greene's  office
and Dollard's big red printing house Gerty MacDowell, carrying the Catesby's
cork lino letters for her father who was laid up, knew  by the  style it was
the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her Excellency had on
because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van  had to stop in front
of her on account of its being the lord lieutenant. Beyond Lundy Foot's from
the shaded door of  Kavanagh's winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with  unseen
coldness towards the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland.
The  Right Honourable  William Humble, earl of Dudley,  G.  C. V. O., passed
Micky  Anderson's  all  times  ticking  watches  and  Henry and James's  wax
smartsuited  freshcheeked models, the  gentleman  Henry,  dernier cri James.
Over  against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of
the cavalcade. Tom Rochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley 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.  Hesseltine and also  upon  the
honourable  Gerald  Ward A.  D. C. From the  window of the  D.  B.  C.  Buck
Mulligan gaily,  and Haines gravely,  gazed  down on  the viceregal equipage
over  the  shoulders  of eager  guests, whose  mass  of  forms  darkened the
chessboard whereon John  Howard Parnell looked intently. In Fownes's street,
Dilly Dedalus, straining  her  sight  upward  from Chardenal's  first French
primer, saw  sunshades spanned and wheelspokes  spinning  in the glare  John
Henry Menton,  filling the  doorway  of  Commercial  Buildings, stared  from
winebig oyster eyes,  holding a fat  gold hunter  watch not looked at in his
fat left hand not  feeling it. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed
the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the hoofs of
the outriders. She shouted in his ear the tidings. Understanding, he shifted
his tomes to his left breast and saluted the second carriage. The honourable
Gerald Ward  A.  D.  C.,  agreeably  surprised,  made  haste  to  reply.  At
Ponsonby's corner  a jaded white flagon H. halted and  four tallhatted white
flagons halted behind him,  E. L. Y.'S.,  while  outriders pranced  past and
carriages.  Opposite Pigott's  music warerooms Mr Denis J. Maginni professor
of dancing &c, gaily  apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and
unobserved.  By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes  Boylan, stepping in
tan  shoes and socks  with  skyblue  clocks  to the  refrain of My  girl's a
Yorkshire girl.
     Blazes Boylan presented  to the leaders'  skyblue  frontlets  and  high
action  a skyblue tie, a  widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit
of indigo  serge. His hands in his  jacket pockets forgot to salute  but  he
offered  to the three ladies the  bold admiration of his  eyes  and  the red
flower between  his lips. As they drove  along  Nassau street His Excellency
drew the attention of his bowing consort to the programme of music which was
being discoursed in  College park. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and
drumthumped after the cortиge:
     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.
Thrift, 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 E. M. Solomons in the window
of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. Deep in Leinster street, by Trinity's
postern, a  loyal  king's man, Horn-blower, touched  his tallyho cap. As the
glossy  horses pranced  by  Merrion  square Master  Patrick Aloysius Dignam,
waiting, saw salutes being given to the gent with the topper and raised also
his  new black cap with fingers  greased by porksteak paper.  His collar too
sprang up. The viceroy, on his  way to inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of
funds  for Mercer's hospital, drove with  his following  towards Lower Mount
street.  He passed  a blind stripling  Opposite Broadbent's.  In Lower Mount
street a pedestrian in a brown macintosh,  eating  dry bread, passed swiftly
and unscathed across the viceroy's path. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his
hoarding,  Mr Eugene Stratton,  his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome
to Pembroke township.  At  Haddington  road  corner  two sanded women halted
themselves, an umbrella and a bag  in  which eleven  cockles rolled to  view
with  wonder the lord mayor and lady  mayoress without his  golden chain. On
Northumberland  and  Landsdowne 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.



    Ulysses 11: Sirens


     BRONZE BY GOLD HEARD THE HOOFIRONS, STEELYRINING IMPERthnthn thnthnthn.
     Chips,  picking chips  off  rocky thumbnail, chips.  Horrid!  And  gold
flushed more.
     A husky fifenote blew.
     Blew. Blue bloom is on the
     Gold pinnacled hair.
     A jumping rose on satiny breasts of satin, rose of Castille.
     Trilling, trilling: I dolores.
     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. O rose!  Notes
chirruping answer. Castille. The morn is breaking.
     Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.
     Coin rang. Clock clacked.
     Avowal. Sonnez.  I could. Rebound of garter. Not  leave thee. Smack. La
cloche! Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye!
     Jingle. Bloo.
     Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs. War! War! The tympanum.
     A sail! A veil awave upon the waves.
     Lost. Throstle fluted. All is lost now.
     Horn. Hawhorn.
     When first he saw. Alas!
     Full tup. Full throb.
     Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring.
     Martha! Come!
     Clapclop. Clipclap. Clappyclap.
     Goodgod henev erheard inall.
     Deaf bald Pat brought pad knife took up.
     A moonlight 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. All gone. All fallen.
     Tiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.
     Amen! He gnashed in fury.
     Fro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding.
     Bronzelydia by Minagold.
     By bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow. Bloom. Old Bloom.
     One rapped, one tapped with a carra, with a cock.
     Pray for him! Pray, good people!
     His gouty fingers nakkering.
     Big Benaben. Big Benben.
     Last  rose  Castille of  summer left  bloom I feel so sad  alone. Pwee!
Little wind piped wee.
     True men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll. Ay, ay. Like you men. Will lift your
tschink with tschunk.
     Fff! Oo!
     Where bronze from anear? Where gold from afar? Where hoofs?
     Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.
     Then, not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be pfrwritt.
     Done.
     Begin!
     Bronze  by gold, Miss Douce's  head  by  Miss Kennedy's head,  over the
crossblind of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofs go by, ringing steel.
     -- Is that her? asked Miss Kennedy.
     Miss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex, pearl grey and eau de Nil.
     -- Exquisite contrast, Miss Kennedy said.
     When all agog Miss Douce said eagerly:
     -- Look at the fellow in the tall silk.
     -- Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly.
     -- In the second  carriage, Miss Douce's wet lips said, laughing in the
sun. He's looking. Mind till I see.
     She darted, bronze, to the backmost corner, flattening her face against
the pane in a halo of hurried breath.
     Her wet lips tittered:
     -- He's killed looking back.
     She laughed:
     -- O wept! Aren't men frightful idiots?
     With sadness.
     Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from  bright  light, twining  a loose hair
behind an  ear. Sauntering  sadly, gold  no more, she twisted twined a hair.
Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.
     -- It's them has the fine times, sadly then she said.
     A man.
     Bloowho went by by Moulang's pipes, bearing in his breast the sweets of
sin, by  Wine's antiques in  memory bearing sweet sinful words, by Carroll's
dusky battered plate, for Raoul.
     The  boots  to  them,  them  in  the bar, them barmaids  came. For them
unheeding him he banged on the counter his tray of chattering china. And
     -- There's your teas, he said.
     Miss  Kennedy with manners transposed the  teatray down to  an upturned
lithia crate, safe from eyes, low.
     -- What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.
     -- Find out, Miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.
     -- Your beau, is it?
     A haughty bronze replied:
     -- I'll  complain to Mrs de Massey on you  if  I hear any more of  your
impertinent insolence.
     -- I mperthnthn thnthnthn, bootsnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated as
she threatened as he had come.
     Bloom.
     On her flower frowning Miss Douce said:
     -- Most aggravating  that young brat is. If he doesn't  conduct himself
I'll wring his ear for him a yard long.
     Ladylike in exquisite contrast.
     -- Take no notice, Miss Kennedy rejoined.
     She poured in a teacup  tea, then  back in the teapot tea. They cowered
under their reef of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned, waiting
for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses,  both of  black satin, two
and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and seven.
     Yes, bronze  from anear, by gold  from  afar, heard  steel  from anear,
hoofs ring from afar, and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel.
     -- Am I awfully sunburnt?
     Miss Bronze unbloused her neck.
     -- No, said  Miss Kennedy.  It gets brown after.  Did you try the borax
with the cherry laurel water?
     Miss  Douce  halfstood  to  see  her  skin  askance  in  the  barmirror
gildedlettered where hock and claret glasses shimmered  and in their midst a
shell.
     -- And leave it to my hands, she said.
     -- Try it with the glycerine, Miss Kennedy advised.
     Bidding her neck and hands adieu Miss Douce
     -- Those things only  bring out a rash, replied, reseated. I asked that
old fogey in Boyd's for something for my skin.
     Miss Kennedy, pouring now 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 shout
in quest.
     --  O! shrieking, Miss Kennedy cried.  Will you ever  forget bis 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  Lorи's huguenot  name. By
Bassi's  blessed virgins Bloom's dark eyes  went by. Bluerobed, white under,
come to me. God  they  believe she  is: or goddess. Those today. I could not
see.  That fellow  spoke. A student.  After  with Dedalus' son. He might  be
Mulligan. All comely virgins.  That  brings  those rakes of  fellows in: her
white.
     By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the sweets.
     Of sin.
     In a  giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy
your  other  eye.  They threw young  heads  back,  bronze gigglegold, to let
freefly  their laughter, screaming, your  other, signals to each Other, high
piercing notes.
     Ah, panting, sighing. Sighing, ah, fordone their mirth died down.
     Miss  Kennedy   lipped  her  cup   again,  raised,  drank  a   sip  and
giggle-giggled. Miss Douce, bending again 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 bronze in gold, they urged each other
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 greaseaseabloom.
     -- O saints above! Miss Douce said,  sighed above her jumping  rose.  I
wished I hadn't laughed so much. I feel all wet.
     -- O, Miss Douce! Miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing!
     And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly.
     By Cantwell's offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi's virgins, bright of
their oils.  Nannetti's father hawked those things about, wheedling at doors
as  I. Religion pays. Must see him about Keyes's par. Eat first. I want. Not
yet. At four, she  said. Time  ever passing. Clockhands turning.  On.  Where
eat? The  Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I net five  guineas with
those ads. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet. The sweets of sin.
     Flushed less, still less, goldenly paled.
     Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips off one of his
rocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled.
     -- O welcome back, Miss Douce.
     He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays?.
     -- Tiptop.
     He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor.
     --  Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show  I  am. Lying out on  the
strand all day.
     Bronze whiteness.
     -- That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed
her hand indulgently. Tempting poor simple males.
     Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.
     -- O go away, she said. You're very simple, I don't think.
     He was.
     -- Well  now, I am, he mused.  I  looked so simple in  the cradle  they
christened me simple Simon.
     -- You must have been a doaty, Miss Douce made answer. And what did the
doctor order today?
     -- Well now, he mused, whatever  you say yourself. I think I'll trouble
you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.
     Jingle.
     -- With the greatest alacrity, Miss Douce agreed.
     With grace of alacrity  towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane's
she turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure  of gold whisky from her
crystal keg. Forth from the  skirt of  his coat Mr Dedalus brought pouch and
pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky fifenotes.
     -- By Jove, he mused. I  often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must
be  a  great tonic in  the air  down there. But a long  threatening comes at
last, they say. Yes, yes.
     Yes. He  fingered shreds of hair, her  maidenhair, her mermaid's,  into
the bowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute.
     None not said nothing. Yes.
     Gaily Miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling:
     -- O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas!
     -- Was Mr Lidwell in today?
     In came Lenehan.  Round him  peered Lenehan.  Mr  Bloom  reached  Essex
bridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write.  Buy
paper. Daly's. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue Bloom is on the rye.
     -- He was in at lunchtime, Miss Douce said.
     Lenehan came forward.
     -- Was Mr Boylan looking for me?
     He asked. She answered:
     -- Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs?
     She asked. Miss voice of  Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised, her
gaze upon a page.
     -- No. He was not.
     Miss  gaze  of  Kennedy,  heard not seen, read  on. Lenehan  round  the
sandwichbell wound his round body round.
     -- Peep! Who's in the corner?
     No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made  overtures.  To mind her
stops. To read only the black ones: round o and crooked ess.
     Jingle jaunty jingle.
     Girlgold she read and  did not  glance.  Take no  notice.  She took  no
notice while he read by rote a solfa fable for her, plappering flatly:
     -- Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your
bill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone?
     He droned in vain. Miss Douce turned to her tea aside.
     He sighed, aside:
     -- Ah me! O my!
     He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod.
     -- Greetings from the famous son of a famous father.
     -- Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked.
     Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who?
     -- Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask? Stephen, the youthful bard.
     Dry.
     Mr Dedalus, famous fighter, laid by his dry filled pipe.
     -- I see, he said. I didn't recognize him for the moment.  I hear he is
keeping very select company. Have you seen him lately?
     He had.
     -- I quaffed the nectarbowl  with him  this very day,  said Lenehan. In
Mooney's en ville and in Mooney's sur mer. He had received the rhino for the
labour of his muse.
     He smiled at bronze's teabathed lips, at listening lips and eyes.
     -- The  иlite of Erin hung  upon his lips.  The  ponderous pundit, Hugh
MacHugh, Dublin's most brilliant scribe and editor, and that minstrel boy of
the wild wet west who is known by the euphonious appellation of the O'Madden
Burke.
     After an interval Mr Dedalus raised his grog and
     -- That must have been highly diverting, said he. I see.
     He see.  He drank. With  faraway  mourning  mountain eye.  Set down his
glass.
     He looked towards the saloon door.
     -- I see you have moved the piano.
     --  The  tuner  was  in today, Miss Douce replied, tuning  it  for  the
smoking concert and I never heard such an exquisite player.
     -- Is that a fact?
     --  Didn't he,  Miss Kennedy? The  real classical,  you know. And blind
too, poor fellow. Not twenty I'm sure he was.
     -- Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said.
     He drank and strayed away.
     -- So sad to look at his face, Miss Douce condoled.
     God's curse on bitch's bastard.
     Tink to  her pity  cried a diner's bell.  To the door of the 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  jingle
jaunty 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 on 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. Tanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloom eyed on the door a  poster, a swaying
mermaid smoking  mid nice waves. Smoke mermaids, coolest  whiff of all. Hair
streaming: lovelorn. For  some man. For Raoul. He eyed and saw afar on Essex
bridge a gay hat riding on a jauntingcar. It is. 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.
     -- Two pence, 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. Acall again. That he now poised
that  it  now  throbbed.  You  hear? It  throbbed,  pure,  purer, softly and
softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.
     Pat  paid  for diner's  popcorked bottle:  and  over  tumbler  tray and
popcorked bottle  ere  he went he  whispered, bald and  bothered, with  Miss
Douce.
     -- The bright stars fade...
     A voiceless song sang from within, singing:
     -- ... the morn is breaking.
     A duodene of birdnotes  chirruped bright treble  answer under sensitive
hands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording,  called
to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's leavetaking,
life's, love's morn.
     -- The dewdrops pearl...
     Lenehan's lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy.
     -- But look this way, he said, rose of Castille.
     Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.
     She  rose  and  closed her reading, rose  of Castille. Fretted forlorn,
dreamily rose.
     -- Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her.
     She answered, slighting:
     -- Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.
     Like lady, ladylike.
     Blazes Boylan's  smart  tan shoes  creaked  on the  barfloor  where  he
strode. Yes, gold from anear by bronze from afar. Lenehan heard and knew and
hailed him:
     -- See the conquering hero comes.
     Between the  car  and window, warily walking,  went  Bloom, unconquered
hero. See me he might. The  seat he  sat on: warm. Black  wary  hecat walked
towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft saluting.
     -- And I from thee...
     -- I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.
     He  touched to fair Miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw. She smiled
on him. But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her richer hair, a
bosom and a rose.
     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 he. All said four.
     Cowley's red lugs and Adam's apple in the door of the sheriff's office.
Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting. Wait.
     Hello. Where off to? Something to eat? I too was  just. In here.  What,
Ormond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom. Sit tight there.  See,
not be seen.  I think I'll  join you. Come on. Richie led on. Bloom followed
bag. Dinner fit for a prince.
     Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm, her
bust, that all but burst, so high.
     -- O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. O!
     But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.
     -- Why don't you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.
     Shebronze,  dealing from her  jar  thick syrupy  liquor for  his  lips,
looked as  it flowed (flower in his coat: who gave  him?), and syrupped with
her voice:
     -- Fine goods in small parcels.
     That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.
     -- Here's fortune, Blazes said.
     He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.
     -- Hold on, said Lenehan, till I...
     -- Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.
     -- Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.
     -- I plunged a bit,  said Boylan winking and drinking. Not  on my  own,
you know. Fancy of a friend of mine.
     Lenehan still drank and grinned  at his tilted  ale and at Miss Douce's
lips that all  but  hummed, not  shut,  the oceansong her lips  had trilled.
Idolores. The eastern seas.
     Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way (flower, wonder who gave),
bearing away teatray. Clock clacked.
     Miss Douce took Boylan's  coin,  struck  boldly  the  cashregister.  It
clanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in  the till and
hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack. For me.
     -- What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four?
     O'clock.
     Lenehan,  small  eyes  ahunger on her humming,  bust  ahumming,  tugged
Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve.
     -- Let's hear the time, he said.
     The  bag of  Goulding,  Collis,  Ward  led Bloom  by ryebloom  flowered
tables. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table near
the  door. Be near. At four.  Has he forgotten? Perhaps a  trick.  Not come:
whet appetite. I couldn't do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited.
     Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes.
     -- Go on, pressed Lenehan. There's no-one. He never heard.
     -- ... to Flora's lips did hie.
     High, a high note, pealed in the treble, clear.
     Bronzedouce, communing  with her rose that sank and rose, sought Blazes
Boylan's flower and eyes.
     -- Please, please.
     He pleaded over returning phrases of avowal.
     -- I could not leave thee...
     -- Afterwits, Miss Douce promised coyly.
     -- No, now, urged Lenehan. Sonnezlacloche! O do! There's no-one.
     She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn  out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two kindling
faces watched her bend.
     Quavering the chords strayed from the air,  found it again, lost chord,
and lost and found it faltering.
     -- Go on! Do! Sonnez!
     Bending,  she  nipped a peak of  skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted
them still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.
     -- Sonnez!
     Smack.  She  let free  sudden  in  rebound  her  nipped elastic  garter
smackwarm against her smackable 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.
     Boyland, eyed, eyed. Tossed  to fat lips his chalice, drankoff his tiny
chalice, sucking  the last fat violet syrupy drops.  He spellbound eyes went
after her gliding head as it went down the bar by  mirrors,  gilded arch for
ginger  ale, hock  and  claret glasses  shimmering, a spiky shell,  where it
concerted, mirrored, bronze with sunnier bronze.
     Yes, bronze from anearby.
     -- ... Sweetheart, goodbye!
     -- I'm off, said Boylan with impatience.
     He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.
     --  Wait  a shake, begged Lenehan,  drinking quickly. I  wanted to tell
you. Tom Rochford...
     -- Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going.
     Lenehan gulped to go.
     -- Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I'm coming.
     He  followed  the  hasty  creaking shoes  but stood by  nimbly  by  the
threshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender.
     -- How do you do Mr Dollard?
     -- Eh? How  do? How do? Ben  Dollard's vague bass answered,  turning an
instant  from Father Cowley's  woe. He won't  give you any trouble, Bob. All
Bergan  will speak to the long fellow. We'll put a barleystraw in that Judas
Iscariot's ear this time.
     Sighing,  Mr  Dedalus  came through the saloon,  a finger  soothing  an
eyelid.
     -- Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Come on, Simon, give us a
ditty. We heard the piano.
     Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for  drink orders,  Power for Richie.
And  Bloom? Let me see.  Not  make him walk twice.  His corns. Four now. How
warm this black is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?) heat. Let me see.
Cider. Yes, bottle of cider.
     -- What's that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only vamping, man.
     -- Come on, come on, Ben Dollar called. Begone, dull care. Come, Bob.
     He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them (hold that fellow with the:
hold  him  now) into  the saloon. He  plumped him Dollard on  the stool. His
gouty paws plumped chords. Plumped stopped abrupt.
     Bald Pat in the  doorway met tealess gold returning. Bothered he wanted
Power and cider. Bronze by the window watched, bronze from afar.
     Jingle a tinkle jaunted.
     Bloom heard a jing, a little sound. He's off. Light sob of breath Bloom
sighed on the silent bluehued flowers. Jingling. He's gone. Jingle. Hear.
     -- Love and war, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God be with old times.
     Miss  Douce's  brave  eyes,  unregarded,  turned  from  the crossblind,
smitten  by  sunlight.  Gone.  Pensive  (who knows?), smitten  (the  smiting
light), she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She drew down pensive
(why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze over the  bar  where  bald
stood   by   sister   gold,  inexquisite  contrast,   contrast   inexquisite
nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of shadow, eau de Nil.
     -- Poor old Goodwin was  the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded
them.  There  was  a slight difference  of  opinion  between himself and the
Collard grand.
     There was.
     -- A symposium all  his own, Mr  Dedalus said. The devil wouldn't  stop
him. He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of drink.
     --  God, do  you  remember? Ben bulky  Dollard said,  turning from  the
punished keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment.
     They laughed all three.  He had no  wed. All trio  laughed.  No wedding
garment.
     --  Our  friend  Bloom turned in  handy that  night,  Mr  Dedalus said.
Where's my pipe by the way?
     He  wandered back  to the bar to  the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried
two diners' drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowley laughed again.
     -- I saved the situation, Ben, I think.
     --  You did, averred  Ben Dollard. I remember those tight trousers too.
That was a brilliant idea, Bob.
     Father Cowley  blushed  to  his  brilliant  purply  lobes. He saved the
situa. Tight trou. Brilliant ide.
     -- I knew he was on the rocks, he said.  The wife was playing the piano
in the coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration  and who
was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other business? Do you remember?
We had  to  search all Holles street to find them  till  the chap in Keogh's
gave us the number. Remember?
     Ben remembered, his broad visage wondering.
     -- By God she had some luxurious opera cloaks and things there.
     Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.
     --  Merrion  square  style. Balldresses, by God, and court  dresses. He
wouldn't take any money either. What? Any God's quantity of  cocked hats and
boleros and trunkhose. What?
     -- Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion Bloom has left  off clothes of
all descriptions.
     Jingle haunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres.
     Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right, sir. Right, Pat.
     Mrs Marion met him pike hoses. Smell of burn of Paul de Kock. Nice name
he.
     -- What's this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion.
     -- Tweedy.
     -- Yes. Is she alive?
     -- And kicking.
     -- She was a daughter of...
     -- Daughter of the regiment.
     -- Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.
     Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after.
     -- Irish? I don't know, faith. Is she, Simon?
     Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.
     -- Buccinator muscle is... What?... Bit rusty... O, she is... My  Irish
Molly, O.
     He puffed a pungent plumy blast.
     -- From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.
     They pined  in  depth of ocean shadow,  gold by the beerpull, bronze by
maraschino, thoughtful all two, Mina  Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace, Drumcondra
with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent.
     Pat served uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he
ate with  relish the inner organs,  nutty gizzards,  fried cods'  roes while
Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and  kidney, steak then kidney, bite
by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.
     Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners fit for princes.
     By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty  jingled Blazes  Boylan, bachelor, in sun,
in  heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with  flick  of whip, on bounding tyres:
sprawled,  warmseated,  Boylan impatience,  ardentbold. Horn. Have you  the?
Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn.
     Over  their voices Dollard bassooned  attack,  booming  over bombarding
chords:
     -- When love absorbs my ardent soul...
     Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roof-panes.
     -- War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior.
     -- So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking  of your landlord. Love
or money.
     He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge.
     --  Sure,  you'd burst the tympanum of her  ear, man,  Mr  Dedalus said
through smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.
     In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He would.
     --  Not  to mention  another  membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time,
Ben. Amoroso ma non troppo. Let me there.
     Miss  Kennedy served two  gentlemen  with tankards of  cool  stout. She
passed  a  remark. It was  indeed, first gentleman  said, beautiful weather.
They drank cool stout. Did she know where the lord lieutenant was going? And
heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldn't say. But it would be in the
paper. O,  she needn't trouble. No  trouble.  She waved  about her outspread
Independent,  searching,  the   lord  lieutenant,   her  pinnacles  of  hair
slowmoving, lord lieuten. Too  much trouble, first gentleman said. O, not in
the least. Way he looked that.  Lord  lieutenant. Gold by  bronze heard iron
steel.
     -- ... my ardent soul
     I care not foror the morrow.
     In liver  gravy  Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and war someone is.
Ben Dollard's famous. Night he ran round to us  to borrow a  dress suit  for
that concert. Trousers  tight as  a drum on him. Musical porkers. Molly  did
laugh when  he  went  out. Threw  herself  back  across the bed,  screaming,
kicking.  With all his belongings on show. O, saints above, I'm drenched! O,
the women in the front  row! O, I never laughed  so  many!  Well, of course,
that's  what  gives him  the base barreltone. For  instance  eunuchs. Wonder
who's playing. Nice touch.  Must be Cowley. Musical. Knows whatever note you
play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.
     Miss  Douce, engaging, Lydia  Douce,  bowed to  suave solicitor, George
Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist,  a lady's,
hand  to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back.  To the  old dingdong
again.
     -- Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.
     George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.
     Bloom  ate liv  as said before. Clean here  at least. That chap  in the
Burton,  gummy with gristle.  No-one  here: Goulding  and  I. Clean  tables,
flowers, mitres of  napkins. Pat to  and fro, bald Pat. Nothing  to do. Best
value in Dub.
     Piano again. Cowley  it  is. Way  he  sits in to it, like one together,
mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the  bowend,
sawing  the 'cello, remind you  of toothache. Her high long snore.  Night we
were in the box. Trombone  under  blowing like a grampus,  between the acts,
other  brass  chap  unscrewing,  emptying  spittle.  Conductor's  legs  too,
bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide them.
     Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
     Only the  harp. Lovely gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of a
lovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that once
or  twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their  harps. I.
He. Old. Young.
     -- Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.
     Strongly.
     -- Go on, blast you, Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits
     -- M'appari, Simon, Father Cowley said.
     Down stage he strode some  paces,  grave,  tall in affliction, his long
arms  outheld. Hoarsely  the  apple of his throat hoarsed  softly. Softly he
sang to  a dusty seascape there: A Last Farewell. A headland, a ship, a sail
upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon
the headland, wind around her.
     Cowley sang:
     -- M'appari tutt amor;
     Il mio sguardo l'incontr...
     She waved,  unhearing Cowley,  her veil to one departing,  dear one, to
wind, love, speeding sail, return.
     -- Go on, Simon.
     -- Ah, sure my dancing days are done, Ben... Well...
     Mr  Dedalus laid his pipe  to rest beside  the tuningfork and, sitting,
touched the obedient keys.
     -- No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original One flat.
     The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.
     Up stage strode Father Cowley.
     -- Here, Simon. I'll accompany you, he said. Get up.
     By Graham  Lemon's pineapple  rock, by Elvery's elephant jingle 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,  that  M'Guckin! Yes. In  his way.
Choirboy style. Maas was  the  boy. Massboy.  A lyrical tenor  if you  like.
Never forget it. Never.
     Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the  tightened features strain.
Backache he. Bright's bright  eye.  Next item on  the  programme. Paying the
piper. Pills,  pounded bread,  worth a guinea  a  box.  Stave it off awhile.
Sings too: Down  among the dead men. Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to the.
Not-making much hand  of it. Best  value in.  Characteristic of him.  Power.
Particular about his drink. Flaw in  the glass,  fresh Vartry water. Fecking
matches from counters to save. Then squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs.
And  when he's wanted not a farthing.  Screwed  refusing to  pay  his  fare.
Curious types.
     Never would Richie forget that  night. As long  as he lived,  never. In
the gods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the first note.
     Speech paused on Richie's lips.
     Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies  about damn all. Believes his
own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But want a good memory.
     -- Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.
     -- All is lost now...
     Richie  cocked his  lips  apout. A  low incipient  note  sweet  banshee
murmured all. A  thrush. A throstle.  His breath, birdsweet, good teeth he's
proud of, fluted with  plaintive woe. Is lost.  Rich sound. Two notes in one
there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he twined
and turned them. All most too  new call is lost  in all. Echo. How sweet the
answer. How  is  that  done?  All  lost  now. Mournful  he  whistled.  Fall,
surrender, lost.
     Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the vase.
Order. Yes, I  remember. Lovely air.  In sleep she went to him. Innocence in
the  moon. Still hold her  back. Brave,  don't know their danger. Call name.
Touch water.  Jingle  jaunty. Too late. She longed to go. That's why. Woman.
As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost.
     -- A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.
     Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.
     He knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his  daughter. Wise
child that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?
     Bloom askance over  liverless saw. Face of the  all is lost. Rollicking
Richie  once. Jokes old  stale now.  Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his eye.
Now begging  letters he sends his son  with. Crosseyed Walter sir I did sir.
Wouldn't trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise.
     Piano again.  Sounds better  than  last time  I heard. Tuned  probably.
Stopped again.
     Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it.
     -- With it, Simon.
     -- It, Simon.
     --  Ladies  and  gentlemen, I  am  most  deeply  obliged by  your  kind
solicitations.
     -- It, Simon.
     --  I have  no  money  but  if you will lend  me your attention I shall
endeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down.
     By the sandwichbell in  screening shadow, Lydia her bronze  and rose, a
lady's  grace, gave  and  withheld:  as in  cool glaucous eau de Nil Mina to
tankards two her pinnacles of gold.
     The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord longdrawn, expectant drew
a voice away.
     -- When first I saw that form endearing.
     Richie turned.
     -- Si Dedalus' voice, he said.
     Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that  flow
endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. Bloom signed  to Pat,
bald Pat is a waiter hard  of hearing, to set ajar the  door of the bar. The
door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited, waiting to hear, for
he was hard of hear by the door.
     -- Sorrow from me seemed to depart.
     Through the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves
in  murmur,  like no  voice  of  strings  of  reeds  or  what  doyoucallthem
dulcimers, touching  their still ears with words, still hearts of their each
his  remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow  from them each seemed  to
from both depart when  first they heard.  When first they saw,  lost Richie,
Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the least,
her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word.
     Love that  is  singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the
elastic band of his packet. Love's old sweet sonnez  la gold. Bloom wound  a
skein round four forkfingers, stretched it,  relaxed, and wound it round his
troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast.
     -- Full of hope and all delighted...
     Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at his
feet when will  we meet? My head it simply.  Jingle all delighted.  He can't
sing  for tall hats.  Your head  it  simply swurls.  Perfumed  for him. What
perfume does your wife? I  want  to know. Jing.  Stop.  Knock.  Last look at
mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? How do you? I do
well. There?  What? Or? Phila 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 jimjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music
out, in desire, dark to lick flow, invading. Tipping her tepping her tapping
her topping her. Tup.  Pores to  dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the  feel the
warm  the.  Tup. To pour o'er  sluices pouring  gushes.  Flood,  gush, flow,
joygush, tupthrop. Now! Language of love.
     -- ... ray of hope...
     Beaming. Lydia for  Lidwell squeak scarcely  hear  so ladylike the muse
unsqueaked a ray of hope.
     Martha it is.  Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song.  Lovely
name you have. Can't write. Accept my little pres.  Play on her heartstrings
pursestrings too. She's a. I called you naughty boy. Still the name: Martha.
How strange! Today.
     The voice of Lionel  returned,  weaker but  unwearied. It sang again to
Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting, to wait.
How first  he saw that form endearing,  how sorrow seemed to part, how look,
form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart.
     Wish I  could see his face, though. Explain  better. Why the  barber in
Drago's always looked my face when I spoke his face in the glass. Still hear
it better here than in the bar though farther.
     -- Each graceful look...
     First night when first I saw her at  Mat  Dillon's in Terenure. Yellow,
black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her. Fate.
Round and  round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt.  Down she sat.
All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.
     -- Charmed my eye...
     Singing. Waiting she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume of
what perfume does your lilactrees.  Bosom I saw, both full, throat warbling.
First I saw. She thanked  me. Why did  she me?  Fate. Spanishy eyes. Under a
peartree  alone patio this hour  in  old  Madrid one side in  shadow Dolores
shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.
     -- Martha! Ah, Martha!
     Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion  dominant
to love to return with deepening yet  with rising chords of harmony.  In cry
of lionel loneliness that she should know, must Martha feel. For only her he
waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where. Somewhere.
     -- Co-me, thou lost one!
     Co-me thou dear one!
     Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chest note, return.
     -- Come!
     It  soared, a  bird, it held  its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver
orb it leaped serene, speeding,  sustained,  to come, don't spin it out  too
long  long  breath  he breath long  life,  soaring high,  high  resplendent,
aflame, crowned, high in the  effulgence  symbolistic, high, of the ethereal
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.   Goodman,   Simon.   Clappyclapclap.   Encore!
Clapclipclap. Sound  as  a bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap,
said, cried, clapped  all, Ben Dollard, Lydia  Douce,  George Lidwell,  Pat,
Mina, two gentlemen with  two  tankards, Cowley,  first  gent with  tank and
bronze Miss Douce and gold Miss Mina.
     Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the  barfloor, said  before.
Jingle by  monuments of  sir  John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson, reverend
father Theobald  Matthew,  jaunted  as said before just now. Atrot, in heat,
heatseated. Cloche. Sonnez la.  Cloche. Sonnez la. Slower  the  mare went up
the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too slow for Boylan, blazes Boylan,
impatience Boylan, joggled the mare.
     An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the air made richer.
     And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his  cider drank,
Lidwell  his Guinness,  second  gentleman said they  would  partake  of  two
tankards if she did  not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips,
at first, at second. She did not mind.
     -- Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you'd
sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.
     Lionel Simon,  singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played.  Mina Kennedy
served. Second  gentleman  paid. Tom  Kernan  strutted in;  Lydia,  admired,
admired. But Bloom sang dumb.
     Admiring.
     Richie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He remembered
one night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang 'Twas rank and fame: in
Ned  Lambert's  'twas. Good God  he never heard in all  his life a note like
that he never did then false one we had better part so clear so God he never
heard since love lives not a clinking voice 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
nights Si sang. The human voice,  two tiny silky cords. Wonderful, more than
all the others.
     That  voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It's in the silence 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  buzzed,  it twanged. While
Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan, harking
back  in  a retrospective sort  of  arrangement,  talked to listening Father
Cowley  who  played a  voluntary, who  nodded as  he played.  While  big Ben
Dollard  talked  with Simon Dedalus lighting, who nodded as  he  smoked, who
smoked.
     Thou  lost  one. All songs on that  theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his
string.  Cruel  it  seems. Let people get  fond of each other: lure them on.
Then tear  asunder.  Death.  Explos. Knock on the head.  Outtohelloutofthat.
Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that  rat's tail wriggling! Five bob I gave. Corpus
paradisum.  Corncrake croaker: belly  like a poisoned pup. Gone.  They sing.
Forgotten. I too.  And one day she  with. Leave her: get tired. Suffer then.
Snivel.     Big     Spanishy     eyes    goggling     at     nothing.    Her
wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevy hair un comb: 'd.
     Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not happy in
your? Twang. It snapped.
     Jingle into Dorset street.
     Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.
     -- Don't make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted.
     George Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe.
     First gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him  was that  so. And
second tankard told her so. That that was so.
     Miss Douce,  Miss Lydia, did not believe: Miss Kennedy,  Mina,  did not
believe:  George Lidwell, no: Miss Dou  did not: the  first, the first: gent
with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, Miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the tank.
     Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.
     Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He went. A
pad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.
     --  Yes,  Mr Bloom said, teasing the  curling catgut fine. 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  ethereal. But  suppose you said  it like:  Martha,
seven  times  nine  minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite flat. It's on
account of the sounds it is.
     Instance he's playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like till you
hear  the words. Want to listen  sharp.  Hard.  Begin  all  right: then hear
chords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks over barrels, through
wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune. Question  of mood you're in.
Still always  nice to  hear. Except scales up and down, girls learning.  Two
together nextdoor  neighbours.  Ought  to  invent  dummy  pianos  for  that.
Blumenlied I bought for her. The name. Playing it slow, a girl, night I came
home, the  girl. Door of the  stables near Cecilia  street. Milly no  taste.
Queer because we both I mean.
     Bald deaf  Pat  brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set  with ink pen quite
flat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.
     It was the only language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a boy
in Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing  their barcaroles. Queenstown
harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, in the moonlight with
those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God, such music, Ben. Heard as
a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.
     Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed a
moonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.
     Down the  edge of his  Freeman  baton ranged  Bloom's  your other  eye,
scanning for  where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick. Heigho!
Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking...
     Hope he's  not looking, cute as  a rat.  He held  unfurled his Freeman.
Can't see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo  mur:  dear sir.
Dear Henry  wrote:  dear Mady. Got your lett and  flow. Hell did I put? Some
pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline imposs. To write today.
     Bore  this.  Bored Bloom tambourined gently with  I am just  reflecting
fingers on flat pad Pat brought.
     On. Know what I mean.  No, change that ee.  Accept my poor little  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 pin  of her. Bye for today. Yes, yes, will tell you. Want to.
To keep it up. Call me that other. Other world  she  wrote.  My patience are
exhaust. To keep it up. You must believe. Believe. The tank. It. Is. True.
     Folly am I writing? Husbands don't. That's marriage does, their  wives.
Because I'm away from. Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young. If  she found
out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless pain. If they don't
see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.
     A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James
of  number one Harmony avenue,  Donnybrook,  on which  sat a  fare, a  young
gentleman,  stylishly dressed  in an  indigoblue  serge suit made by  George
Robert Mesias, tailor and  cutter,  of number five Eden quay,  and wearing a
straw hat  very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number  one Great Brunswick
street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle that joggled and jingled. By Dlugacz'
porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a gallantbuttocked mare.
     -- Answering an ad? keen Richie's eyes asked Bloom.
     -- Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect.
     Bloom  mur:  best  references. But Henry wrote:  it will excite me. You
know now. In  haste. Henry. Greek  ee.  Better  add  postscript. What is  he
playing now? Improvising  intermezzo.  P. S. The  rum  tum tum. How will you
pun? You punish me? Crooked  skirt  swinging,  whack by. Tell me I want  to.
Know. O. Course if I didn't I wouldn't  ask.  La la la ree. Trails off there
sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They  like sad tail at end. P. P. S. La
la la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So lonely. Dee.
     He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel. Address. Just copy out of paper.
Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. Henry wrote:
     Miss Martha Clifford
     c/o P. O.
     Dolphin's barn lane
     Dublin.
     Blot  over the  other so  he  can't  read.  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, greyed-auburn. One life is
all. One body. Do. But do.
     Done anyhow.  Postal  order stamp.  Postoffice  lower  down.  Walk now.
Enough. Barney Kiernan's I promised to meet them. Dislike that job. House of
mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn't hear. Deaf beetle he is.
     Car near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat!  Doesn't. Settling  those napkins.
Lot of ground he must cover  in  the day. Paint face behind on him then he'd
be two. Wish they'd sing more. Keep my mind off.
     Bald  Pat  who is bothered  mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of
his hearing. Pat is a  waiter who waits while  you wait. Hee hee hee hee. He
waits while you wait. Hee  hee. A waiter is he.  Hee hee hee hee.  He  waits
while you wait. While you wait if you wait he  will wait while you wait. Hee
hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait.
     Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose.
     She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. And look at the lovely shell
she brought.
     To the  end  of the  bar to him she bore lightly the spiked and winding
seahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor, might hear.
     -- Listen! she bade him.
     Under  Tom  Kernan's  ginhot  words the accompanist  wove  music  slow.
Authentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice. Well, sir, the husband took
him  by the throat.  Scoundrel, said he. You'll  sing  no more lovesongs. He
did, 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 their mouth, why?  Her
eyes over the sheet,  a  yashmak. Find the  way  in. A cave.  No  admittance
except on business.
     The sea they think  they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood is  it. 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 tankard 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: two, one, three, four.
     Sea, wind, leaves,  thunder, waters, cows lowing,  the  cattle  market,
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  eat. Like tearing silk.
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
qui 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 Boy Ian socks skyblue
clocks came light to earth.
     O, look we are so!  Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on that. It
is a kind  of music  I often thought when  she. Acoustics that is. Tinkling.
Empty vessels make  most noise. Because the acoustics, the resonance changes
according as the weight of the water is equal to  the law of falling  water.
Like those rhapsodies of Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain.
Diddle iddle addle addle oodle oodle. Hiss. 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  gripped  the  black  deep  sounding
chords.
     Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince.  No, Richie  said.  Yes, must.
Got money somewhere. He's on for a razzle  backache spree. Much? He seehears
lipspeech. One  and nine. Penny for  yourself. Here. Give  him twopence tip.
Deaf, bothered.  But perhaps  he has wife and family waiting, waiting  Patty
come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while they wait.
     But wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave  of the
dark middle earth. Embedded ore. Lumpmusic.
     The voice of dark age,  of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach,
and painful, come from  afar, from hoary mountains, called  on  good men and
true. The priest he sought, with him would he speak a word.
     Tap.
     Ben Dollard's voice 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. Curlycues of chords.
     Ruin  them. Wreck their lives. Then  build  them  cubicles to end their
days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.
     The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had entered a
lonely hall, told them how solemn fell his footstep  there,  told  them  the
gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive.
     Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he'll win in Answers poets' picture
puzzle.  We hand you crisp five pound note. Bird sitting hatching in a nest.
Lay of the last minstrel he thought  it  was.  See blank  tee what  domestic
animal?  Tee  dash ar most  courageous mariner. Good voice he has still.  No
eunuch yet with all his belongings.
     Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by  the door deaf
Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened.
     The chords harped slower.
     The  voice of  penance and of  grief came slow, embellished, tremulous.
Ben's contrite beard confessed: in nomine Domini, in  God's  name. He knelt.
He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: mea culpa.
     Latin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest  with  the communion
corpus   for  those   women.  Chap  in  the  mortuary,  coffin  or   coffey,
corpusnomine. Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape.
     Tap.
     They listened: tankards and Miss Kennedy, George  Lidwell  eyelid  well
expressive, fullbusted satin, Kernan, Si.
     The sighing voice of sorrow sang.  His sins. Since easter he had cursed
three 'times. You bitch's bast. And once at masstime  he  had gone  to play.
Once  by  the churchyard  he had passed and for his mother's rest he had not
prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.
     Bronze, listening by  the beerpull, gazed far away.  Soulfully. Doesn't
half know I'm. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.
     Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best side of her face?
They always know. Knock at the door. Last tip to titivate.
     Cockcarracarra.
     What  do they think when they hear  music? Way to  catch  rattlesnakes.
Night  Michael Gunn  gave us  the box. Tuning  up. Shah of Persia liked that
best.  Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtain  too. Custom
his country perhaps. That's music too.  Not as  bad as it  sounds. Tootling.
Brasses braying asses  through uptrunks. Doublebasses,  helpless, gashes  in
their  sides. Woodwinds  mooing  cows. Semigrand open  crocodile  music hath
jaws. Woodwind like Goodwin's name.
     She looked fine. Her crocus dress she wore, lowcut, belongings on show.
Clove her breath was always in theatre when she bent to ask a question. Told
her what Spinoza  says in that book  of poor papa's. Hypnotised,  listening.
Eyes like  that. She  bent.  Chap in dresscircle, staring down into her with
his  operaglass for all he was worth. Beauty  of music you  must hear twice.
Nature woman half  a look.  God made the country man the tune.  Met him pike
hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!
     All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his
brothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford, he would. Last of his
name and race.
     I too, last my race. Milly young  student. Well, my fault  perhaps.  No
son. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still?
     He bore no hate.
     Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old.
     Big Ben his voice unfolded. Great voice, Richie  Goulding said, a flush
struggling in his pale, to Bloom, soon old but when was young.
     Ireland comes now. My country above the King. She listens. Who fears to
speak of nineteen four? Time to be shoving. Looked enough.
     -- Bless me, father, Dollard the croppy cried. Bless me and let me go.
     Tap.
     Bloom looked, unblessed  to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week.
Fellows shell out the dibs.  Want to keep your weathereye open. Those girls,
those  lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl's  romance. Letters read out
for breach  of promise. From Chickabiddy's own 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. 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.  For all
things dying, want to, dying to,  die. For  that 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!  Castille. The  morn.  Ha.
Lidwell. For  him then not for. Infatuated. I like that? See  her  from here
though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.
     On the smooth  jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand lightly, plumply, leave
it  to my hands. All  lost in pity  for croppy.  Fro, to: to,  fro: over the
polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her  thumb  and finger
passed  in  pity:  passed,  repassed  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.
Bloom  stood up. Ow. Soap feeling rather sticky behind.  Must  have sweated:
music. That lotion, remember. Well, so long. High grade. Card inside, yes.
     By deaf Pat in the doorway, straining ear, Bloom passed.
     At Geneva  barrack that  young man died. At Passage was  his body laid.
Dolor! O,  he dolores! The voice of the mournful  chanter called to dolorous
prayer.
     By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand,  by  slops, by empties,
by popped  corks, greeting in going,  past eyes  and maidenhair, bronze  and
faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel so lonely Bloom.
     Tap. Tap. Tap.
     Pray  for him, prayed the  bass  of Dollard.  You  who  hear  in peace.
Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good men, good people. He was the croppy boy.
     Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond hallway
heard  growls  and  roars  of  bravo,  fat back-slapping,  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 said. By God, you're as good as ever you
were.
     -- Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchant rendition of that ballad,
upon my soul and honour it is.
     -- Lablache, said Father Cowley.
     Ben Dollard bulkily  cachuchad towards  the bar, mightily praisefed and
all   big   roseate,  on  heavyfooted  feet,  his  gouty  fingers  nakkering
castagnettes in the air.
     Big Benaden 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.
     Rrrrrrsss.
     -- 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 tankardone.
     -- Mr Dollard, they murmured low.
     -- Dollard, murmured tankard.
     Tank one believed: Miss Kenn  when she: that doll he was: she doll: the
tank.
     He  murmured that he knew the  name. The name was familiar to him, that
is to  say. That  was  to say  he  had  heard the name  of Dollard,  was it?
Dollard, yes.
     Yes,  her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He  sang that song lovely,
murmured Mina. 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 stunts himself with it; kind of drunkenness. Better give way
only  half way the way of a man with a maid. Instance enthusiasts. All ears.
Not lose  a demisemiquaver. Eyes  shut.  Head nodding  in  time.  Dotty. You
daren't   budge.   Thinking  strictly   prohibited.  Always   talking  shop.
Fiddlefaddle about notes.
     All  a  kind of  attempt to talk. Unpleasant when  it stops because you
never know  exac.  Organ  in Gardiner street. Old Glynn  fifty quid  a year.
Queer up  there in the cockloft alone  with stops and locks and keys. Seated
all day at  the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himself or the other
fellow blowing the bellows.  Growl angry, then shriek cursing (want  to have
wadding or something in his no don't she  cried), then  all of a soft sudden
wee little wee little pippy 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 by there's a tuningfork in there on the...
     Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
     -- The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What? Lidwell asked.
     -- O,  that  must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel  first I saw,
forgot it when he was here.
     Blind  he  was  she told  George Lidwell second  I  saw. And  played so
exquisitely, treat to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid minagold.
     -- Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out!
     -- 'lldo! cried Father Cowley.
     Rrrrrr.
     I feel I want...
     Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
     -- Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine.
     Under the sandwichbell lay  on a  bier of  bread  one last, one lonely,
last sardine of summer. Bloom alone.
     -- Very, he stared. The lower register, for choice.
     Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
     Bloom went by Barry's. Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if I  had.
Twentyfour solicitors in that one house. 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: Micky
Rooney's band.  Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting  at home after pig's
cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsing his band part. Pom.
Pompedy. Jolly  for the wife. Asses' skins.  Welt them  through  life,  then
wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what you call yashmak or I mean
kismet. Fate.
     Tap. Tap.  A stripling, blind, with a tapping  cane, came taptaptapping
by Daly's window where a mermaid, hair all  streaming (but he couldn't see),
blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn't), mermaid coolest whiff of all.
     Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands, then blow. Even comb
and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly in  her shift  in Lombard
street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade made its own, don't you
see? Hunter  with a horn. Haw. Have you the? Cloche. Sonnez la! Shepherd his
pipe. Policeman a whistle. Locks and keys! Sweep! Four o'clock's all's well!
Sleep! All is lost now. Drum? Pompedy. Wait, I know.  Towncrier, bumbailiff.
Long John. Waken the dead. Pom. Dignam. Poor little nominedomine. Pom. It is
music, I mean of course it's all  pom pom  pom  very much  what they call da
capo. Still you can hear. As we march we march along, march along. Pom.
     I must really.  Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of
custom shah of  Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the  same he must
have  been a bit  of a natural  not to  see it was a yeoman cap. Muffled up.
Wonder  who was that chap at the grave in the brown mackin. 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 candlestick melodeon
oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain:  six bob. Might learn to play. Cheap.  Let
her pass. Course everything is dear if  you don't  want it. That's what good
salesman  is. Make you buy  what he wants to sell. Chap sold me  the Swedish
razor he shaved me with. Wanted to charge me for the edge he gave  it. She's
passing now. Six bob.
     Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.
     Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked  their clinking
glasses all,  brighteyed  and gallant, before bronze Lydia's  tempting  last
rose of summer, rose of  Castille.  First  Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth:
Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and Big Ben Dollard.
     Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.
     Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero  in Lionel Marks's  window. Robert
Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is.
     -- True men like you men.
     -- Ay, ay, Ben.
     -- Will lift your glass with us.
     They lifted.
     Tschink. Tschunk.
     Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He saw
not gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor
Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see.
     Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Softly. When my country takes
her place among.
     Prrprr.
     Must be the bur.
     Fff. Oo. Rrpr.
     Nations of the earth.  No-one  behind. She's  passed. Then and not till
then. Tram. Kran, kran, kran. Good  oppor. Coming.  Krandlkrankran. I'm sure
it's the burgund.  Yes. One, two. Let my epitaph be. Karaaaaaaa.  Written. I
have.
     Pprrpffrrppfff.
     Done.



    Ulysses 12: Cyclops


     I WAS  JUST PASSING THE TIME OF DAY WITH OLD  TROY O THE  D.M.P. at the
corner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloody  sweep came along and
he near drove his  gear into my eye. I  turned  around to  let him have  the
weight  of my tongue when who  should  I see dodging along Stony Batter only
Joe Hynes.
     -- Lo,  Joe, says  I.  How are  you blowing?  Did you see  that  bloody
chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush?
     -- Soot's luck, says Joe. Who's the old ballocks you were talking to?
     -- Old  Troy,  says I, was in the force.  I'm on two minds  not to give
that fellow  in  charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and
ladders.
     -- What are you doing round those parts? says Joe.
     -- Devil a much, says I. There is 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  will I, 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,  Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter called  the vendor,  and sold
and delivered to Michael E. Geraghty, Esquire, of 29 Arbour Hill in the city
of Dublin, Arran  quay  ward,  gentleman, hereinafter called the  purchaser,
videlicet, five pounds  avoirdupois of  first choice  tea at three shillings
per pound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed crystal,
at three pence per pound avoirdupois, the  said purchaser debtor to the said
vendor of one pound five shillings and six pence sterling for value received
which  amount shall be paid  by said purchaser  to  said  vendor  in  weekly
instalments  every  seven  calendar days  of  three shillings and  no  pence
sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or pledged or
sold or  otherwise alienated by the said  purchaser but shall be  and remain
and be held to be the sole and exclusive property of  the said vendor to  be
disposed of at his  good will and pleasure until the  said amount shall have
been duly paid by the said purchaser to the said vendor in the manner herein
set  forth  as  this day hereby agreed between  the said vendor  his  heirs,
successors, trustees and assigns of the one part and the said purchaser, his
heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part.
     -- Are you a strict t. t.? says Joe.
     -- Not taking anything between drinks, says I.
     -- What about paying our respects to our friend? says foe.
     -- Who? says I. Sure, he's in John of God's off his head, poor man.
     -- Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.
     -- Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.
     --  Come  around to  Barney  Kiernan's,  says  Joe. I  want  to see the
citizen.
     --  Barney mavourneen's be  it, says I.  Anything strange or wonderful,
Joe?
     -- Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms.
     -- What was that, Joe? says I.
     --  Cattle traders, says Joe, about the  foot and mouth disease. I want
to give the citizen the hard word about it.
     So we  went around by  the  Linenhall  barracks  and  the back  of  the
courthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he has it
but sure like that he  never has it. Jesus,  I couldn't get over that bloody
foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a licence, says he.
     In Inisfail the  fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There
rises a watchtower  beheld of men  afar. There sleep  the  mighty dead as in
life they slept, warriors and  princes of high renown. A pleasant land it is
in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport  the gunnard,  the
plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse, the dab, the
brill, the  flounder, 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
first class 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 Elbana to  Slievemargy,  the  peerless  princes  of
unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster and
of Cruachan's land and of Armagh  the splendid  and of the noble district of
Boyle, princes, the sons of kings.
     And there rises  a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen
by mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly for that
purpose  and thither come all herds and  fatlings  and  first fruits of that
land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes toll  of them, a chieftain descended from
chieftains. Thither the  extremely large wains  bring foison of the  fields,
flaskets  of  cauliflowers,  floats  of  spinach, pineapple  chunks, Rangoon
beans,  strikes  of tomatoes,  drums of  figs, drills of  Swedes,  spherical
potatoes  and  tallies  of  iridescent  kale,  York and  Savoy, and trays of
onions, pearls  of  the earth,  and punnets of mushrooms and custard marrows
and fat  vetches and  bere and rape and red green yellow  brown russet sweet
big bitter ripe pomellated apples and  chips of strawberries  and  sieves of
gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious,  and  strawberries  fit  for princes  and
raspberries from their canes.
     -- I dare him, says he,  and I doubledare him. Come out here, Geraghty,
you notorious bloody hill and dale robber!
     And  by that way wend  the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed
ewes and shearling rams  and  lambs and  stubble geese and medium steers and
roaring mares  and  polled calves  and longwools and  storesheep and Cuffe's
prime  springers  and culls  and  sowpigs  and  baconhogs  and  the  various
different  varieties of highly  distinguished swine and  Angus  heifers  and
polly  bullocks  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 Lush and Rush
and Carrickmines and from the  streamy vales of Thomond, from 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 the dun.
     So we turned  into  Barney  Kiernan's  and there  sure enough  was  the
citizen up in  the corner having a great confab with himself and that bloody
mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he  waiting for what the sky would drop in the
way of drink.
     There  he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his
load of papers, working for the cause.
     The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him  would  give you the creeps.
Be  a corporal  work of mercy if someone would take  the life of that bloody
dog.  I'm  told for a  fact  he  ate  a  good  part of  the breeches  off  a
constabulary man  in Santry that came round one time with a blue paper about
a licence.
     -- Stand and deliver, says he.
     -- That's all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here.
     -- Pass, friends, says he.
     Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he:
     -- What's your opinion of the times?
     Doing the rapparee and  Rory of the hill. But,  begob, Joe was equal to
the occasion.
     -- I think the markets  are on a rise,  says he,  sliding his hand down
his fork.
     So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says:
     -- Foreign wars is the cause of it.
     And says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket:
     -- It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.
     --  Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I, I've a thirst on
me I wouldn't sell for half a crown.
     -- Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.
     -- Wine of the country, says he.
     -- What's yours? says Joe.
     -- Ditto MacAnaspey, says I...
     -- Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how's the old heart, citizen? says
he.
     -- Never better, a chara, says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh?
     And with that he took  the bloody old towser by the scruff of the  neck
and, by Jesus, he near throttled him.
     The figure seated on a large boulder at  the foot  of a round tower was
that  of  a  broadshouldered  deepchested stronglimbed  frankeyed  redhaired
freely freckled shaggybearded wide-mouthed 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 field-lark might easily have lodged her
nest. The eyes in which a  tear and a smile strove ever for the mastery were
of the  dimensions of a  goodsized  cauliflower.  A powerful current of warm
breath issued at regular intervals from  the profound  cavity  of his  mouth
while  in rhythmic  resonance the loud strong  hale  reverberations  of  his
formidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the  summit of the
lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble.
     He wore  a long unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching to
the knees in a loose kilt and this was bound about his middle by a girdle of
plaited straw and rushes.  Beneath this  he wore  trews of deerskin, roughly
stitched with  gut. His nether  extremities were encased  in high Balbriggan
buskins dyed in lichen purple, the feet  being shod with  brogues of  salted
cowhide  laced with the windpipe of the same beast.  From his girdle hung  a
row of seastones which dangled at every movement of his portentous frame and
on these  were  graven with rude  yet striking art the tribal images of many
Irish heroes and heroines  of antiquity, Cuchulin,  Conn of hundred battles,
Niall of nine hostages, Brian of Kincora, the Ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh,
Shane O'Neill, Father  John  Murphy,  Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield,  Red Hugh
O'Donnell,  Red  Jim MacDermott,  Soggarth Eoghan O'Growney,  Michael Dwyer,
Francy  Higgins,  Henry  Joy M'Cracken,  Goliath,  Horace  Wheatley,  Thomas
Conneff, Peg Woffington, the Village  Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, Captain
Boycott,  Dante  Alighieri,  Christopher  Columbus, S.  Fursa,  S.  Brendan,
Marshal  Mac-Mahon, Charlemagne,  Theobald Wolfe  Tone, the  Mother  of  the
Maccabees,  the  Last of the Mohicans,  the Rose  of  Castille,  the Man for
Galway, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo,  The Man in the Gap, The
Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin  Franklin,  Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan,
Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton,
William Tell, Michelangelo, Hayes, Muhammad, the  Bride of Lammermoor, Peter
the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen,  Patrick W.  Shakespeare, Brian
Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan  and
Isolde, the first  Prince of Wales, Thomas  Cook  and Son,  the Bold Soldier
Boy,  Arrah  na Pogue,  Dick  Turpin,  Ludwig Beethoven,  the  Colleen Bawn,
Waddler Healy, Angus the  Culdee, Dolly  Mount,  Sidney Parade,  Ben  Howth,
Valentine  Greatrakes,   Adam  and  Eve,   Arthur  Wellesley,  Boss  Croker,
Herodotus,  Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha,  Lady Godiva,  The Lily of
Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle,
Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan  Rossa, Don  Philip O'Sullivan Beare. A
couched spear of acuminated granite rested by him while at  his feet reposed
a savage animal of the canine tribe whose stertorous gasps announced that he
was sunk  in uneasy  slumber, a supposition confirmed by hoarse  growls  and
spasmodic  movements  which  his  master  repressed  from time  to  time  by
tranquillising blows of  a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of paleolithic
stone.
     So  anyhow Terry brought the three pints Joe was standing and begob the
sight nearly left my eyes when I saw him  land out a quid. O, as true as I'm
telling you. A goodlooking sovereign.
     -- And there's more where that came from, says he.
     -- Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? says I.
     --  Sweat of my  brow, says  Joe.  'Twas the prudent member gave me the
wheeze.
     -- I  saw him before I met you, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and
Greek street with his cod's eye counting up all the guts of the fish.
     Who comes  through Michan's land, bedight in sable armour? O'Bloom, the
son of Rory: it is he.  Impervious to fear  is Rory's son: he of the prudent
soul.
     --  For  the  old  woman  of  Prince's  street, says  the  citizen, the
subsidised organ. The pledgebound party on the floor of the house. And  look
at this blasted rag, says he. Look at this,  says he. The Irish Independent,
if you  please, founded by Parnell to be the workingman's friend.  Listen to
the  births and  deaths in  the Irish  all for  Ireland Independent and I'll
thank you and the marriages.
     And he starts reading them out:
     -- Gordon, Barnfield Crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne's
on  Sea, the  wife  of William T. Redmayne, of a son. How's that, eh? Wright
and Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and the late
George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham Road, Stockwell, Playwood and Ridsdale at
Saint Jude's  Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest, Dean of Worcester,
eh?  Deaths. Bristow, at Whitehall lane,  London: Carr,  Stoke Newington, of
gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at the Moat house, Chepstow.
     -- I know that fellow, says Joe, from bitter experience.
     --  Cockburn.  Dimsey, wife of  Davie  Dimsey,  late of  the admiralty:
Miller,  Tottenham,  aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35  Canning Street,
Liverpool,  Isabella  Helen. How's that for  a  national press, eh, my brown
son? How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber?
     -- Ah, well, says Joe, handing  round the boose. Thanks be  to God they
had the start of us. Drink that, citizen.
     -- I will, says he, honourable person.
     -- Health, Joe, says I. And all down the form.
     Ah! Owl! 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 bath
slippers  with  two bloody  big books tucked  under his oxter  and  the wife
hotfoot after him,  unfortunate  wretched  woman  trotting like  a poodle. I
thought Alf would split.
     -- Look at him, says he. Breen.  He's traipsing all round Dublin with a
postcard someone sent him with u. p.: up on it to take a li...
     And he doubled up.
     -- Take a what? says I.
     -- Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds.
     -- O hell! says I.
     The  bloody mongrel  began  to growl that'd  put the fear of God in you
seeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs.
     -- Bi i dho husht, says he.
     -- Who? says Joe.
     --  Breen, says Alf.  He was  in John  Henry Menton's and then he  went
round to Collis and Ward's and  then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round
to  the subsheriff's for a lark. O God, I've a pain laughing. U. p.: up. The
long fellow gave him an eye  as good as a  process and now  the  bloody  old
lunatic is gone round to Green Street to look for a G. man.
     -- When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.
     Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan?
     -- Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a
pony.  That bloody old  fool! Ten thousand pounds. You should have seen long
John's eye. U. p...
     And he started laughing.
     -- Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that Bergan?
     -- Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.
     Terence O'Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup full
of  the  foaming 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 well-beloved,  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 bit of a  dust. Bob's a  queer chap when
the porter's up in him so says I just to make talk:
     -- How's Willy Murray those times, Alf?
     --  I  don't know,  says Alf. I  saw him just now  in Capel Street with
Paddy Dignam. Only I was running after that.
     -- You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?
     -- With Dignam, says Alf.
     -- Is it Paddy? says Joe.
     -- Yes, says Alf. Why?
     -- Don't you know he's dead? says Joe.
     -- Paddy Dignam dead? says Alf.
     -- Ay, says Joe.
     -- Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago,  says  Alf, as plain
as a pikestaff.
     -- Who's dead? says Bob Doran.
     -- You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm.
     -- What? says Alf. Good Christ, only five... What?... and Willie Murray
with  him,  the two of them there near  what-doyoucallhim's... What?  Dignam
dead?
     -- What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who's talking about... ?
     -- Dead! says Alf. He is no more dead than you are.
     -- Maybe  so,  says  Joe.  They took  the liberty of  burying him  this
morning anyhow.
     -- Paddy? says Alf.
     -- Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him.
     -- Good Christ! says Alf.
     Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted.
     In the  darkness spirit hands  were felt  to flutter and when prayer by
tantras  had  been  directed  to the proper quarter  a  faint but increasing
luminosity of ruby light became  gradually  visible,  the apparition  of the
etheric double being particularly lifelike  owing to the  discharge of jivic
rays from the crown of the head and face. Communication was effected through
the pituitary body and  also by  means of the  orangefiery and  scarlet rays
emanating  from the  sacral  region  and  solar plexus.  Questioned  by  his
earthname  as to his whereabouts in the  heaven-world he stated  that he was
now on the path of pralaya or return but was still submitted to trial at the
hands of certain bloodthirsty entities on the lower  astral levels. In reply
to  a  question as to his  first sensations in the great  divide  beyond  he
stated that previously he  had seen as in  a glass darkly but that those who
had passed  over  had summit possibilities of atmic development opened up to
them. Interrogated as to whether life there resembled our experience in  the
flesh he  stated  that he  had  heard  from more favoured beings  now in the
spirit that their abodes were equipped  with every modern home  comfort such
as  talafana, alavatar, hatakalda, wataklasat  and  that  the highest adepts
were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very purest nature. Having requested
a  quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief. Asked
if he had any message  for the living he exhorted  all who were still at the
wrong side of Maya  to  acknowledge  the true  path for  it  was reported in
devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were  out  for mischief on the eastern
angle where the ram has power.  It was then queried whether  there were  any
special desires on the part of  the defunct and the reply was: We greet you,
friends  of earth, who are still in  the body. Mind C.K. doesn't pile it on.
It was ascertained that the reference  was to Mr Cornelius Kelleher, manager
of Messrs H.J. O'Neill's popular funeral establishment, a personal friend of
the defunct, who had been responsible for the carrying out of the  interment
arrangements. Before departing he requested that  it should be told  to  his
dear son Patsy  that  the other boot which  he had been looking  for  was at
present  under the  commode in the return room and  that the pair should  be
sent to Cullen's to  be soled  only as the heels were still good.  He stated
that this had greatly perturbed his  peace of  mind in the other region  and
earnestly requested that his desire should be made known.
     Assurances were given that  the matter would  be attended to and it was
intimated that this had given satisfaction.
     He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning.  Fleet was
his foot on the bracken:  Patrick of the  beamy brow. Wail, Banba, with your
wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.
     -- There he is again, says the citizen, staring out.
     -- Who? says I.
     -- Bloom, says he. He's  on point duty up  and down there  for the last
ten minutes.
     And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.
     Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was.
     -- Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him.
     And says Bob Doran,  with the  hat  on the  back  of  his  poll, lowest
blackguard in Dublin when he's under the influence:
     -- Who said Christ is good?
     -- I beg your parsnips, says Alf.
     -- Is  that  a good Christ, says Bob  Doran, to take  away poor  little
Willy Dignam?
     --  Ah,  well, says  Alf,  trying to  pass  it off.  He's over all  his
troubles.
     But Bob Doran shouts out of him.
     -- He's a bloody ruffian I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.
     Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they didn't
want that kind of talk in a respectable  licensed premises.  And  Bob  Doran
starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you're there.
     -- The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character.
     The  tear  is  bloody near  your  eye. Talking through his  bloody hat.
Fitter  for him  to go home to the  little  sleepwalking  bitch he  married,
Mooney, the  bumbailiff's daughter.  Mother kept a  kip  in Hardwicke street
that used to be stravaging  about the landings Bantam Lyons told me that was
stopping there at two in the morning without a stitch  on her,  exposing her
person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.
     -- The noblest, the truest, says he. And he's gone, poor little  Willy,
poor little Paddy Dignam.
     And mournful and with  a heavy  heart he bewept the extinction  of that
beam of heaven.
     Old Garryowen started  growling again at  Bloom that was skeezing round
the door.
     -- Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says the citizen.
     So Bloom slopes in  with his cod's eye on the dog and he asks Terry was
Martin Cunningham there.
     -- O, Christ  M'Keown, says Joe,  reading one of the letters. Listen to
this, will you?
     And he starts reading out one.
     7, Hunter Street, Liverpool.
     To the High Sheriff of Dublin, Dublin.
     Honoured  sir i beg to offer my services in the above-mentioned painful
case  i hanged Joe Gann  in  Bootle jail on  the 12  of February  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 teas is
five ginnese.
     H. Rumbold,
     Master Barber.
     -- And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen.
     -- And the dirty scrawl of the  wretch, says  Joe. Here, says he,  take
them  to  hell out of my sight,  Alf. Hello,  Bloom, says he, what  will you
have?
     So they started arguing about the  point, Bloom saying  he wouldn't and
couldn't and excuse him no  offence  and all  to that and then he said  well
he'd just take a cigar. Gob, he's a prudent member and no mistake.
     -- Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe.
     And Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a  mourning card with
a black border round it.
     -- They're all barbers, says he, from the black country that would hang
their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses.
     And he was telling us there's two  fellows waiting  below to  pull  his
heels down when he gets the drop  and  choke him properly and then they chop
up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob a skull.
     In the  dark  land  they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Their
deadly  coil  they  grasp: yea, and therein they lead to  Erebus  whatsoever
wight hath done a deed of blood for I will on nowise suffer it even so saith
the Lord.
     So  they started talking  about capital punishment and  of course Bloom
comes  out with  the  why  and  the wherefore  and  all  the codology of the
business and the old dog smelling  him all  the  time  I'm told those Jewies
does have  a sort of  a  queer odour coming off them for dogs about  I don't
know what all deterrent effect and so forth and so on.
     -- There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on, says Alf.
     -- What's that? says Joe.
     -- The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf.
     -- That so? says Joe.
     -- God's truth, says Alf. I heard that from the head warder that was in
Kilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, the invincible. He told me  when they
cut him down after the drop it was standing up in their faces like a poker.
     -- Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe, as someone said.
     -- That can be  explained by science,  says Bloom. It's only a  natural
phenomenon, don't you see, because on account of the...
     And then he starts with his jawbreakers  about phenomenon  and  science
and this phenomenon and the other phenomenon.
     The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered
medical evidence  to  the effect  that  the  instantaneous fracture  of  the
cervical  vertebrae  and  consequent  scission of  the  spinal  cord  would,
according to the best approved traditions  of medical science, be calculated
to inevitably produce in the human  subject a violent ganglionic stimulus of
the  nerve centres,  causing  the pores of the cobra  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 dominated 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  sniffling  and  sneezing  all  round  the  place  and
scratching his scabs and round he goes to Bob Doran that was standing  Alf a
half one  sucking up for what he could  get. So  of  course Bob Doran starts
doing the bloody fool with him:
     -- Give us the  paw! Give the  paw, doggy! Good old doggy.  Give us 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  Jacob's 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 bиzique to come in for a bit of the wampum
in her  will and not eating meat of a Friday because the old one was  always
thumping her craw and taking the  lout out for a walk. And  one time he  led
him the  rounds of Dublin and, by the holy farmer, he never cried crack till
he brought  him home as drunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach
him the  evils  of  alcohol and by herrings  if the three women didn't  near
roast him it's a  queer story, the old one, Bloom's wife and Mrs O'Dowd that
kept  the  hotel. Jesus,  I  had  to laugh  at Pisser Burke  taking them off
chewing  the fat and  Bloom with his but don't you see? and but on the other
hand. And sure, more be token, the  lout I'm told was in  Power's after, the
blender's, round in Cope  street going home  footless in a cab five times in
the  week after  drinking his  way  through  all  the samples in the  bloody
establishment. Phenomenon!
     -- The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and
glaring at Bloom.
     -- Ay, ay, says Joe.
     -- You don't grasp my point, says Bloom. What I mean is...
     -- Sinn Fein! says the citizen. Sinn fein amhain! The  friends  we love
are by our side and the foes we hate before us.
     The last farewell  was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries  far
and near  the funereal  deathbell tolled  unceasingly  while all around  the
gloomy precincts  rolled  the  ominous warning of a  hundred  muffled  drums
punctuated by the hollow  booming of pieces of ordnance. The deafening claps
of  thunder  and the dazzling  flashes of lightning which lit up the ghastly
scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent its  supernatural pomp
to the  already  gruesome spectacle. A torrential rain poured  down from the
floodgates  of  the  angry heavens  upon the  bared heads  of the  assembled
multitude  which numbered  at the  lowest computation five hundred  thousand
persons.  A posse of Dublin Metropolitan  police  superintended by the Chief
Commissioner in person maintained order in the vast throng for whom the York
Street  brass and  reed  band  whiled away the intervening time by admirably
rendering on their black draped instruments the matchless melody endeared to
us  from the  cradle  by Speranza's plaintive muse. Special quick  excursion
trains  and upholstered charabancs had been  provided for the comfort of our
country cousins of whom there were large contingents. Considerable amusement
was  caused by  the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n  and M-ll-g-n who
sang The  Night before  Larry was  stretched  in their usual mirth-provoking
fashion.  Our  two  inimitable  drolls  did  a   roaring  trade  with  their
broadsheets among  lovers of the comedy element  and nobody who has a corner
in  his  heart  for real Irish fun without vulgarity will grudge them  their
hardearned pennies. The children of  the Male and Female  Foundling Hospital
who thronged the  windows  overlooking  the  scene were  delighted with this
unexpected addition to the day's entertainment and  a word of praise  is due
to the Little Sisters of the Poor  for their excellent idea of affording the
poor  fatherless  and motherless children a genuinely instructive treat. The
viceregal houseparty which included many wellknown ladies  was chaperoned by
Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the grand stand 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
semi-paralysed doyen of  the party who had to be assisted to his seat by the
aid of  a  powerful  steam  crane),  Monsieur  Pierrepaul  Petitиpatant, the
Grandjoker Vladinmire Pokethankertscheff, the Archjoker  Leopold Rudolph von
Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha Virdga Kisаszony Putrаpesthi, Hiram
Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos  Karamelopulos. Ali Baba Backsheesh Rahat Lokum
Effendi,  Seяor 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,   Herr   Hurhausdirektorprasident    Hans
Chuechli-Steuerli,                             Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanato
riumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocentgeneralhistoryspecialprofessordoctor
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 F.O.T.E.I. as to whether
the  eighth or  the  ninth of March  was the correct  date of  the  birth of
Ireland's  patron   saint.  In  the  course  of  the  argument  cannonballs,
scimitars,  boomerangs,  blunderbusses, stinkpots, meatchoppers,  umbrellas,
catapults, knuckledusters, sandbags, lumps of pig iron  were resorted to and
blows  were  freely  exchanged.  The  baby  policeman, Constable  MacFadden,
summoned  by special  courier from Booterstown,  quickly restored  order and
with lightning promptitude  proposed  the  seventeenth  of  the month  as  a
solution  equally honourable for both  contending  parties.  The readywitted
ninefooter's  suggestion  at  once  appealed  to  all  and  was  unanimously
accepted.  Constable  MacFadden  was  heartily  congratulated  by  all   the
F.O.T.E.I.,   several   of  whom   were  bleeding   profusely.  Commendatore
Beninobenone  having  been  extricated  from  underneath   the  presidential
armchair,  It was explained  by his legal adviser Avvocato Pagamimi that the
various articles  secreted in his thirtytwo  pockets had been abstracted  by
him during the  affray from the pockets of his Junior colleagues in the hope
of  bringing  them to  their  senses. The  objects  (which included  several
hundred  ladies'  and gentlemen's gold and  silver  watches)  were  promptly
restored to their rightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme.
     Quietly, unassumingly, Rumbold stepped on to the  scaffold in faultless
morning  dress and wearing his  favourite flower the  Gladiolus Cruentus. He
announced his presence  by that  gentle Rumboldian cough  which so many have
tried  (unsuccessfully)  to imitate  -  short,  painstaking  yet  withal  so
characteristic of the man. The arrival  of  the world-renowned headsman  was
greeted  by a  roar of acclamation  from the  huge concourse,  the viceregal
ladies waving their handkerchiefs in  their excitement  while  the even more
excitable foreign delegates cheered vociferously in a medley of cries, hoch,
banzai,  eljen, zivio,  chinchin,  polla kronia, hiphip,  vive, Allah,  amid
which the ringing evviva of the delegate of the land of  song (a high double
F  recalling those  piercingly lovely  notes  with which the eunuch Catalani
beglamoured our greatgreatgrandmothers) was  easily distinguishable.  It was
exactly  seventeen o'clock. The signal for prayer was then promptly given by
megaphone  and  in  an  instant  all  heads  were bared,  the commendatore's
patriarchal sombrero, which has been in the possession  of his  family since
the  revolution   of  Rienzi,  being  removed  by  his  medical  adviser  in
attendance, Dr Pippi. The learned prelate who administered the last comforts
of holy  religion to  the hero martyr when about  to  pay the  death penalty
knelt in  a most christian  spirit in a pool of rainwater, his cassock above
his  hoary  head,  and offered  up to the throne of grace fervent prayers of
supplication. Hard  by the block  stood the grim figure of  the executioner,
his visage being concealed in a tengallon pot  with two circular  perforated
apertures through which his eyes glowered furiously. As he awaited the fatal
signal he tested the edge of his  horrible weapon  by  honing  it  upon  his
brawny forearm or decapitated in rapid succession a flock of sheep which had
been  provided  by  the  admirers of  his  fell but necessary  office. On  a
handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged  the quartering knife,
the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances (specially supplied by
the  worldfamous firm  of cutlers, Messrs John Round and Sons, Sheffield), a
terracotta  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 roomkeeper's association as  a token of his regard and
esteem. The nec and non plus ultra of emotion were reached when the blushing
bride elect burst her  way through the  serried ranks of the  bystanders and
flung herself upon the muscular  bosom of him  who was about  to be launched
into eternity for her  sake. The hero folded  her  willowy form in  a loving
embrace  murmuring  fondly Sheila, my own. Encouraged  by  this use  of  her
christian name she kissed passionately all the various suitable areas of his
person which the decencies of prison garb permitted her ardour to reach. She
swore to him as they mingled the salt streams of their tears  that she would
cherish his memory, that she would never forget her hero boy who went to his
death with a song on his lips as if he  were but going to a hurling match in
Clonturk  park.  She  brought back to his recollection  the  happy  days  of
blissful  childhood together  on the banks of  Anna  Liffey  when  they  had
indulged  in  the innocent  pastimes  of  the young  and,  oblivious of  the
dreadful present, they both laughed heartily, all the  spectators, including
the  venerable  pastor,  joining in  the  general  merriment.  That  monster
audience  simply rocked with delight. But anon they were overcome with grief
and  clasped their hands  for the  last time. A fresh torrent of tears burst
from their lachrymal ducts and the vast  concourse of people, touched to the
inmost core, broke into  heartrending sobs, not the least affected being the
aged prebendary himself. Big strong men,  officers  of  the peace and genial
giants  of the royal  Irish  constabulary,  were  making frank use  of their
handkerchiefs  and  it is safe to  say that there was not a  dry eye in that
record assemblage. A  most romantic incident occurred when a  handsome young
Oxford  graduate,  noted  for  his chivalry towards  the  fair sex,  stepped
forward and, presenting his  visiting card, bankbook  and genealogical tree,
solicited  the  hand of the hapless  young lady,  requesting her to name the
day,  and was accepted on the spot. Every lady in the audience was presented
with  a  tasteful  souvenir of the  occasion in  the shape  of  a  skull and
crossbones  brooch, a  timely and generous act which evoked a fresh outburst
of  emotion: and when the gallant young  Oxonian (the bearer, by the way, of
one of the most timehonoured names in Albion's history) placed on the finger
of  his  blushing fiancиe  an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in
the form of  a fourleaved shamrock  excitement knew no bounds. Nay, even the
stern   provostmarshal,   lieutenantcolonel   Tomkin-Maxwell   ffrenchmullan
Tomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who had blown a considerable
number  of sepoys  from  the cannonmouth  without  flinching,  could not now
restrain  his natural  emotion.  With his mailed  gauntlet he brushed away a
furtive  tear and was overheard by those privileged burghers who happened to
be in his immediate entourage to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone:
     -- God  blimey  if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Blimey
it makes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it does, when I sees her cause I
thinks of my old mashtub what's waiting for me down Limehouse way.
     So then the  citizens  begin  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 Joe
and talking about the  Gaelic  league and the antitreating league and drink,
the curse of Ireland.  Antitreating is  about  the size of it. Gob, he'd let
you pour  all manner of drink down his throat  till the Lord would call  him
before you'd ever  see the froth of his pint. And one night I went in with a
fellow  into  one of their  musical evenings, song and dance about she could
get up on a truss of  hay  she could my Maureen Lay, and there was a  fellow
with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge  spiffing out of him in  Irish and a lot
of colleen bawns going about  with  temperance beverages  and selling medals
and  oranges  and  lemonade  and  a  few  old  dry  buns,   gob,  flahoolagh
entertainment, don't be  talking. Ireland sober is Ireland free. And then an
old fellow starts  blowing into  his bagpipes  and all the gougers shuffling
their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one or two sky pilots having
an eye around  that  there was no goings on with the females, hitting  below
the belt.
     So howandever, as  I was saying,  the old dog seeing the  tin was empty
starts  mousing around by Joe and me. I'd train him by kindness, so I would,
if  he  was my dog. Give him  a  rousing  fine kick  now and again where  it
wouldn't blind him.
     -- Afraid he'll bite you? says the citizen, sneering.
     -- No, says 1. But he might take my leg for a lampost.
     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 pm bono publico to  the papers
about  the muzzling order  for a dog the like of that. Growling and grousing
and  his eye all bloodshot from the  drouth  is  in  it and the  hydrophobia
dropping out of his jaws.
     All those who  are interested in the spread of human culture among  the
lower animals (and their  name is legion) should make a point of not missing
the  really marvellous  exhibition  of  cynanthropy given by the  famous old
Irish red  wolfdog setter formerly known  by the sobriquet  of Garryowen and
recently rechristened by his large circle  of friends and acquaintances Owen
Garry. The exhibition, which is the result of years  of training by kindness
and  a   carefully  thoughtout  dietary  system,  comprises,   among   other
achievements, the recitation of verse. Our greatest living  phonetic  expert
(wild horses shall not drag  it  from us!) has left no stone unturned in his
efforts to delucidate and compare the verse recited and has found it bears a
striking resemblance (the  italics are ours) to the ranns  of ancient Celtic
bards. We are not speaking so much of those  delightful lovesongs with which
the writer who conceals  his identity  under the  graceful pseudonym  of the
Little  Sweet Branch  has familiarised the bookloving world but rather (as a
contributor D. O. C. points out in an interesting communication published by
an evening  contemporary) of  the harsher and  more personal  note which  is
found  in the  satirical effusions  of  the  famous  Raftery  and of  Donald
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 our readers will find the topical allusion rather
more than an indication.  The metrical system of the  canine original, which
recalls  the intricate  alliterative  and isosyllabic  rules  of  the  Welsh
englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers will agree
that the spirit has been well caught. Perhaps  it  should  be added that the
effect  is  greatly increased if Owen's verse be spoken somewhat  slowly and
indistinctly in a tone suggestive of suppressed rancour.
     The curse of my curses
     Seven days every day
     And seven dry Thursdays
     On you, Barney Kiernan,
     Has no sup of water
     To cool my courage,
     And my guts red roaring
     After Lowry's lights.
     So he told  Terry to bring  some water for the dog and, gob, you  could
hear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have another.
     -- I will, says he, a chara, to show there's no ill feeling.
     Gob, he's not  as green as he's cabbagelooking. Arsing around  from one
pub to another, leaving it  to your  own honour, with old Giltrap's dog  and
getting fed up by  the ratepayers and corporators. Entertainment for man and
beast. And says Joe:
     -- Could you make a hole in another pint?
     -- Could a swim duck? says I.
     -- Same again, Terry, says Joe. Are you sure you won't have anything in
the way of liquid refreshment? says he.
     -- Thank you, no, says Bloom. As a matter of fact I just wanted to meet
Martin Cunningham, don't  you see,  about this insurance  of  poor Dignam's.
Martin asked me to go  to the  house.  You  see, he, Dignam, I  mean, didn't
serve any notice of the assignment on the  company at the time and nominally
under the act the mortgagee can't recover on the policy.
     -- Holy Wars, says Joe laughing, that's a good one  if  old  Shylock is
landed. So the wife comes out top dog, what?
     -- Well, that's a point, says Bloom, for the wife's admirers.
     -- Whose admirers? says Joe.
     -- The wife's advisers, I mean, says Bloom.
     Then he starts all confused mucking it up about the mortgagor under the
act like the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench and  for the benefit
of the wife and that a trust is created but  on the other hand  that  Dignam
owed  Bridgeman the  money and  if now the wife  or the widow  contested the
mortgagee's right till  he near had the head of me addled with his mortgagor
under the  act. He was bloody safe  he wasn't run  in himself under the  act
that  time  as a rogue and  vagabond only he had a friend  in court. Selling
bazaar tickets or what  do you  call  it royal Hungarian privileged lottery.
True  as you re there. O, commend me to an  israelite!  Royal and privileged
Hungarian robbery.
     So  Bob Doran comes lurching around asking Bloom to  tell Mrs Dignam he
was  sorry for her  trouble and he was very sorry about  the  funeral and to
tell her that he said and everyone who knew him said that there  was never a
truer, a finer than poor little Willy  that's dead to tell her. Choking with
bloody  foolery. And shaking Bloom's hand doing the tragic to tell her that.
Shake hands, brother. You're a rogue and I'm another.
     -- Let me, said he, so far presume upon our acquaintance which, however
slight it may appear if judged by the standard of mere time, is founded,  as
I  hope  and believe, on a sentiment of mutual  esteem, as to request of you
this  favour. But, should I have  overstepped the limits  of reserve let the
sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for my boldness.
     -- No,  rejoined the other, I  appreciate to the full the motives which
actuate your conduct  and  I  shall discharge the  office you entrust to  me
consoled by the reflection  that, though the errand be  one of  sorrow, this
proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the bitterness of the cup.
     -- Then  suffer me  to  take your hand, said  he. The goodness  of your
heart, I feel sure, will dictate to you better than  my inadequate words the
expressions which are most  suitable to convey  an emotion whose  poignancy,
were I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me even of speech.
     And off  with  him  and out  trying  to  walk straight. Boosed at  five
o'clock. Night  he  was near being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the bobby,
14 A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street after closing time,
fornicating with two shawls  and  a bully on guard,  drinking porter out  of
teacups. And calling himself  a Frenchy for  the shawls, Joseph  Manuo,  and
talking against the catholic religion and  he serving mass in Adam and Eve's
when he was young with his eyes shut who wrote the new testament and the old
testament  and hugging  and  snugging. And  the two  shawls killed with  the
laughing, picking his pockets the bloody fool and he spilling the porter all
over the bed and  the two shawls screeching laughing at one another.  How is
your testament? Have you got an old testament? Only Paddy was passing there,
I  tell  you what. Then see  him of a Sunday with his little concubine of  a
wife, and  she wagging her tail up the aisle of the chapel, with her  patent
boots on her, no less, and her violets, nice as pie,  doing the little lady.
Jack Mooney's sister. And the  old prostitute of a mother procuring rooms to
street couples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told him if he didn't patch
up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him.
     So Terry brought the three pints.
     -- Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen.
     -- Slan leat, says he.
     -- Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen.
     Gob, he  had his mouth half way down the tumbler already.  Want a small
fortune to keep him in drinks.
     -- Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? says Joe.
     -- Friend of yours, says Alf.
     -- Nannan? says Joe. The mimber?
     -- I won't mention any names, says Alf.
     -- I  thought so, says  Joe.  I saw him  up  at that  meeting now  with
William  Field,  M. P.,  the  cattle traders.  _ --  Hairy  Iopas,  says the
citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of all countries and the idol of
his own.
     So Joe starts telling the citizen about the  foot and mouth disease and
the cattle traders and taking action in the matter and  the  citizen sending
them all to the rightabout and Bloom  coming out with his  sheepdip  for the
scab and a hoose drench for coughing  calves and  the guaranteed remedy  for
timber tongue. Because he was up one time in a knacker's yard. Walking about
with his  book and  pencil here's  my head and my  heels are coming till Joe
Cuffe  gave him the order of  the boot for giving  lip to a  grazier. Mister
Knowall. Teach your grandmother how to milk ducks.  Pisser Burke was telling
me  in  the hotel the wife used to be  in rivers of tears sometimes with Mrs
O'Dowd  crying  her  eyes  out  with her eight inches  of  fat all over her.
Couldn't  loosen her  farting strings but old cod's  eye was waltzing around
her  showing  her  how  to do it. What's  your programme today?  Ay.  Humane
methods. Because the poor animals suffer and experts  say and the best known
remedy that doesn't cause pain to the animal and on the sore spot administer
gently. Gob, he'd have a soft hand under a hen.
     Ga Ga  Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Black Liz is our hen. She lays eggs for
us.  When she  lays  her egg she is  so glad.  Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Then
comes good uncle  Leo. He puts his hand  under black Liz and takes her fresh
egg. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook.
     --  Anyhow,  says Joe.  Field  and Nannetti  are  going over tonight to
London to ask about it on the floor of the House of Commons.
     --  Are you sure, says Bloom, the councillor is going? I wanted  to see
him, as it happens.
     -- Well, he's going off by the mailboat, says Joe, tonight.
     -- That's too bad, says Bloom. I  wanted particularly. Perhaps  only Mr
Field is going. I couldn't phone. No. You're sure?
     -- Nannan's going  too, says Joe. The league told him to ask a question
tomorrow about the  commissioner of  police forbidding  Irish  games  in the
park. What do you think of that, citizen? The Sluagh na h-Eireann.
     Mr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat): Arising out of _the question of my
honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right honourable
gentleman whether the Government has issued orders that these  animals shall
be  slaughtered though  no  medical  evidence  is  forthcoming as  to  their
pathological condition?
     Mr  Allfours  (Tamoshant.  Con):  Honourable  members  are  already  in
possession of the evidence produced before a committee of the whole house. I
feel  I cannot usefully  add anything to that.  The answer to the honourable
member's question is in the affirmative.
     Mr Orelli (Montenotte. Nat):  Have similar  orders been issued  for the
slaughter of human  animals who  dare to play  Irish games in the  Phnix
park?
     Mr Allfours: The answer is in the negative.
     Mr   Cowe   Conacre:   Has  the  right  honourable  gentleman's  famous
Mitchelstown telegram  inspired  the  policy of  gentlemen  on  the treasury
bench? (O! O!)
     Mr Allfours: I must have notice of that question.
     Mr Staylewit (Buncombe. Ind.): Don't hesitate to shoot.
     (Ironical opposition cheers.)
     The speaker: Order! Order!
     (The house rises. Cheers.)
     --  There's the man,  says  Joe, that made  the Gaelic  sports revival.
There  he is  sitting  there.  The  man  that got away James  Stephens.  The
champion  of all  Ireland at putting  the sixteen pound shot. What was  your
best throw, citizen?
     -- Na bacleis,  says the citizen, letting on to  be modest. There was a
time I was as good as the next fellow anyhow.
     -- Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You were and a bloody sight better.
     -- Is that really a fact? says Alf.
     -- Yes, says Bloom. That's well known. Do you not know that?
     So off they started about Irish sport and shoneen games the like of the
lawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone  and racy of the soil and
building up a nation once again and all of  that. And of course Bloom had to
have his say too about if  a fellow had a rower's heart violent exercise was
bad.  I declare to  my antimacassar if you  took  up a straw from the bloody
floor  and if  you said to  Bloom: Look  at, Bloom. Do you  see  that straw?
That's  a  straw.  Declare to my  aunt he'd talk about it for an  hour so he
would and talk steady.
     A  most interesting discussion took place in the  ancient hall of Brian
O'Ciarnain's in  Sraid  na Bretaine Bheag, under  the auspices of Sluagh  na
h-Eireann, on  the revival  of  ancient Gaelic  sports and the importance of
physical  culture,  as understood  in ancient  Greece and ancient  Rome  and
ancient Ireland, for the development of the race. The venerable president of
this 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 o! 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  power handed  down to us from ancient
ages.  L.  Bloom, who  met with a  mixed reception  of applause and  hisses,
having espoused the negative the vocalist chairman brought the discussion to
a close, in response to repeated requests and hearty plaudits from all parts
of a bumper  house, by  a  remarkably  noteworthy rendering  of the immortal
Thomas Osborne  Davis'  evergreen  verses  (happily  too  familiar  to  need
recalling  here) A nation once again in the  execution of  which the veteran
patriot champion may  be said  without fear of contradiction to have  fairly
excelled himself. The Irish Caruso-Garibaldi was in superlative form and his
stentorian  notes  were heard to the greatest advantage in the  timehonoured
anthem  sung as only our citizen can sing it. His superb highclass vocalism,
which  by  its  superquality  greatly  enchanced  his  already international
reputation,  was vociferously applauded by the large audience amongst  which
were  to be  noticed  many  prominent  members  of  the  clergy  as  well as
representatives of the press and  the bar and the other learned professions.
The proceedings then terminated.
     Amongst the clergy  present were the very rev. William _Delany,  S. J.,
L. L. D.; the  rt rev. Gerald Molloy, D. D.; the rev. P. J.  Kavanagh, C. S.
Sp.; the  rev. T. Waters, C. C.; the rev. John  M. Ivers, P. P.; the rev. P.
J.  Cleary,  O. S.  F.; the  rev. L.  J. Hickey,  O.  P.;  the very rev. Fr.
Nicholas, O. S. F. C.; the very rev. B. Gorman. O. D. C.; the rev. T. Maher,
S. J.; the very  rev. James Murphy, S. J.; the rev. John Lavery, V. F.;  the
very rev. William Doherty, D.  D.;  the rev. Peter Fagan, O. M.; the rev. T.
Brangan, O. S. A.; the rev. J. Flavin, C. C.; the rev. M. A. Hackett, C. C.;
the rev.  W. Hurley, C. C.; the rt rev.  Mgr M'Manus, V. G.; the  rev. B. R.
Slattery,  O. M.  I.; the  very  rev.  M. D. Scally,  P. P.; the rev. F.  T.
Purcell, O. P.;  the very rev. Timothy  canon Gorman,  P.  P.; the  rev.  J.
Flanagan, C. C. The laity included P. Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc.
     --  Talking  about  violent  exercise,  says  Alf,  were  you  at  that
Keogh-Bennett match?
     -- No, says Joe.
     -- I heard So and So made a cool hundred quid over it, says Alf.
     -- Who? Blazes? says Joe.
     And says Bloom:
     -- What I meant about tennis, for example,  is the agility and training
of the eye.
     --  Ay, Blazes, says Alf. He let out that Myler  was on the beer to run
the odds and he swatting all the time.
     --  We know him, says  the citizen. The traitor's son. We know what put
English gold in his pocket.
     -- True for you, says Joe.
     And Bloom cuts in  again  about lawn tennis  and the circulation of the
blood, asking Alf:
     -- Now don't you think, Bergan?
     -- Myler dusted the floor with him, says  Alf.  Heenan and  Sayers  was
only a bloody fool to it. Handed him the father and mother of a beating. See
the  little kipper not up to  his navel and the  big fellow swiping. God, he
gave him one last puck in the wind. Queensberry rules and all, made him puke
what he never ate.
     It  was  a  historic  and  a  hefty battle when  Myler  and Percy  were
scheduled to don the gloves for  the purse of fifty _sovereigns. Handicapped
as  he  was by  lack  of  poundage,  Dublin's pet lamb  made  up  for it  by
superlative skill in ringcraft. The final bout of fireworks was a  gruelling
for both  champions. The welterweight sergeantmajor  had  tapped some lively
claret in the previous mixup during  which Keogh had been receivergeneral of
rights and lefts, the  artilleryman putting  in some  neat work on the pet's
nose, and Myler came on looking groggy. The soldier  got to business leading
off with a  powerful left  jab  to  which the Irish gladiator retaliated  by
shooting out  a stiff one flush to the point  of Bennett's  jaw. The redcoat
ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a left hook,  the body punch being a
fine one. The men  came to handigrips. Myler quickly became busy and got his
man under,  the  bout  ending with  the  bulkier  man  on the  ropes,  Myler
punishing him. The Englishman, whose right eye was  nearly closed, took  his
corner where  he was liberally drenched  with water and, when the bell went,
came on gamey  and  brimful of  pluck, confident of knocking  out the fistic
Eblanite in jigtime. It was a fight to a finish and the best man for it. The
two  fought  like tigers  and excitement ran fever high. The  referee  twice
cautioned Pucking Percy for holding but the  pet was tricky and his footwork
a  treat to watch. After a brisk exchange of courtesies during which a smart
upper cut of the military man brought blood freely from his opponent's mouth
the lamb  suddenly waded  in  all over his man and landed a terrific left to
Battling Bennett's  stomach, flooring him flat. It  was a knockout clean and
clever. Amid tense expectation the Portobello bruiser was being  counted out
when Bennett's second Ole Pfotts Wettstein threw in the towel and the Santry
boy  was  declared  victor  to the  frenzied  cheers of the public who broke
through the ringropes and fairly mobbed him with delight.
     --  He knows  which side his bread is buttered, says Alf.  I hear  he's
running a concert tour now up in the north.
     -- He is, says Joe. Isn't he?
     --  Who? says Bloom. Ah, yes. That's quite true. Yes, a kind  of summer
tour, you see. Just a holiday.
     -- Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn't she? says Joe.
     --  My wife?  says Bloom.  She's singing,  yes. I think it  _will  be a
success too. He's an excellent man to organise. Excellent.
     Hoho begob,  says  I  to myself, says I. That explains  the milk in the
cocoanut and absence of  hair on the animal's chest. Blazes doing the tootle
on the flute.  Concert tour. Dirty  Dan the dodger's  son off  Island bridge
that sold the same horses  twice over to  the government to fight the Boers.
Old Whatwhat. I called  about the poor  and water rate, Mr Boylan. You what?
The water rate, Mr Boylan. You whatwhat?  That's  the bucko that'll organise
her, take my tip. 'Twixt me and you Caddereesh.
     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'Molloys, a comely hero
of white face yet  withal  somewhat ruddy, his majesty's  counsel learned in
the law, and with him the prince and heir of the noble line of Lambert.
     -- Hello, Ned.
     -- Hello, Alf.
     -- Hello, Jack.
     -- Hello, Joe.
     -- God save you, says the citizen.
     -- Save you kindly, says J. J. What'll it be, Ned?
     -- Half one, says Ned.
     So J. J. ordered the drinks.
     -- Were you round at the court? says Joe.
     -- Yes, says J. J. He'll square that, Ned, says he.
     -- Hope so, says Ned.
     Now what were those two  at? J. J. getting him off the  grand jury list
and the other  give  him  a leg over the stile.  With his name in  Stubbs's.
Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs  with a swank glass in their eye,
drinking  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,
ye'll come home by weeping cross one of these days, I'm thinking.
     -- Did you  see that bloody lunatic Breen round there,  says Alf. U. p.
up.
     -- Yes, says J. J. Looking for a private detective.
     -- Ay, says Ned, and he wanted right go wrong to address the court only
Corny  Kelleher got round him  telling him to  get  the handwriting examined
first.
     -- Ten thousand  pounds, says  Alf laughing. God I'd  give  anything to
hear him before a judge and jury.
     -- Was it  you did it, Alf? says  Joe. The truth,  the  whole truth and
nothing but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson.
     -- Me? says Alf. Don't cast your nasturtiums on my character.
     -- Whatever  statement  you make, says  Joe,  will  be  taken  down  in
evidence against you.
     -- Of course an action would lie, says J.  J. It implies that he is not
compos mentis. U. p. up.
     -- Compos your eye! says Alf, laughing. Do you  know  that  he's balmy?
Look  at his head. Do you know that some mornings he  has to get his hat  on
with a shoehorn?
     -- Yes,  says  J.  J.,  but the  truth of a libel is  no  defence to an
indictment for publishing it in the eyes of the law.
     -- Ha, ha, Alf, says Joe.
     -- Still, says Bloom, on account of the poor woman, I mean his wife.
     -- Pity about her, says the citizen. Or any  other woman marries a half
and half.
     -- How half and half? says Bloom. Do you mean he.
     -- Half and half I mean, says the citizen. A fellow that's neither fish
nor flesh.
     -- Nor good red herring, says Joe.
     -- That what's  I mean, says the citizen. A pishogue, if you  know what
that is.
     Begob I saw there was trouble coming. And Bloom explained  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 pew opener to the pope. Picture of
him  on the wall with  his  smashall sweeney's moustaches. The signor  Brini
from  Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papal zouave to the Holy Father, has left
the quay and gone to Moss  street.  And who was he, tell us?  A nobody,  two
pair back and passages, at  seven  shillings a week, and he covered with all
kinds of breastplates bidding defiance to the world.
     --  And moreover, says J. J., a postcard is publication. It was held to
be sufficient  evidence of malice  in  the  testcase Sadgrove v. Hole. In my
opinion an action might lie.
     Six  and eightpence, please.  Who wants  your opinion? Let us drink our
pints in peace. Gob, we won't be let even do that much itself.
     -- Well, good health, Jack, says Ned.
     -- Good health, Ned, says J. J.
     -- There he is again, says Joe.
     -- Where? says Alf.
     And begob there he was passing the door with his books under his  oxter
and the wife beside  him and Corny Kelleher with his wall  eye looking in as
they  went  past,  talking  to  him  like a  father,  trying  to sell him  a
secondhand coffin.
     -- How did that Canada swindle case go off? says Joe.
     -- Remanded, says J. J.
     One of  the  bottlenosed fraternity  it was  went by the name  of James
Wought alias Saphiro alias Spark  and  Spiro, put an ad in the papers saying
he'd  give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. What? Do you see any green in
the white of my eye? Course it was a bloody barney. What? Swindled them all,
skivvies  and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, and his own kidney too. J.
J.  was telling us there was an ancient Hebrew Zaretsky or something weeping
in the  witnessbox with his hat on him,  swearing by  the holy Moses  he was
stuck for two quid.
     -- Who tried the case? says Joe.
     -- Recorder, says Ned.
     --  Poor old sir Frederick,  says Alf,  you can  cod  him up to the two
eyes.
     --  Heart as big  as a  lion,  says Ned. Tell him a tale of  woe _about
arrears of rent  and  a sick wife  and a squad  of  kids and,  faith,  he'll
dissolve in tears on the bench.
     -- Ay, says Alf. Reuben  J. was bloody lucky he didn't  clap him in the
dock  the other day for suing poor  little  Gumley that's minding stones for
the corporation there near Butt bridge.
     And he starts taking off the old recorder letting on to cry:
     --  A  most  scandalous  thing!  This poor  hardworking man!  How  many
children? Ten, did you say?
     -- Yes, your worship. And my wife has the typhoid!
     --  And  a  wife  with  typhoid  fever!  Scandalous!  Leave  the  court
immediately,  sir. No, sir, I'll make no  order  for payment. How  dare you,
sir,  come  up before  me and  ask me to make an order! A  poor  hardworking
industrious man! I dismiss the case.
     And whereas on the sixteenth day of the month of the oxeyed goddess and
in the third week after the feastday of the Holy and Undivided Trinity,  the
daughter of  the skies, the virgin moon  being then in her first quarter, it
came to pass that  those learned judges  repaired them  to the halls of law.
There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gave his rede and master
Justice Andrews sitting without  a jury  in the probate court, weighed  well
and pondered  the claims  of  the  first chargeant upon the property in  the
matter  of the will  propounded and final testamentary disposition in re the
real  and personal  estate  of  the late lamented Jacob  Halliday,  vintner,
deceased versus Livingstone, an infant, of unsound mind, and another. And to
the solemn court of Green street there came  sir Frederick the Falconer. And
he sat him there about the hour of five o'clock to administer the law of the
brehons at the  commission for  all that and those parts to be holden in and
for  the county  of the city  of Dublin.  And there  sat with him  the  high
sinhedrim of the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the tribe
of  Patrick  and of the  tribe  of Hugh and  of the tribe of Owen and of the
tribe of Conn and of the tribe of Oscar  and of  the tribe  of Fergus and of
the tribe of Finn  and of the tribe of Dermot and of the tribe of Cormac and
of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of Caolte and of the tribe of Ossian,
there being in all twelve good men and true. And he conjured them by Him who
died on rood  that they  should _well and truly try and true delivrance 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  books. And they rose in their seats,  those twelve of Iar, and
they swore by the name of Him who is from everlasting that they would do His
rightwiseness.  And straightway the minions of the law led  forth from their
donjon  keep  one  whom  the  sleuthhounds  of  justice  had apprehended  in
consequence of information received. And they shackled him hand and foot and
would take of  him ne bail ne mainprise but preferred  a charge against  him
for he was a malefactor.
     -- Those are nice things, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland
filling the country with bugs.
     So Bloom lets  on  he  heard  nothing and  he starts talking  with  Joe
telling him he  needn't trouble about that little  matter till the first but
if he would  just say a  word to Mr Crawford. And so Joe swore high and holy
by this and by that he'd do the devil and all.
     -- Because  you  see, says Bloom, for an advertisement  you  must  have
repetition. That's the whole secret.
     -- Rely on me, says Joe.
     -- Swindling  the peasants, says the citizen, and  the poor of Ireland.
We want no more strangers in our house.
     -- O I'm sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom. It's just that
Keyes you see.
     -- Consider that done, says Joe.
     -- Very kind of you, says Bloom.
     -- The strangers, says the citizen. Our own fault. We let them come in.
We brought them.  The adulteress and her paramour brought the Saxon  robbers
here.
     -- Decree nisi, says J. J.
     And Bloom  letting  on to  be  awfully deeply interested in nothing,  a
spider's web in the corner behind the barrel, and the citizen scowling after
him and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to bite and when.
     -- A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, that's what's the cause of all
our misfortunes.
     -- And here she is, says Alf, that was giggling over the Police Gazette
with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint._ -- Give us a squint at her,
says I.
     And what was it  only one of  the smutty yankee pictures Terry  borrows
off of Corny Kelleher. Secrets for enlarging your private  parts. Misconduct
of society belle. Norman W. Tupper, wealthy Chicago contractor, finds pretty
but  faithless  wife  in  lap  of  officer  Taylor.  Belle  in  her bloomers
misconducting herself and her fancy man 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  cityhall at their caucus meeting decide about
the Irish language?
     O'Nolan, clad  in  shining  armour, low bending made obeisance  to  the
puissant and high and mighty chief of all  Erin and  did him to  wit of that
which had befallen, how that  the  grave  elders of the most obedient  city,
second of  the  realm,  had  met them in  the tholsel, and there,  after due
prayers  to the gods who dwell in ether  supernal,  had taken solemn counsel
whereby they might, if so  be it might be, bring once more into honour among
mortal men the winged speech of the seadivided Gael.
     -- It's on the  march, says the citizen. To hell with the bloody brutal
Sassenachs and their patois.
     So J.  J. puts in a word doing  the toff about one story  was good till
you heard  another and  blinking facts and  the  Nelson policy putting  your
blind eye to the telescope and  drawing up  a bill of attainder to impeach a
nation and Bloom trying  to back him up moderation and botheration and their
colonies and their civilisation.
     -- Their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen. To hell  with them!
The curse of a goodfornothing God light  sideways on the  bloody thicklugged
sons of whores' gets!  No music and  no art and no literature  worthy of the
name. Any  civilisation _they  have they stole  from us. Tonguetied  sons of
bastards' ghosts.
     -- The European family, says J. J...
     -- They're not European, says the citizen. I was in  Europe  with Kevin
Egan of Paris. You wouldn't see a  trace of them  or their language anywhere
in Europe except in a cabinet d'aisance.
     And says John Wyse:
     -- Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
     And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo:
     -- Conspuez les Anglais! Perde Albion!
     He said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands the
medher of dark strong foamy ale and,  uttering his  tribal slogan Lamh Dearg
Abu, he drank to the undoing of  his foes, a race of mighty valorous heroes,
rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster silent as the deathless
gods.
     -- What's up with you, says  I to Lenehan.  You look like a fellow that
had lost a bob and found a tanner.
     -- Gold cup, says he.
     -- Who won, Mr Lenehan? says Terry.
     -- Throwaway, says he, at twenty to one. A rank outsider. And  the rest
nowhere.
     -- And Bass's mare? says Terry.
     -- Still running, says he. We're all in a cart. Boylan plunged two quid
on my tip Sceptre for himself and a lady friend.
     -- I had  half a crown myself, says Terry, on  Zinfandel that Mr  Flynn
gave me. Lord Howard de Walden's.
     -- Twenty to one, says Lenehan. Such is life in an outhouse. Throwaway,
says  he. Takes the biscuit and talking about bunions. Frailty,  thy name is
Sceptre.
     So he went over to the biscuit  tin Bob Doran left  to see if there was
anything  he could lift  on the nod, the old  cur after him backing his luck
with his mangy snout up. Old mother Hubbard went to the cupboard.
     -- Not there, my child, says he.
     -- Keep your pecker up, says Joe. She'd have won the money only for the
other dog.
     And  J. J. and the citizen arguing  about law  and  history  with Bloom
sticking in an odd word. _ -- Some  people, says Bloom, can see the  mote in
others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own.
     --  Raimeis,  says the  citizen. There's no-one  as blind as the fellow
that won't  see, if you know what  that means. Where are  our missing twenty
millions of Irish should be here today instead of four, our lost tribes? And
our potteries and textiles, the finest in the whole world! And our wool that
was sold in Rome in the time of Juvenal and our flax and our damask from the
looms of Antrim  and our Limerick lace, our  tanneries  and our  white flint
glass down there by Ballybough and our  Huguenot  poplin  that we have since
Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk and our Foxford tweeds  and ivory raised
point from the Carmelite convent in New Ross, nothing like  it in the  whole
wide world! Where are the Greek merchants that  came  through the pillars of
Hercules, the Gibraltar now  grabbed by  the foe of mankind,  with gold  and
Tyrian purple to sell  in Wexford at the  fair of  Carmen?  Read Tacitus and
Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis. Wine,  peltries, Connemara marble, silver
from Tipperary, second to  none, our far-famed horses even  today, the Irish
hobbies,  with king Philip of Spain offering to  pay  customs duties for the
right to fish in our waters. What do the yellowjohns  of  Anglia owe  us for
our  ruined trade  and our ruined  hearths?  And the  beds of the Barrow and
Shannon they won't deepen with millions of acres of marsh and bog to make us
all die of consumption.
     -- As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John Wyse, or Heligoland
with its one tree if something  is not done to reafforest the land. Larches,
firs, all the trees of the  conifer family  are going fast. I was  reading a
report of lord Castletown's...
     --  Save  them,  says the citizen,  the  giant ash  of  Galway and  the
chieftain elm of Kildare with a fortyfoot bole and  an acre of foliage. Save
the  trees of Ireland  for the  future men  of Ireland on the fair hills  of
Eire, O.
     -- Europe has its eyes on you, says Lenehan.
     The fashionable international world attended en masse this afternoon at
the wedding  of the chevalier  Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chief ranger
of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Conifer of Pine  Valley. Lady
Sylvester  _Elmshade,  Mrs  Barbara  Lovebirch,  Mrs  Poll  Ash,  Mrs  Holly
Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays,  Miss Dorothy Canebrake, Mrs Clyde Twelvetrees,
Mrs Rowan Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, Miss Virginia  Creeper, Miss Gladys
Beech, Miss  Olive  Garth, Miss Blanche Maple, Mrs Maud Mahogany, Miss  Myra
Myrtle, Miss Priscilla Elderflower, Miss Bee Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar,
Miss  O. Mimosa San, Miss  Rachel Cedarfrond, the  Misses Lilian  and  Viola
Lilac,  Miss  Timidity Aspenall, Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse,  Miss May Hawthorne,
Mrs Gloriana Palme, Mrs Liana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs  Norma
Holyoake of Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their presence. The  bride
who  was  given away  by  her father, the M'Conifer  of  the  Glands, looked
exquisitely charming  in a creation  carried  out  in green mercerised silk,
moulded  on  an underslip  of gloaming  grey, sashed with a  yoke  of  broad
emerald and finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued  fringe, the scheme
being relieved by bretelles and hip insertions of acorn bronze. The maids of
honour, Miss  Larch Conifer  and Miss Spruce Conifer,  sisters of the bride,
wore very  becoming costumes in the same tone, a dainty motif  of plume rose
being worked into the pleats in a pinstripe and repeated capriciously in the
jadegreen toques  in the form of heron feathers of paletinted  coral. Senhor
Enrique  Flor  presided at  the organ  with  his  wellknown  ability and, in
addition to the prescribed  numbers  of  the nuptial  mass, played a new and
striking  arrangement of Woodman, spare  that tree  at the conclusion of the
service. On leaving  the church  of Saint Fiacre  in Horto after  the  papal
blessing the  happy pair were subjected to a playful crossfire of hazelnuts,
beechmast,  bayleaves,  catkins of  willow,  ivytod, hollyberries, mistletoe
sprigs and quicken  shoots.  Mr and Mrs  Wyse  Conifer Neaulan will  spend a
quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest.
     -- And our eyes are on Europe,  says the citizen. We had our trade with
Spain  and  the  French and with  the  Flemings  before those mongrels  were
pupped, Spanish ale in Galway, the winebark on the winedark waterway.
     -- And will again, says Joe.
     -- And with the help of  the holy mother of God we will again, says the
citizen, clapping  his  thigh.  Our  harbours  that _are empty  will be full
again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the  kingdom  of
Kerry, Killybegs,  the third largest harbour in the  wide world with a fleet
of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O'Reillys and the O'Kennedys of
Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty with the emperor Charles
the Fifth himself. And will again,  says he, when the first Irish battleship
is  seen  breasting the  waves with our  own flag to the fore, none  of your
Henry Tudor's harps, no, the oldest flag afloat, the flag of the province of
Desmond  and  Thomond,  three  crowns on a  blue  field, the three  sons  of
Milesius.
     And he took the last swig out of the pint, Moya. All wind and piss like
a tanyard  cat. Cows in Connacht have long horns. As much as his bloody life
is worth  to go down and address his tall talk to the assembled multitude in
Shanagolden where he daren't  show his nose with the Molly Maguires  looking
for him to let daylight  through him for grabbing the  holding of an evicted
tenant.
     -- Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. What will you have?
     -- An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.
     --  Half  one,  Terry, says John Wyse,  and a  hands up. Terry! Are you
asleep?
     -- Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Right, sir.
     Hanging over the  bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits  instead
of attending to  the general public. Picture of  a butting  match, trying to
crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for  the other with his head  down
like a bull at a  gate.  And another one: Black Beast Burned in Omaha, Ga. A
lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at a sambo strung up on
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'Il  tell you  what about it,  says the citizen. Hell upon earth it
is. Read the revelations that's going on in  the papers  about _flogging  on
the  training  ships  at  Portsmouth. A  fellow  writes that  calls  himself
Disgusted One.
     So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew of
tars and  officers and rearadmirals drawn  up in cocked  hats and the parson
with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young lad brought out,
howling for his ma, and they tie him down on the buttend of a gun.
     --  A rump and dozen, says the citizen, was  what that  old ruffian sir
John Beresford called it but the modern God's Englishman calls it caning  on
the breech.
     And says John Wyse:
     -- 'Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance.
     Then he was telling us the master  at arms comes along with a long cane
and he  draws out and he flogs the bloody backside off of the poor lad  till
he yells meila murder.
     -- That's your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that bosses the
earth.  The  fellows that never  will  be slaves, with  the  only hereditary
chamber on the face of God's  earth and their land in the hands  of a  dozen
gamehogs and cottonball barons. That's the great empire  they boast about of
drudges and whipped serfs.
     -- On which the sun never rises, says Joe.
     -- And the tragedy  of it  is,  says the citizen, they  believe it. The
unfortunate yahoos believe it.
     They believe in rod, the scourger almighty,  creator of hell upon earth
and in Jacky Tar, the  son of a gun, who was conceived of unholy boast, born
of the fighting  navy, suffered under rump and dozen, was scarified,  flayed
and curried, yelled like  bloody hell, the third day he arose again from the
bed, steered into haven, sitteth on  his beamend  till further orders whence
he shall come to drudge for a living and be paid.
     But, says Bloom,  isn't discipline the same everywhere? I mean wouldn't
it be the same here if you put force against force?
     Didn't I tell you? As true as I'm drinking this porter if he was at his
last gasp he'd try to downface you that dying was living._
     -- We'll put force against force, says the citizen. We have our greater
Ireland beyond the sea. They were driven out of house  and home in the black
47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were laid low by the
batteringram and the Times rubbed its hands and told the whitelivered Saxons
there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as redskins in America. Even the
grand  Turk  sent us  his  piastres. But  the  Sassenach tried to starve the
nation  at home while  the land was full of  crops  that the  British hyenas
bought and  sold in  Rio  de  Janeiro.  Ay, they  drove out the peasants  in
hordes. Twenty thousand of them died in the coffinships. But those that came
to the land  of the free remember the  land of  bondage. And  they will come
again and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions
of Kathleen ni Houlihan.
     -- Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was...
     -- We  are a  long time waiting for that day, citizen, says  Ned. Since
the poor  old woman told us that the  French were on the sea  and landed  at
Killala.
     -- Ay, says  John Wyse. We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us
against the  Williamites  and they  betrayed us.  Remember Limerick  and the
broken treatystone. We  gave  our best  blood to  France and Spain, the wild
geese. Fontenoy, eh? And Sarsfield  and O'Donnell, duke of Tetuan in  Spain,
and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria Teresa.  But what
did we ever get for it?
     --  The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing  masters! Do you  know
what it is? They were never worth  a  roasted fart to Ireland.  Aren't  they
trying  to  make  an Entente  cordiale now at  Tay  Pay's  dinnerparty  with
perfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were?
     -- Conspuez les Franгais, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.
     -- And as for the Prooshians and the  Hanoverians, says Joe, haven't we
had  enough  of those sausageeating  bastards on the throne from  George the
elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that's dead?
     Jesus,  I  had to laugh at the way he came out with that  about the old
one with the winkers  on her blind drunk in her royal palace  every night of
God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman carting her up
body  and bones  to roll _into bed and  she pulling him  by the whiskers and
singing him old bits of songs  about Ehren  on  the Rhine and come where the
boose is cheaper.
     -- Well! says J. J. We have Edward the peacemaker now.
     --  Tell that to  a fool, says the citizen. There's a bloody sight more
pox than pax about that boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin!
     -- And  what do you think, says  Joe, of the holy boys, the priests and
bishops of Ireland doing up  his room in  Maynooth in  his Satanic Majesty's
racing colours  and sticking up pictures of all the horses his jockeys rode.
The earl of Dublin, no less.
     --  They ought  to have stuck up all the women  he  rode  himself, says
little Alf.
     And says J. J.:
     -- Considerations of space influenced their lordship's decision.
     -- Will you try another, citizen? says Joe.
     -- Yes, sir, says he, I will.
     -- You? says Joe.
     -- Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May your shadow never grow less.
     -- Repeat that dose, says Joe.
     Bloom  was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with
his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about.
     --  Persecution, says he, all  the history of  the world is full of it.
Perpetuating national hatred among nations.
     -- But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse.
     -- Yes, says Bloom.
     -- What is it? says John Wyse.
     -- A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same
place.
     -- By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that's so I'm a nation  for I'm
living in the same place for the past five years.
     So of course everyone had a laugh at Bloom  and says he, trying to muck
out of it:
     -- Or also living in different places.
     -- That covers my case, says Joe.
     -- What is your nation if I may ask, says the citizen.
     -- Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland._
     The citizen said nothing only  cleared  the spit out of his gullet and,
gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.
     -- After you  with the push, Joe, says he, taking out  his handkerchief
to swab himself dry.
     -- Here you  are, citizen,  says Joe.  Take that in your right hand and
repeat after me the following words.
     The muchtreasured and intricately  embroidered ancient  Irish facecloth
attributed to Solomon  of Droma and Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh, authors of
the  Book  of  Ballymote,  was  then  carefully  produced and  called  forth
prolonged  admiration.  No need to  dwell  on the legendary  beauty  of  the
cornerpieces,  the acme of art, wherein  one can distinctly discern each  of
the  four  evangelists in  turn presenting to each  of the four  masters his
evangelical  symbol a  bogoak sceptre, 8 North  American  puma (a far nobler
king of beasts than the  British article,  be  it said in passing),  a Kerry
calf and a  golden  eagle  from Carrantuohill.  The  scenes depicted  on the
emunctory  field,  showing  our  ancient duns  and  raths and  cromlechs and
grianauns and seats of learning  and maledictive stones, are  as wonderfully
beautiful and the pigments  as delicate as when the Sligo illuminators  gave
free  rein to  their  artistic  fantasy long long ago in  the  time  of  the
Barmecides. Glendalough,  the  lovely  lakes  of  Killarney,  the  ruins  of
Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins, Ireland's Eye,  the
Green  Hills  of  Tallaght,  Croagh  Patrick, the brewery of  Messrs  Arthur
Guinness, Son and Company (Limited), Lough Neagh's banks, the vale of Ovoca,
Isolde's tower, the Mapas obelisk,  Sir Patrick Dun's hospital,  Cape Clear,
the  glen  of  Aherlow,  Lynch's  castle, the Scotch  house,  Rathdown Union
Workhouse   at   Loughlinstown,   Tullamore   jail,   Castleconnel   rapids,
Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice, Jury's Hotel, S. Patrick's
Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth  college refectory, Curley's  hole, the
three  birthplaces  of the first duke of Wellington, the rock of Cashel, the
bog of Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse,  Fingal's Cave -  all these moving
scenes are still there for  us  today rendered more beautiful  still by  the
waters of sorrow which have passed over  them  and by the rich incrustations
of time. _ -- Shove us over the drink, says I. Which is which?
     -- That's mine, says Joe, as the devil laid to the dead policeman.
     --  And  I  belong to  a  race  too,  says  Bloom,  that is  hated  and
persecuted. Also now. This very moment. This very instant.
     Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.
     -- Robbed,  says  he.  Plundered.  Insulted.  Persecuted.  Taking  what
belongs to us by right. At this  very  moment, says he, putting up his fist,
sold by auction off in Morocco like slaves or cattles.
     -- Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.
     -- I'm talking about injustice, says Bloom.
     -- Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.
     That's an almanac  picture  for you. Mark  for a  softnosed bullet. Old
lardyface  standing  up  to  the business  end of a  gun. Gob,  he'd adorn a
sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse's apron on  him. And then
he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a
wet rag.
     --  But it's  no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That's
not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it's
the very opposite of that that is really life.
     -- What? says Alf.
     -- Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, says
he to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin is there.
If he comes just say I'll be back in a second. Just a moment.
     Who's hindering you? And off he pops like greased lightning.
     -- A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love.
     -- Well,  says John  Wyse,  isn't  that  what  we're  told?  Love  your
neighbours.
     -- 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 genteman. Li  Chi Han
lovey up kissy Cha Pu  Chow. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant.
Old Mr  Verschoyle with the ear trumpet  loves old  Mrs Verschoyle  with the
turnedin eye.  The man in the  brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His
Majesty the  King loves Her Majesty the  Queen. Mrs Norman  W. Tupper  loves
officer Taylor. You love a  certain person. And this person loves that other
person because everybody loves somebody but
     God loves everybody.
     --  Well,  Joe,  says  I,  your very good  health and song. More power,
citizen.
     -- Hurrah, there, says Joe.
     -- The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen.
     And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle.
     -- We know those  canters, says he, preaching  and picking your pocket.
What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that  put the women  and
children of Drogheda to the  sword  with  the bible text God is love  pasted
round the mouth of  his cannon? The  bible!  Did you read that  skit  in the
United Irishman today about that Zulu chief that's visiting England?
     -- What's that? says Joe.
     So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia  papers  and he starts
reading out:
     -- A  delegation  of  the  chief  cotton  magnates  of  Manchester  was
presented yesterday to His Majesty the  Alaki of  Abeakuta by Gold  Stick in
Waiting, Lord Walkup  on Eggs, to tender to His Majesty the heartfelt thanks
of  British  traders for the facilities  afforded them in his dominions. The
delegation  partook  of  luncheon  at  the  conclusion  of  which the  dusky
potentate, in the course of a happy speech, freely translated by the British
chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod Barebones, tendered his best thanks
to  Massa Walkup  and  emphasised  the  cordial  relations  existing between
Abeakuta and  the British Empire, stating  that he  treasured as one of  his
dearest possessions an illuminated  bible, the volume of the word of God and
the secret of England's greatness, graciously presented to him by the _white
chief woman,  the great squaw Victoria,  with a personal dedication from the
august  hand of  the Royal  Donor.  The  Alaki  then drank  a  lovingcup  of
firstshot usquebaugh  to  the  toast Black and White  from the  skull of his
immediate  predecessor in  the dynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed Forty  Warts,
after which he visited the chief factory of Cottonopolis and signed his mark
in the visitors' book,  subsequently executing an old Abeakutic wardance, in
the  course of which  he swallowed several knives and  forks, amid hilarious
applause from the girl hands.
     -- Widow woman, says Ned, I wouldn't doubt her. Wonder did  he put that
bible to the same use as I would.
     -- Same only more so,  says Lenehan. And  thereafter  in that  fruitful
land the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.
     -- Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse.
     --  No,  says  the  citizen.  It's not  signed  Shanganagh.  It's  only
initialled: P.
     -- And a very good initial too, says Joe.
     -- That's how it's worked, says the citizen. Trade follows the flag.
     -- Well, says J. J., if  they're  any worse than those Belgians  in the
Congo Free State they must be bad. Did you read  that report by a man what's
this his name is?
     -- Casement, says the citizen. He's an Irishman.
     --  Yes,  that's the man,  says J.  J. Raping the  women and girls  and
flogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the red rubber they can out
of them.
     -- I know where he's gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers.
     -- Who? says I.
     --  Bloom,  says  he, the courthouse is  a blind.  He had a few bob  on
Throwaway and he's gone to gather in the shekels.
     -- Is it that whiteyed  kaffir? says the citizen,  that  never backed a
horse in anger in his life.
     -- That's where he's  gone, says Lenehan. I  met  Bantam Lyons going to
back that horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the tip.
Bet you what you  like he has  a hundred shillings to five on. He's the only
man in Dublin has  it. A dark horse. _ -- He's  a bloody dark horse himself,
says Joe.
     -- Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entrance out.
     -- There you are, says Terry.
     Goodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort. So  I just went round to 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 idea for Sinn Fein  to  Griffith to  put in his paper all
kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and  swindling the  taxes off  of the
Government and appointing consuls all over  the world  to walk about selling
Irish  industries. Robbing  Peter  to pay Paul. Gob,  that  puts the  bloody
kybosh  on it if  old  sloppy eyes  is mucking up the show. Give us a bloody
chance. God save Ireland  from the likes of that bloody mouseabout. Mr Bloom
with  his  argol bargol. And  his old fellow before him perpetrating frauds,
old  Methusalem  Bloom, the  robbing bagman, that  poisoned himself with the
prussic acid after he swamping the country  with  his baubles and his  penny
diamonds. Loans  by post on easy terms. Any amount of money advanced on note
of hand. Distance no object. No security. Gob he's like Lanty MacHale's goat
that'd go a piece of the road with everyone.
     --  Well, it's a fact,  says John Wyse. And there's the man now that'll
tell you about it, Martin Cunningham.
     Sure enough  the castle  car drove up with Martin on  it and Jack Power
with him  and  a fellow  named  Crofter  or  Crofton,  pensioner out of  the
collector general's,  an orangeman Blackburn _does have on the  registration
and he  drawing his  pay or Crawford gallivanting  around the country at the
king's expense.
     Our  travellers  reached  the  rustic  hostelry and alighted from their
palfreys.
     -- Ho,  varlet!  cried he,  who by  his mien  seemed the leader of  the
party. Saucy knave! To us!
     So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice.
     Mine host came forth at the summons girding him with his tabard.
     -- Give you good den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow.
     -- Bestir  thyself,  sirrah!  cried he  who had  knocked.  Look to  our
steeds. And for ourselves give us of your best for faith we need it.
     -- Lackaday, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but  a bare
larder. I know not what to offer your lordships.
     -- How now, fellow? cried the second  of the party,  a man of  pleasant
countenance, so servest thou the king's messengers, Master Taptun?
     An instantaneous change overspread the landlord's visage.
     --  Cry you  mercy,  gentlemen, he said humbly.  An  you be  the king's
messengers  (God  shield His  Majesty!) you  shall not want  for  aught. The
king's  friends (God bless His Majesty!) shall not go afasting in my house I
warrant me.
     --  Then  about!  cried  the traveller  who  had  not spoken,  a  lusty
trencherman by his aspect. Hast aught to give us?
     Mine host bowed again as he made answer:
     -- What say you, good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of
venison,  a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog's bacon,  a  boar's  head
with pistachios,  a  bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy  and a flagon of
old Rhenish?
     -- Gadzooks! cried the last speaker. That likes me well. Pistachios!
     -- Aha! cried he of the pleasant  countenance. A poor  house and a bare
larder, quotha! 'Tis a merry rogue.
     So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom.
     -- Where is he? says Lenehan. Defrauding widows and orphans._
     -- Isn't that  a fact,  says John Wyse, what I was telling  the citizen
about Bloom and the Sinn Fein?
     -- That's so, says Martin. Or so they allege.
     -- Who made those allegations? says Alf.
     -- I, says Joe. I'm the alligator.
     -- And after all, says John Wyse, why can't a jew love his country like
the next fellow?
     -- Why not? says J. J., when he's quite sure which country it is.
     --  Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what  the
hell is he? says Ned. Or who is he? No offence, Crofton.
     -- We don't want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.
     -- Who is Junius? says J. J.
     -- 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  deed poll, the father
did.
     --  That's  the new  Messiah  for Ireland! says the citizen.  Island of
saints and sages!
     -- Well,  they're still  waiting for their  redeemer, says Martin.  For
that matter so are we.
     -- Yes, says  J. J., and  every male  that's born they think  it may be
their Messiah. And every jew  is in a  tall state  of excitement, I believe,
till he knows if he's a father or a mother.
     -- Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan.
     -- O, by God, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom  before that  son of
his that died was born. I met him one day in the south city markets buying a
tin of Neave's food six weeks before the wife was delivered.
     -- En ventre sa mere, says J. J.
     -- Do you call that a man? says the citizen.
     -- I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe.
     -- Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power._
     -- And who does he suspect? says the citizen.
     Gob,  there's  many  a true word spoken  in jest. One  of  those  mixed
middlings he  is. Lying up in the  hotel Pisser was telling  me once a month
with headache like a totty with her courses. Do  you  know what I'm  telling
you? It'd be an act of God to take a hold of  a fellow the like of  that and
throw him in the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide, so it would. Then sloping
off with his five quid without putting  up a pint of  stuff like a man. Give
us your blessing. Not as much as would blind your eye.
     -- Charity to the  neighbour, says  Martin. But  where is he? We  can't
wait.
     -- A wolf in sheep's clothing, says the citizen. That's what he
     is. Virag from Hungary! Ahasuerus I call him. Cursed by God.
     -- Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? says Ned.
     -- Only one, says Martin. We must be quick. J. J. and S.
     -- You Jack? Crofton? Three half ones, Terry.
     -- Saint Patrick would want to  land again at  Ballykinlar and  convert
us, says  the citizen,  after  allowing things  like that to contaminate our
shores.
     -- Well, says Martin,  rapping for  his glass. God bless all here is my
prayer.
     -- Amen, says the citizen.
     -- And I'm sure he will, says Joe.
     And  at  the sound of  the  sacring  bell,  headed by  a  crucifer with
acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and subdeacons,
the blessed  company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors and guardians and
monks  and  friars:  the  monks  of  Benedict  of Spoleto,  Carthusians  and
Camaldolesi, Cistercians  and Olivetans,  Oratorians and Vallombrosans,  and
the    friars   of   Augustine,   Brigittines,   Premonstratesians,   Servi,
Trinitarians, and the children of Peter  Nolasco: and therewith  from Carmel
mount the children  of Elijah prophet led by Albert  bishop and by Teresa of
Avila, calced  and other: and friars brown and  grey,  sons of poor Francis,
capuchins,  cordeliers, minimes and observants and the  daughters of  Clara:
and the sons of Dominic, the friars preachers, and the sons of  Vincent: and
the monks of S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the confraternity of
the christian brothers led by the reverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice. And
after _came all saints  and martyrs, virgins and confessors:  S.  Cyr and S.
Isidore Arator and S. James the Less and  S. Phocas  of Sinope and S. Julian
Hospitator  and  S. Felix de Cantalice and  S. Simon Stylites and S. Stephen
Protomartyr  and S. John  of  God and  S. Ferreol and  S.  Leugarde  and  S.
Theodotus and  S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin
of Todi and S.  Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and
S.  Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and
S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and  S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and
S.  Homonymous and S. Paronymous and  S. Synonymous and S. Laurence  O'Toole
and  S. James of Dingle and Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and
S. Celestine and S. Colman and S.  Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and
S. Senan and S. Fachtna and S. Columbanus and  S. Gall  and S. Fursey and S.
Fintan and S. Fiacre and  S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S.  Ives
of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy
youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Berchmans and
the saints  Gervasius, Servasius  and Bonifacius and S. Bride and  S. Kieran
and  S. Canice  of Kilkenny and S.  Jarlath  of  Tuam and S. Finbarr and  S.
Pappin  of  Ballymun  and  Brother  Aloysius  Pacificus  and  Brother  Louis
Bellicosus  and the  saints Rose of  Lima and of  Viterbo  and S. Martha  of
Bethany and S. Mary  of  Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigid and S. Attracta and
S. Dympna and S. Ita and  S.  Marion Calpensis and the Blessed Sister Teresa
of the Child  Jesus and S. Barbara and  S.  Scholastica and S.  Ursula  with
eleven thousand virgins. And all came with nimbi  and aureoles and  gloriae,
bearing palms and harps and swords and  olive crowns, in robes  whereon were
woven the blessed symbols  of their efficacies,  inkhorns,  arrows,  loaves,
cruses, fetters, axes, trees, bridges, babes in a  bathtub, shells, wallets,
shears,  keys,  dragons,  lilies,  buckshot,  beards, hogs, lamps,  bellows,
beehives,  soupladles,  stars,  snakes, anvils,  boxes  of vaseline,  bells,
crutches,  forceps,  stags' horns, watertight boots, hawks, millstones, eyes
on  a dish, wax candles, aspergills, unicorns. And  as they wended their way
by Nelson's Pillar, Henry Street, Mary Street, Capel Street, Little  Britain
Street,  chanting the  _introit  in Epiphania  Domini which beginneth Surge,
illuminare and thereafter most sweetly the gradual Omnes which saith de Saba
venient they did divers wonders such as casting out devils, raising the dead
to  life, multiplying fishes, healing the  halt and the  blind,  discovering
various articles  which  had been  mislaid, interpreting and fulfilling  the
scriptures, blessing and prophesying. And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of
gold came  the reverend Father  O'Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. And
when the good fathers had reached the appointed place, the  house of Bernard
Kiernan  and  Co,  limited,  8,9 and  10  little  Britain street,  wholesale
grocers, wine and brandy  shippers,  licensed for the sale of beer, wine and
spirits for consumption on the premises, the celebrant blessed the house and
censed the mullioned windows and  the groynes and the vaults and the arrises
and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches
and the  spires  and the  cupolas  and sprinkled  the  lintels thereof  with
blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as  he  had blessed
the house of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and make the angels of His light to
inhabit therein. And  entering he blessed the  viands and the  beverages and
the company of all the blessed answered his prayers.
     -- Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini.
     -- Que fecit clum et terram.
     -- Dominus vobiscum.
     -- Et cum spiritu tuo.
     And he laid  his hands upon  the blessed and gave  thanks and he prayed
and they all with him prayed:
     --  Deus,  cuius vet  sanctificantur omnia,  benedictionem tuam effunde
super creaturas istas: et pasta ut quisquis eis secundum legem et voluntatem
Tuam cum gratiarum actione usus fuerit  per invocationem sanctissimi nominis
Tui  corporis  sanitatem  et  anima  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 round to see who the happy thought  would_  strike
when be damned but in he comes again letting on to be in a hell of a hurry.
     -- I was just round at the courthouse, says he, looking for you. I hope
I'm not...
     -- No, says Martin, we're ready.
     Courthouse my  eye and your pockets hanging down with  gold and silver.
Mean bloody scut. Stand us a drink itself. Devil a sweet fear! There's a jew
for you! All for number one. Cute as a shithouse rat. Hundred to five.
     -- Don't tell anyone, says the citizen.
     -- Beg your pardon, says he.
     -- Come  on boys, says  Martin, seeing it was looking blue.  Come along
now.
     -- Don't tell anyone, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him. It's
a secret.
     And-he 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 up with them on the bloody jaunting car.
     Off with you, says Martin to the jarvey.
     The milkwhite dolphin tossed his mane and, rising in  the  golden poop,
the helmsman spread the bellying sail upon the wind  and stood  off  forward
with all sail set, the spinnaker to larboard. A many comely nymphs drew nigh
to starboard and  to larboard and, clinging to  the sides of the noble bark,
they linked  their shining  forms  as  doth  the cunning wheelwright when he
fashions about the heart of his  wheel the equidistant rays whereof each one
is sister to  another and he  binds  them all with an  outer ring and giveth
speed  to the feet of  men whenas  they ride to a hosting or contend for the
smile of  ladies fair. Even  so did  they come and  set them, those  willing
nymphs, the undying sisters. And they laughed, sporting in a circle of their
foam: and the bark clave the waves.
     But begob  I  was just  lowering  the heel of the pint  when I  saw the
citizen  getting  up  to  waddle  to the door, puffing and blowing  with the
dropsy and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, book and candle in
Irish, spitting and  spatting  _out of him and  Joe and little Alf round him
like a leprechaun trying to peacify him.
     -- Let me alone, says he.
     And begob he got as far as the door and they  holding him  and he bawls
out of him:
     -- Three cheers for Israel!
     Arrah, sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for Christ' sake
and don't be making a public exhibition  of yourself.  Jesus, there's always
some bloody clown or other kicking up  a bloody murder about bloody nothing.
Gob, it'd turn the porter sour in your guts, so it would.
     And  all the ragamuffins and  sluts  of the nation  round the door  and
Martin telling the jarvey to drive ahead and the citizen bawling and Alf and
Joe at him to whisht and he on his high horse about the jews and the loafers
calling for a speech and Jack Power trying to get him to sit down on the car
and  hold his  bloody  jaw and a loafer with  a patch  over his  eye  starts
singing If the man in the moon was a jew, jew, jew and  a slut shouts out of
her:
     -- Eh, mister! Your fly is open, mister!
     And says he:
     -- Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante  and Spinoza. And
the Saviour was a jew and his father was a jew. Your God.
     -- He had no father, says Martin. That'll do now. Drive ahead.
     -- Whose God? says the citizen.
     -- Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your God was a jew. Christ was a
jew like me.
     Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.
     -- By Jesus, says he, I'Il 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 Nagyasаgos uram Lipсti Virag, late  of Messrs Alexander Thom's,
printers  to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure  for the  distant
clime of Szаzharminczbrojзgulyаs-Dugulаs (Meadow of Murmuring  _Waters). The
ceremony which went  off  with  great иclat 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  Rakoczy'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,  Sugar-loaf, Bray Head, the mountains of Mourne, the Galtees,
the Ox  and Donegal  and Sperrin  peaks,  the Nagles and the  Bograghs,  the
Connemara  hills,  the reeks of M'Gillicuddy, Slieve  Aughty, Slieve Bernagh
and  Slieve  Bloom.  Amid  cheers  that  rent  the welkin, responded  to  by
answering  cheers from a big muster  of henchmen on the distant Cambrian and
Caledonian hills, the mastodontic pleasureship slowly moved away saluted  by
a final  floral tribute from  the  representatives of  the fair sex who were
present in large numbers  while, as it proceeded down the river, escorted by
a flotilla of  barges, the flags of the Ballast office and Custom House were
dipped in salute as were also those of the electrical power  station  at the
Pigeon-house. Visszontlаtlаsаra, kedvиs  barаton!  Visszontlаtаsra! 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. G. 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 one citizen, says Joe. Stop. _ Begob  he drew his hand and made
a swipe and let fly. Mercy  of God the sun was in his eyes or he'd have left
him for dead. Gob, he  near sent it into the county Longford. The bloody nag
took  fright  and the old mongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the
populace  shouting  and  laughing  and the  old tinbox clattering  along the
street.
     The catastrophe  was  terrific and  instantaneous  in  its  effect. The
observatory  of  Dunsink registered in  all eleven shocks, all of the  fifth
grade  of Mercalli's  scale,  and  there  is no record  extant of a  similar
seismic  disturbance in our island since the earthquake of 1534, the year of
the rebellion of Silken Thomas. The epicentre appears to have been that part
of the  metropolis which constitutes the Inn's Quay ward and parish of Saint
Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roods and  one square  pole
or perch. All the lordly Tesidences 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, coat of arms and house
number  of  the erudite  and worshipful  chairman  of  quarter  sessions sir
Frederick  Falkiner,  recorder  of  Dublin, have been discovered  by  search
parties in remote parts of the island, respectively, the former on the third
basaltic ridge of the giant's causeway, the latter embedded to the extent of
one foot  three inches in the sandy  beach of Holeopen bay near the old head
of  Kinsale.  Other  eyewitnesses depose  that they-observed an incandescent
object  of  enormous  proportions  hurtling  through  the  atmosphere  at  a
terrifying velocity in a trajectory directed south west by west. Messages of
condolence  and sympathy  are  being hourly received  from all parts of  the
different  continents  and the sovereign pontiff has been graciously pleased
to  decree  that  a  special  missa  pro   defunctis   shall  be  celebrated
simultaneously by the ordinaries of  each and every cathedral church  of all
the episcopal dioceses subject to the spiritual authority of the Holy See in
suffrage  of  the  souls  of  those  faithful  departed  who  have  been  so
unexpectedly called away from  our midst.  The work  of salvage,  removal of
debris human remains etc has been entrusted to Messrs Michael Meade and Son,
159,  Great Brunswick Street and  Messrs T. C.  Martin,  77,  78, 79 and 80,
North Wall, assisted by the men and officers of the Duke of Cornwall's light
infantry under the general  supervision of H. R. H.,  rear admiral the right
honourable sir  Hercules Hannibal Habeas  Corpus Anderson K.G., K.P.,  H.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
sheepface on it gesticulating and the bloody mongrel after  it with his lugs
back for all he was bloody well worth to tear him limb from limb. Hundred to
five! Jesus, he took the value of it out of him, I promise you.
     When, lo, there came about them  all a great brightness and they beheld
the chariot wherein  He stood ascend  to heaven. And they beheld Him  in the
chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness, having  raiment  as of
the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not look upon
Him. And there came a voice out of heaven, calling:  Elijah! Elijah! And  he
answered with  a main cry: Abba! Adonai! And  they beheld Him even  Him, ben
Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at
an angle of  _fortyfive degrees over Donohoe's in Little Green Street like a
shot off a shovel.



    Ulysses 13: Nausicca


     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 storm-tossed
heart of man, Mary, star of the sea.
     The  three girl friends were seated on  the rocks, enjoying the evening
scene and the air which  was fresh  but not  too chilly. Many a time and oft
were they  wont to come there to that  favourite nook to  have  a cosy  chat
beside the sparkling waves  and discuss matters feminine,  Cissy Caffrey and
Edy Boardman with the  baby in the  pushcar and Tommy and Jacky Caffrey, two
little curlyheaded boys, dressed in  sailor suits with caps to match and the
name  H.M.S.  Belleisle printed  on both.  For Tommy and  Jacky Caffrey were
twins, scarce four years old and very  noisy and spoiled twins sometimes but
for all that  darling  little  fellows with bright merry faces and endearing
ways about them.  They were dabbling  in  the sand  with  their  spades  and
buckets, building castles as children do, or playing with their big coloured
ball, happy as the  day  was  long. And  Edy Boardman was rocking the chubby
baby to  and fro  in the pushcar  while that young gentleman fairly chuckled
with delight. He was but eleven months and nine days old and, though still a
tiny  toddler,  was  just beginning to lisp  his  first babyish words. Cissy
Caffrey bent over him to tease his fat little plucks  and the dainty  dimple
in his chin.
     --  Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey said. Say out  big, big. I want a drink of
water.
     And baby prattled after her:
     -- A jink a jink a  jawbo. _Cissy Caffrey cuddled the wee  chap for she
was  awfully  fond of children, so  patient with little sufferers  and Tommy
Caffrey  could  never be  got  to  take his castor  oil unless  it was Cissy
Caffrey  that held his nose and promised him the scatty heel of  the loaf of
brown bread with golden syrup on. What a persuasive power that girl had! But
to be sure  baby 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 would  be assailant came to grief
and (alas  to relate!) the coveted  castle too. Needless to say the cries of
discomfited Master Tommy drew the attention of the girl friends.
     -- Come here, Tommy, his sister called imperatively,  at once! And you,
Jacky, for shame to throw  poor Tommy in  the dirty  sand. Wait till I catch
you for that.
     His  eyes misty  with  unshed  tears Master Tommy came at her call  for
their big sister's word was law with the  twins.  And in a sad plight he was
after his  misadventure. His little  man-o'-war  top and unmentionables were
full of  sand  but  Cissy was  a  past mistress in the art of smoothing over
life's tiny troubles and very  quickly not one speck of sand was to be  seen
on his smart little suit. Still the blue eyes were glistening with hot tears
that  would well  up so  she kissed away the hurtness and  shook her hand at
Master Jacky the  culprit and  said if she was near him she  wouldn't be far
from him, her eyes dancing in admonition.
     -- Nasty bold Jacky! she cried.
     She put an arm round the little mariner and coaxed winningly:
     -- What's your name? Butter and cream?
     --  Tell us who is  your sweetheart, spoke Edy Boardman. Is Cissy  your
sweetheart?
     -- Nao, tearful Tommy said.
     -- Is Edy Boardman your sweetheart? Cissy queried.
     -- Nao, Tommy said.
     -- I know, Edy Boardman said none too  amiably with an arch glance from
her shortsighted  eyes. I know  who is Tommy's  sweetheart, Gerty is Tommy's
sweetheart.
     -- Nao, Tommy said on the verge of tears.
     Cissy's quick motherwit guessed what was amiss and she whispered to Edy
Boardman to take him there behind the pushcar  where  the gentlemen couldn't
see and to mind he didn't wet his new tan shoes.
     But who was Gerty?
     Gerty MacDowell who  was seated near her  companions, lost  in thought,
gazing far away into the distance, was in very  truth as  fair a specimen of
winsome  Irish  girlhood  as  one could  wish  to  see. She  was  pronounced
beautiful by all who  knew her though, as folks often said, she  was  more a
Giltrap than a MacDowell. Her figure was slight and graceful, inclining even
to  fragility  but those iron jelloids she had been taking  of late had done
her a world of good much better than the Widow Welch's  female pills and she
was much better of those discharges she used to get and that tired  feeling.
The waxen  pallor of  her face was almost spiritual in its  ivorylike purity
though her rosebud  mouth  was a genuine Cupid's bow,  Greekly  perfect. Her
hands were of finely veined alabaster with tapering fingers  and as white as
lemon juice 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 let on whatever  she did that it  was her  that  told her or she'd never
speak  to her again. No.  Honour where honour is  due. There  was  an innate
refinement,  a  languid queenly  hauteur about  Gerty which was unmistakably
evidenced in her delicate  hands and higharched  instep.  Had  kind fate but
willed her to  be born a gentlewoman of high degree in her own right and had
she only  received  the benefit of  a  good education Gerty MacDowell  might
easily have held her own beside  any lady in the  land and have seen herself
exquisitely gowned with jewels on her brow and patrician suitors at her feet
vying with one another to pay their devoirs to her. Mayhap it was  this, the
love that might have been, that lent to her softlyfeatured face at whiles  a
look, tense  with  suppressed  meaning,  that  imparted a  strange  yearning
tendency to the beautiful eyes a charm few could resist. Why have women such
eyes of witchery? Gerty's were of the bluest Irish blue, set off by lustrous
lashes  and dark expressive  brows.  Time gas when  those brows were  not so
silkilyseductive.  It  was  Madame  Vera  Verity,  directress of  the  Woman
Beautiful page of the Princess novelette, who had first advised  her  to try
eyebrowleine which gave that haunting expression to the eyes, so becoming in
leaders of fashion, and she had never regretted  it. Then there was blushing
scientifically cured  and how to be tall increase your height and you have a
beautiful face but your nose? That would suit Mrs Dignam  because she had  a
button one. But Gerty's crowning glory was  her wealth of wonderful hair. It
was dark brown with a  natural wave in it.  She had cut it that very morning
on  account  of the  new  moon and it  nestled  about  her  pretty head in a
profusion  of  luxuriant  clusters and  pared  her  nails too,  Thursday for
wealth. And  just  now at Edy's words as a  telltale  flush, delicate as the
faintest rosebloom,  crept into her cheeks she looked so lovely in her sweet
girlish shyness that of a surety God's fair land of Ireland did not hold her
equal.
     For an  instant she  was silent with rather sad downcast eyes.  She was
about  to  retort but something checked the words on her tongue. Inclination
prompted her to  speak out: dignity  told her to be silent.  The pretty lips
pouted a while 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 always
riding up  and  down in front of her window. Only now his father kept him in
the evenings studying hard to get an exhibition in the intermediate that was
on and he  was going to Trinity college to  study for a doctor when he  left
the high school  like  his brother W. E. Wylie who was racing in the bicycle
races in Trinity college  university. Little recked  he perhaps for what she
felt, that dull aching void  in her  heart  sometimes, piercing to the core.
Yet he was young and perchance he might learn to love her in time. They were
protestants in his family and of course Gerty  knew Who came first and after
Him the blessed Virgin and then Saint Joseph. But he was undeniably handsome
with an exquisite nose and  he was  what he looked, every  inch a gentleman,
the shape of his head too at the back without his cap on that she would know
anywhere  something off the  common and the way he turned the bicycle at the
lamp with his hands off  the bars  and also the  nice perfume of  those good
cigarettes  and  besides  they were both  of a size  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 to
tone. All Tuesday week afternoon she was hunting  to match that chenille but
at last she  found  what she wanted at Clery's  summer  sales, the very  it,
slightly shopsoiled but  you  would  never notice,  seven fingers two  and a
penny. She did it up all  by herself and what joy was hers when she tried it
on then, smiling at the lovely reflection which the mirror gave back to her!
And when she  put it  on the waterjug  to keep the shape  she knew that that
would take  the shine out of some people she knew. Her shoes were the newest
thing in footwear (Edy Boardman prided herself that she was  very petite but
she never had a  foot like Gerty MacDowell, a five, and never would ash, oak
or  elm) with  patent toecaps and just one smart  buckle at  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  high spliced heels and  wide garter  tops. As for undies
they were Gerty's  chief  care and who that knows the  fluttering hopes  and
fears  of sweet seventeen (though Gerty would never see seventeen again) can
find it in his heart to  blame  her? She had  four dinky sets,  with awfully
pretty stitchery, three  garments and  nighties extra, and  each set slotted
with different coloured ribbons, rosepink, pale blue, mauve and peagreen and
she aired  them herself and blued them when they came home from the wash and
ironed them and she had a brickbat to keep the iron on because  she wouldn't
trust  those washerwomen as far as she'd see them scorching the things.  She
was wearing the blue for luck, hoping against hope, her own  colour and  the
lucky colour 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' meetings if you put those  things on inside out so long as it wasn't
of a Friday.
     And  yet and yet!  That strained look on her face! A  gnawing sorrow is
there all the time. Her  very soul is in her eyes  and she would give worlds
to be in the privacy of her own familiar chamber where, giving way to tears,
she could  have a good  cry and relieve her pentup  feelings. Though not too
much because she knew how to  cry nicely before the  mirror. You are lovely,
Gerty, it said. The paly  light of  evening falls upon a face infinitely sad
and  wistful. Gerty  MacDowell yearns in vain.  Yes, she had known from  the
first that her daydream of a marriage has been arranged and the weddingbells
ringing for Mrs Reggy Wylie  T. C. D. (because the one who married the elder
brother would be Mrs Wylie) and in the fashionable intelligence Mrs Gertrude
Wylie was wearing a sumptuous confection of grey trimmed with expensive blue
fox was not to be. He was too young  to understand. He would not believe  in
love, a woman's birthright. The night of the party long  ago in  Stoers' (he
was  still in short trousers) when they were alone and he stole an arm round
her  waist  she went  white to the very lips. He called her little  one in a
strangely husky voice and snatched a half kiss (the  first!) but it was only
the end  of her nose and then he hastened from  the room with a remark about
refreshments. Impetuous fellow! Strength of character had never  been  Reggy
Wylie's strong point and he who would woo and win Gerty MacDowell must  be a
man among men. But  waiting, always waiting to be asked and it was leap year
too and would soon be over.  No prince charming is her beau  ideal to lay  a
rare  and  wondrous  love at her feet but  rather  a manly man with a strong
quiet  face who  had not found his ideal, perhaps his hair  slightly flecked
with grey, and who would understand, take her in his sheltering arms, strain
her to him in all the strength of his deep passionate nature and comfort her
with a long  long kiss.  It would be like heaven. For  such a one she yearns
this balmy  summer eve.  With all the heart of her she longs to be his only,
his  affianced bride for riches for poor, in sickness in health, till  death
us two part, from this to this day forward.
     And while Edy Boardman was with little Tommy behind the pushcar she was
just thinking would the day ever come when she could call herself his little
wife to be. Then they  could talk about her till they went blue in the face,
Bertha Supple too, and Edy, the spitfire, because she would be twenty-two 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  golden-brown  hue  and  queen  Ann's  pudding  of
delightful  creaminess had won golden opinions from  all  because  she had a
lucky hand also for lighting  a  fire, dredge in the fine selfraising  flour
and  always stir in the  same direction  then cream the milk  and sugar  and
whisk well the  white  of eggs though she didn't like the  eating  part when
there were  any people  that made her shy  and  often  she wondered  why you
couldn't eat something poetical like violets or roses and  they would have a
beautifully  appointed  drawingroom  with  pictures  and engravings and  the
photograph of grandpapa Giltrap's  lovely dog Garryowen that  almost talked,
it was so human, and chintz covers for the  chairs and that silver toastrack
in Clery's summer jumble sales like  they have in rich houses.  He would  be
tall with broad  shoulders  (she  had always admired tall men for a husband)
with glistening  white teeth  under his carefully trimmed sweeping moustache
and  they would  go on the continent for  their  honeymoon (three  wonderful
weeks!)  and then, when they settled down in  a nice  snug and  cosy  little
homely  house,  every  morning  they  would  both  have brekky,  simple  but
perfectly  served, for  their own two  selves  and  before he  went  out  to
business he would give his  dear little wifey a good hearty hug and gaze for
a moment deep down into her eyes.
     Edy Boardman asked Tommy  Caffrey was he  done and he said yes, so then
she buttoned up  his little  knickerbockers for him and told him to run  off
and play with Jacky and to be good  now and not to fight. But Tommy said  he
wanted the ball  and Edy told him no that baby was playing with the ball and
if he took  it there'd be wigs on the green but  Tommy said it was his  ball
and  he wanted  his  ball  and he pranced  on the ground, if you please. The
temper of him! O, he was a man already was little Tommy Caffrey since he was
out of pinnies. Edy told him no, no and to he off now with  him and she told
Cissy Caffrey not to give in to him.
     --  You're not  my sister, naughty Tommy said. It's  my ball. But Cissy
Caffrey told baby Boardman to look up, look up high  at  her finger and  she
snatched the ball quickly and threw it along the sand and Tommy after  it in
full career, having won the day.
     -- Anything for a quiet life, laughed Ciss.
     And she tickled  tiny tot's two  cheeks to make  him forget and  played
here's  the  lord  mayor,  here's  his  two horses,  here's his  gingerbread
carriage and  here he walks in, chinchopper,  chinchopper, chinchopper chin.
But  Edy got as cross as two sticks about him  getting his own way like that
from everyone always petting him.
     -- I'd  like to give him something, she said, so I would, where I won't
say.
     -- On the beetoteetom, laughed Cissy merrily.
     Gerty  MacDowell  bent down her head and crimsoned at the idea of Cissy
saying an unladylike thing  like that out loud she'd be ashamed of her  life
to  say, flushing a deep rosy  red, and Edy Boardman said  she was  sure the
gentleman opposite heard what she said. But not a pin cared Ciss.
     -- Let him! she said with a pert toss of her head and a piquant tilt of
her nose. Give it to him too on the same place as quick as I'd look at him.
     Madcap Ciss with her golliwog curls. You had to laugh at her sometimes.
For instance when  she  asked you would you  have some more Chinese  tea and
jaspberry ram  and when she  drew the  jugs  too  and the men's faces on her
nails with red  ink make you split your sides or when she wanted to go where
you know she said she wanted to run and pay a visit to the Miss  White. That
was just like Cissycums. O, and will you ever forget the evening she dressed
up in  her  father's suit and hat and the  burned  cork moustache and walked
down Tritonville road, smoking a cigarette? There was none to come up to her
for fun. But she  was sincerity itself, one of the bravest and truest hearts
heaven  ever  made,  not one  of  your twofaced  things,  too  sweet  to  be
wholesome.
     And  then  there  came out upon the  air  the sound  of  voices and the
pealing  anthem of the organ. It was the men's  temperance retreat conducted
by  the  missioner,  the  reverend  John Hughes  S.  J.,  rosary, sermon and
benediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament. They were there gathered together
without distinction of social class (and a most edifying spectacle it was to
see) in that simple fane beside the waves,  after  the storms of this  weary
world, kneeling before the feet of  the  immaculate,  reciting the litany of
Our  Lady of Loreto, beseeching her to intercede for them, the  old familiar
words, holy Mary, holy virgin of virgins. How sad to poor Gerty's ears!  Had
her  father only  avoided  the clutches  of the demon drink, by  taking  the
pledge or those powders the drink habit cured in Pearson's Weekly, she might
now be rolling in her carriage, second  to none. Over and over had  she told
herself that as she mused by the dying embers  in a brown study  without the
lamp  because  she hated two  lights or oftentimes gazing  out of the window
dreamily by the hour at the rain falling on the  rusty bucket, thinking. But
that  vile decoction which has ruined so many hearths and homes had cast its
shadow  over  her  childhood days. Nay, she  had even witnessed in the  home
circle deeds of violence caused by intemperance and had seen her own father,
a prey  to the fumes of intoxication, forget himself completely for if there
was one  thing  of  all things that Gerty knew it was 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,  wrapt in thought, scarce saw or heard her
companions  or  the  twins at their  boyish gambols  or  the  gentleman  off
Sandymount green that Cissy Caffrey  called the man that was so like himself
passing  along the strand  taking  a  short  walk. You  never saw him anyway
screwed  but  still and  for  all  that she would not like  him for a father
because he  was too  old or  something or on account of his  face (it was  a
palpable case of doctor  Fell) or his carbuncly  nose with the pimples on it
and his sandy moustache a bit  white  under his nose. Poor father! With  all
his faults she loved  him still when he sang Tell me, Mary, how to woo  thee
or My love and cottage near Rochelle and they had stewed cockles and lettuce
with Lazenby's salad  dressing  for  supper and when he  sang The moon  hath
raised with Mr Dignam that died suddenly and  was buried, God have  mercy on
him, from a stroke. Her mother's birthday that  was and Charley was  home on
his holidays and  Tom and  Mr Dignam and Mrs and Patsy and Freddy Dignam and
they were to have had a  group taken. No-one would  have thought the end was
so near. Now he was laid to rest.  And her mother said to him to let that be
a warning  to  him for  the rest of his days and he couldn't even  go to the
funeral on account of the gout and she  had to go into town to bring him the
letters  and  samples from  his  office about  Catesby's cork lino, artistic
standard designs, fit for a palace, gives tiptop  wear and always bright and
cheery in the home.
     A sterling  good  daughter was Gerty just  like a second mother  in the
house, a ministering angel too with a little heart worth its weight in gold.
And  when her mother had those raging  splitting headaches who was it rubbed
on the menthol  cone  on her  forehead but Gerty though she  didn't like her
mother 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 there for a certain  purpose and felt her own
arms  that were white and soft  just like  hers  with  the  sleeves back and
thought about  those times because she had found out in Walker's pronouncing
dictionary  that belonged to  grandpapa Giltrap about the halcyon days  what
they meant.
     The twins were now playing in the most approved brotherly fashion, till
at last Master Jacky  who was really  as bold as  brass there was no getting
behind that  deliberately kicked  the ball as  hard  as  ever he could  down
towards the seaweedy rocks. Needless to say poor Tommy was not slow to voice
his  dismay but  luckily the gentleman in  black who  was sitting  there  by
himself  came  gallantly to  the  rescue and intercepted  the ball.  Our two
champions  claimed their plaything with  lusty  cries  and to avoid  trouble
Cissy  Caffrey  called to the  gentleman  to  throw  it  to her  please. The
gentleman  aimed  the ball once or twice and  then  threw  it up  the strand
towards  Cissy Caffrey  but it rolled down the slope and stopped right under
Gerty's skirt  near  the little pool  by the rock. The twins clamoured again
for it and Cissy told her to kick it away and let them fight for it so Gerty
drew back her foot but she wished their stupid ball hadn't come rolling down
to her and she gave a kick but she missed and Edy and Cissy laughed.
     -- If you fail try again, Edy Boardman said.
     Gerty smiled assent  and bit her  lip. A  delicate pink crept into  her
pretty cheek but she was  determined to let them see so she  just lifted her
skirt a little but just enough  and took good aim  and gave the ball a jolly
good kick and it  went ever  so far and the two twins  after it down towards
the  shingle. Pure jealousy  of course it was nothing else to draw attention
on  account of the  gentleman opposite looking.  She felt  the warm flush, a
danger  signal always  with  Gerty MacDowell, surging and  flaming  into her
cheeks. Till then they had only exchanged glances of the most casual but now
under the brim  of her new hat she ventured a look at him and  the face that
met her gaze there in the twilight, wan and  strangely drawn, seemed to  her
the saddest she had ever seen.
     Through  the  open window of the church the fragrant incense was wafted
and  with it the fragrant names of her who  was  conceived without stain  of
original sin, spiritual vessel, pray for us, honourable vessel, pray for us,
vessel of singular devotion, pray for us, mystical rose. And careworn hearts
were there and toilers  for  their  daily bread and  many who  had erred and
wandered,  their eyes wet  with contrition but for all that bright with hope
for the reverend father Hughes  had told  them what  the great saint Bernard
said in  his  famous prayer  of Mary,  the  most pious Virgin's intercessory
power  that it was  not  recorded in  any  age that those  who implored  her
powerful protection were ever abandoned by her.
     The  twins  were now playing again right  merrily  for the troubles  of
childhood  are  but  as fleeting  summer  showers. Cissy  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.
     -- Hajajajahaja.
     Cissy wiped  his little mouth with the dribbling bib  and wanted him to
sit  up properly, and  say pa pa pa but when she undid  the  strap she cried
out, holy saint Denis,  that he  was  possing wet  and  to  double the  half
blanket the  other  way  under him.  Of  course  his infant majesty was most
obstreperous at such toilet formalities and he let everyone know it:
     -- Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa.
     And two great big lovely big tears coursing down his cheeks. It was all
no  use soothering him  with no, nono,  baby, no and  telling him  about the
geegee and where was the puffpuff but Ciss, always readywitted, gave him  in
his mouth the  teat of the  suckingbottle and the young heathen  was quickly
appeased.
     Gerty wished to goodness  they would take their squalling baby home out
of that and not get on  her nerves no hour to be out and the little brats of
twins. She gazed out towards the distant sea. It was like the paintings that
man used to do on the pavement with all the  coloured chalks and such a pity
too leaving them there  to  be all  blotted out, the  evening and the clouds
coming out and the Bailey light on Howth and to hear the music like that and
the perfume of those incense they burned in the  church like a kind of waft.
And while she  gazed her heart went pitapat. Yes, it was her he  was looking
at and there was  meaning  in  his look. His eyes  burned into her as though
they would  search her through and through,  read her very  soul.  Wonderful
eyes  they were, superbly expressive, but could  you trust them? People were
so queer.  She could see at  once by his dark eyes and his pale intellectual
face  that he  was a  foreigner,  the image of  the photo she had  of Martin
Harvey, the matinиe 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 retmussи from where he was sitting. He was  in
deep mourning, she could  see that, and  the  story of a haunting sorrow was
written on his face. She would have given worlds to know what it was. He was
looking up so intently, so still and he saw her kick the ball and perhaps he
could see the bright steel buckles of her shoes if she swung  them like that
thoughtfully with the toes down. She was glad that something told her to put
on the transparent stockings  thinking Reggy Wylie might be out but that was
far away. Here was that of  which she had  so often dreamed.  It  was he who
mattered  and there was joy on her face because she  wanted him because  she
felt  instinctively  that he  was  like  no-one  else. The very heart of the
girlwoman went out to him, her dreamhusband, because she knew on the instant
it was him. If he had  suffered,  more sinned against than sinning, or even,
even, if he had been himself a sinner,  a wicked man, she cared not. Even if
he was a protestant or methodist  she  could convert him easily  if he truly
loved her. There were wounds  that  wanted healing with heartbalm. She was a
womanly woman not  like other flighty girls, unfeminine, he had known, those
cyclists showing off what  they hadn't got and she just yearned to know all,
to forgive all if she could make him fall in love with  her, make him forget
the memory of the past. Then mayhap he would embrace her gently, like a real
man, crushing  her soft body to him, and love her,  his ownest  girlie,  for
herself alone.
     Refuge  of sinners.  Comfortress of the  afflicted. Ora pro nobis. Well
has  it been said  that whosoever  prays to her with faith and constancy can
never  be lost or cast away: and fitly is she too a haven of  refuge for the
afflicted  because of  the seven dolours  which transpierced her own  heart.
Gerty could picture the whole scene in the church, the stained glass windows
lighted  up, the candles,  the flowers  and the  blue banners of the blessed
Virgin's sodality and Father Conroy was helping Canon O'Hanlon at the altar,
carrying things in and out with his eyes cast down. He looked almost a saint
and  his confession-box was so quiet and clean  and  dark and his hands were
just like white  wax and if ever  she became  a Dominican nun in their white
habit perhaps  he might come to the convent for the novena of Saint Dominic.
He  told her that time when she told him about that in confession crimsoning
up  to the roots of  her  hair for fear he  could see,  not to  be  troubled
because that was only  the voice of nature and we were all subject to nature
s laws,  he said, in  this life  and that that  was no sin because that came
from the nature  of woman  instituted by  God, he said, and that Our Blessed
Lady herself  said to the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me  according to
Thy  Word.  He was so  kind and  holy  and often  and often  she thought and
thought could she  work a  ruched teacosy with embroidered floral design for
him  as a  present or  a clock  but they  had  a clock she  noticed  on  the
mantelpiece white and  gold with  a canary bird  that  came out of  a little
house  to tell  the time the day she went there  about the  flowers for  the
forty hours' adoration because it was hard to know what sort of a present to
give or perhaps an album of illuminated views of Dublin or some place.
     The exasperating little brats of twins began to quarrel again and Jacky
threw  the  ball out  towards the sea  and they both  ran after  it.  Little
monkeys  common as ditchwater. Someone ought  to take  them and  give them a
good hiding for themselves to keep them in their places, the  both  of them.
And Cissy and  Edy shouted after  them to come back because they were afraid
the tide might come in on them and be drowned.
     -- Jacky! Tommy!
     Not they!  What a great notion they had! So Cissy said it was the  very
last time she'd ever bring them out. She  jumped up and called them  and she
ran  down the slope  past  him, tossing her hair behind her which had a good
enough colour if there had been more of it  but with all the thingamerry she
was always  rubbing  into it  she  couldn't  get it to grow  long because it
wasn't  natural  so she could just go and throw her hat at it. She ran  with
long gandery strides it was a wonder she didn't rip up her skirt at the side
that was too tight  on her because there was a lot of the tomboy about Cissy
Caffrey  and  she  was  a forward piece whenever she thought she  had a good
opportunity to show off and just because she was a good runner she ran  like
that so that he  could  see all the end of  her  petticoat running  and  her
skinny shanks up as far as possible. It  would have served her just right if
she  had  tripped up over  something accidentally on purpose  with her  high
crooked French  heels on her to make her  look tall and  got  a fine tumble.
Tableau! That would have been  a very charming  exposи  for a gentleman like
that to witness.
     Queen of angels, queen of patriarchs, queen of prophets, of all saints,
they prayed, queen of the most holy rosary and then Father Conroy handed the
thurible to  Canon O'Hanlon and he put in the incense and censed the Blessed
Sacrament and Cissy Caffrey caught the two twins and she was itching to give
them a  ringing good clip on the ear but she  didn't  because she thought he
might  be watching  but  she  never made a bigger  mistake in all  her  life
because Gerty  could see  without looking that he never took his eyes off of
her and  then Canon O'Hanlon  handed the  thurible back to Father Conroy and
knelt down looking up at  the Blessed Sacrament and the choir began  to sing
Tantum ego and she  just swung her foot in and out in time as the music rose
and fell  to the Tantumer gosa  cramen  tum. Three and  eleven  she paid for
those stockings  in  Sparrow's of  George's  street on the  Tuesday,  no the
Monday before  Easter  and there wasn't a brack on them and that was what he
was looking at,  transparent,  and  not at  her insignificant  ones that had
neither shape nor form (the cheek  of her!) because he  had eyes in his head
to see the difference for himself.
     Cissy  came up along the strand with the  two twins and their ball with
her hat anyhow  on her to one side  after  her run and she did look a streel
tugging  the  two  kids along with  the  flimsy blouse  she  bought  only  a
fortnight  before  like a  rag  on her back and 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 flush 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 eyeing her as a snake  eyes its prey.  Her woman's instinct told  her
that  she had raised  the devil in him and at the thought  a burning scarlet
swept  from  throat to  brow  till the  lovely colour  of her face became  a
glorious rose.
     Edy  Boardman was noticing it too because she  was squinting  at Gerty,
half  smiling, with her  specs, like  an old maid,  pretending to nurse  the
baby.  Irritable little  gnat  she was and  always would be and that was why
no-one could  get on with her, poking  her nose into  what was no concern of
hers. And she said to Gerty:
     -- A penny for your thoughts.
     -- What? replied Gerty with a smile reinforced by the whitest of teeth.
I was only wondering was it late.
     Because she  wished to  goodness they'd take the  snottynosed twins and
their baby 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 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 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 telling her what was the right
time and Gerty could see  him  taking out  his watch,  listening  to it  and
looking up  and clearing his throat  and he said he was very sorry his watch
was stopped  but he thought  it must be after eight because the sun was set.
His voice had a cultured ring in it and though he spoke in  measured accents
there was a suspicion of a quiver in the mellow tones. Cissy said thanks and
came back with her tongue out and said uncle said his waterworks were out of
order.
     Then  they sang the second  verse of the Tantum ergo and Canon O'Hanlon
got  up again  and censed the Blessed Sacrament and knelt  down and he  told
Father  Conroy  that one  of the  candles was just going to set fire  to the
flowers and Father  Conroy got up and settled it all right and she could see
the gentleman winding his watch and listening to the works and she swung her
leg more in and out in time. It was getting darker  but he could  see and he
was  looking all the time that he was  winding the watch or whatever he  was
doing to it and then he put it back and put his hands back into his pockets.
She felt a Kind of a sensation rushing all over her and she knew by the feel
of her scalp and that  irritation against her stays that  that thing must be
coming on because the last time too was when she clipped her hair on account
of  the moon. His dark eyes  fixed  themselves on her again drinking in  her
every contour,  literally  worshipping  at  her shrine.  If ever  there  was
undisguised admiration in a man's passionate gaze it  was there  plain to be
seen on that man's face. It is for you, Gertrude MacDowell, and you know it.
     Edy began to get  ready  to go  and  it was high time for her and Gerty
noticed that that little hint she gave had 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 clo  prstitisti  eis and  Edy  and Cissy were
talking about the time all the time and asking her but Gerty could  pay them
back in their  own coin and she  just answered with scathing politeness when
Edy asked her  was  she heartbroken  about her  best boy  throwing her over.
Gerty winced  sharply.  A  brief  cold blaze shone from her  eyes that spoke
volumes of scorn immeasurable.  It hurt. O yes, it cut deep because Edy  had
her own quiet way of saying things like  that she knew  would wound like the
confounded little cat she was. Gerty's lips parted swiftly to frame the word
but she fought back the  sob that rose to  her throat, so slim, so flawless,
so beautifully moulded it seemed one  an artist might  have dreamed  of. She
had loved him better than he knew. Lighthearted deceiver and fickle like all
his sex he  would  never understand what  he  had  meant to  her and for  an
instant  there  was in the blue eyes a quick stinging  of  tears. Their eyes
were probing her  mercilessly  but with a brave  effort she sparkled back in
sympathy as she glanced at her new conquest for them to see.
     -- O, responded Gerty, quick as lightning, laughing, and the proud head
flashed up, I can throw my cap at who I like because it's leap year.
     Her words rang  out crystalclear, more  musical than the cooing  of the
ringdove, but they cut the silence icily. There was that in her young  voice
that told that she was not a one to be lightly trifled with. As for Mr Reggy
with his swank and  his bit of money she could just chuck him aside as if he
was so much filth and never again would she cast as much as a second thought
on him and tear his silly postcard into a dozen pieces. And it ever after he
dared to  presume she could give him one look of measured  scorn that  would
make him  shrivel up on the spot. Miss puny little Edy's countenance fell to
no slight extent and Gerty could see by her looking as black as thunder that
she was  simply in  a towering  rage though she  hid it, the little kinnatt,
because that shaft had struck home for her petty jealousy and they both knew
that she was something  aloof, apart in another sphere,  that she was not of
them and  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 on to his brandnew dribbling bib.
     O my! Puddeny pie! protested Ciss. He has his bib destroyed.
     The  slight contretemps claimed her attention  but in two  twos she set
that little matter to rights.
     Gerty stifled a smothered exclamation and gave a nervous cough  and Edy
asked  what  and she  was just going  to tell her to  catch it  while it was
flying but she was ever  ladylike in her deportment so she  simply passed it
off  with consummate tact by  saying  that that was the benediction  because
just then the bell rang out from the steeple over the quiet seashore because
Canon  O'Hanlon was  up on  the  altar with the veil  that Father Conroy put
round  him 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  treasures
trove,  the tortoiseshell  combs,  her  child of Mary badge,  the  whiterose
scent, the eyebrowleine, her alabaster  pouncetbox and the ribbons to change
when  her  things  came  home from  the  wash and there  were some beautiful
thoughts  written  in it  in violet ink  that she bought  in Hely's  of Dame
Street for  she  felt that  she  too  could write  poetry if she could  only
express  herself like that poem that appealed  to her so deeply that she had
copied out of  the newspaper she found one evening  round the potherbs.  Art
thou real, my ideal? it was called by Louis J. Walsh, Magherafelt, and after
there was something about twilight, wilt thou ever? and ofttimes  the beauty
of poetry,  so  sad  in its transient loveliness, had  misted  her eyes with
silent  tears  that the  years were slipping by for her, one by one, and but
for that one shortcoming she knew  she need fear no competition and that was
an accident coming  down Dalkey hill and she always tried to conceal it. But
it must end she felt. If she saw that magic lure in his eyes there would  be
no holding back for her. Love laughs at locksmiths. She would make the great
sacrifice.  Her every effort would be to share his thoughts. Dearer than the
whole world would she be to him and gild his days with  happiness. There was
the allimportant question and she was dying to know was he a  married man or
a widower who had lost  his wife or some tragedy  like the nobleman with the
foreign  name from the  land of song  had to  have her  put into a madhouse,
cruel  only to be kind. But even  if - what then? Would it make a very great
difference? From everything  in the  least  indelicate her  finebred  nature
instinctively  recoiled.  She  loathed that sort of person, the fallen women
off the accommodation walk beside the Dodder that went with the soldiers and
coarse men, with no respect for a girl's honour, degrading the sex and being
taken up  to the  police station. No, no: not  that. They would be just good
friends like a big brother and sister without all that other in spite of the
conventions of Society with a big ess. Perhaps it was an old flame he was in
mourning for  from the  days beyond recall. She thought she  understood. She
would try to understand him because men were so different.  The old love was
waiting, waiting with little white hands stretched out, with blue  appealing
eyes. Heart of mine! She would follow her dream of love, the dictates of her
heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for
her  for love was the master guide. Nothing else  mattered.  Come what might
she would be wild, untrammelled, free.
     Canon O'Hanlon put the Blessed Sacrament back  into the tabernacle  and
the  choir  sang  Laudate Dominum  omnes  gentes  and  then  he  locked  the
tabernacle door because  the benediction  was over and  Father Conroy handed
him  his hat to put on and  crosscat Edy asked wasn't  she coming but  Jacky
Caffrey called out:
     -- O, look, Cissy!
     And  they all looked was it sheet lightning but  Tommy saw  it too over
the trees beside the church, blue and then green and purple.
     -- It's fireworks, Cissy Caffrey said.
     And they all ran down the strand to see over the houses and the church,
helterskelter,  Edy with the  pushcar with  baby  Boardman in  it  and Cissy
holding Tommy and Jacky by the hand so they wouldn't fall running.
     -- Come on, Gerty, Cissy called. It's the bazaar fireworks.
     But Gerty was adamant. She had no intention of  being at their beck and
call. If they could run like rossies she could sit so she said she could see
from where  she was. The eyes that were  fastened  upon  her set her  pulses
tingling. She looked at him a moment, meeting  his glance, and a light broke
in upon her. Whitehot passion was in that face, passion silent as the grave,
and it had made  her his. At last they were left alone without the others to
pry and  pass  remarks  and  she  knew  he could be  trusted to  the  death,
steadfast, a sterling man, a man of inflexible honour to his fingertips. His
hands and face were working and a tremor 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 about the passion of men like
that,  hot-blooded, because Bertha Supple told her  once in dead  secret and
made her  swear she'd never about the gentleman lodger that was staying with
them  out of  the  Congested Districts Board  that had pictures  cut  out of
papers  of  those skirtdancers and highkickers and  she  said  he used to do
something not  very nice that you could  imagine  sometimes in the bed.  But
this was altogether different from a thing like that because  there was  all
the difference because she could almost feel him  draw  her  face to his and
the first quick hot touch of his handsome lips. Besides there was absolution
so  long  as  you didn't do  the other thing before being married and  there
ought to be women priests that would understand without your telling out and
Cissy Caffrey too sometimes  had that dreamy kind of dreamy look in her eyes
so  that she too,  my  dear, and  Winny  Rippingham  so  mad  about  actors'
photographs and besides it was on account of that other  thing coming on the
way it did.
     And  Jacky  Caffrey shouted to look,  there  was another and she leaned
back  and the garters were blue  to match  on account of the transparent and
they all saw it and  shouted  to look, look there it was and she leaned back
ever  so far  to  see the fireworks  and  something  queer was  flying about
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 he had a full view high up above
her knee no-one ever not even on the swing  or wading and she wasn't ashamed
and he wasn't either  to  look in  that  immodest way  like  that because he
couldn't resist the sight of the wondrous revealment half offered like those
skirt-dancers 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  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 lively! O so soft, sweet, soft!
     Then  all melted away dewily in  the grey air: all  was silent. Ah! She
glanced  at  him as she bent forward  quickly,  a pathetic little glance  of
piteous protest, of shy reproach under which he coloured like a girl. He was
leaning back  against the rock behind. Leopold Bloom (for  it is he)  stands
silent, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes.  What  a brute he
had been! At  it again? A  fair unsullied soul had called to him and, wretch
that he was, how had he answered?  An  utter cad he had been. He of all men!
But there was an infinite store of mercy in  those eyes, for  him too a word
of  pardon even though he had erred and sinned  and  wandered. Should a girl
tell? No,  a thousand times no. That was their secret, only theirs, alone in
the hiding  twilight and  there was none to know or tell save the little bat
that flew so  softly  through  the evening to and fro and little bats  don't
tell.
     Cissy Caffrey  whistled,  imitating the boys  in  the football field to
show what a great person she was: and then she cried:
     -- Gerty! Gerty! We're going. Come on. We can see from farther up.
     Gerty had an idea, one of love's little ruses.  She slipped a hand into
her  kerchief pocket and  took out the  wadding and waved in reply of course
without letting him and then slipped it back. Wonder if he's too far to. She
rose. Was it  goodbye? No.  She had to go but they would meet  again, there,
and she would dream of that till then, tomorrow, of her dream of yester eve.
She drew herself up to her full height. Their souls bet  in a last lingering
glance and the eyes that reached her heart,  full of a strange shining, hung
enraptured on her sweet flowerlike  face. She half  smiled  at  him wanly, a
sweet forgiving smile, a smile that verged on tears, and then they parted.
     Slowly without looking back she  went down  the uneven strand to Cissy,
to Edy, to  Jacky and Tommy Caffrey, to little baby Boardman. It  was darker
now and there were stones and bits of wood on the strand and slippy seaweed.
She balked with a certain quiet dignity characteristic of her but with  care
and very slowly 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. 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 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. Muioscope 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  deshabillи.
Excites  them also when they're. I'm all clean  come and dirty me. And  they
like dressing  one  another  for the sacrifice. Milly delighted with Molly's
new blouse.  At first.  Put them all on to  take them all off. Molly. Why  I
bought her the violet garters. Us too: the tie he wore, his lovely socks and
turnedup trousers. He wore a pair of gaiters  the night  that first  we met.
His  lovely shirt was shining beneath his what? of  jet. Say a woman loses a
charm with every pin she takes out. Pinned together. O Mairy lost the pin of
her. Dressed up to the nines for somebody. Fashion part of their charm. Just
changes  when you're  on the  track of the  secret. Except the  east:  Mary,
Martha: now as then.  No  reasonable offer refused.  She  wasn't in a  hurry
either.  Always  off  to a fellow  when  they  are.  They  never  forget  an
appointment. Out  on  spec probably.  They believe in  chance  because  like
themselves. And the others  inclined to give her an odd dig. Girl friends at
school, arms round each other's neck or with ten fingers locked, kissing and
whispering  secrets  about  nothing   in  the  convent   garden.  Nuns  with
whitewashed  faces,  cool  coif  and  their  rosaries  going  up  and  down,
vindictive too for what they can't get. Barbed wire. Be sure  now and  write
to me. And I'll write to you. Now won't you? Molly and Josie Powell. Till Mr
Right comes along then meet once in a blue moon. Tableau! O, look who  it is
for  the love  of  God! How  are  you at all? What have you been doing  with
yourself? Kiss and  delighted to,  kiss, to see you.  Picking holes in  each
other's  appearance.  You're looking  splendid.  Sister  souls showing their
teeth at one another.  How many  have  you left? Wouldn't  lend each other a
pinch of salt.
     Ah!
     Devils  they are  when that's coming on them. Dark devilish appearance.
Molly often told me feel things a ton weight. Scratch the sole of my foot. O
that way!  O, that's exquisite! Feel it myself too. Good  to rest  once in a
way.  Wonder if it's bad to go with them then.  Safe in one way. Turns milk,
makes fiddlestrings snap.  Something  about  withering plants I  read  in  a
garden. Besides they say if the flower withers she wears she's a flirt.  All
are.  Daresay she felt  I. When  you feel  like that you often meet what you
feel. Liked me or what?  Dress they look at.  Always know a fellow courting:
collars  and cuffs.  Well cocks  and lions do the same and  stags. Same time
might prefer a tie undone or something. Trousers? Suppose I when  I was? No.
Gently does it. Dislike rough and  tumble. Kiss in the dark and  never tell.
Saw something in me. Wonder what. Sooner have me as I am than some poet chap
with  bearsgrease, plastery  hair  lovelock  over his  dexter optic. To  aid
gentleman  in literary. Ought to attend to my appearance  my age. Didn't let
her see me in profile.  Still,  you never  know.  Pretty girls and ugly  men
marrying. Beauty and the beast. Besides I can't be so if Molly. Took off her
hat  to show  her  hair. Wide brim  bought to hide her face, meeting someone
might know her, bend down or carry a bunch  of flowers to smell. Hair strong
in rut. Ten bob I got  for Molly's  combings when  we were  on the rocks  in
Holles street. Why not? Suppose he gave her money. Why not? All a prejudice.
She's worth ten, fifteen, more a pound. All that for nothing. Bold hand. Mrs
Marion. Did  I forget to  write address on that letter  like the postcard  I
sent  to Flynn? And the day I went to Drimmie's  without a necktie.  Wrangle
with Molly it was put me off. No, I remember. Richie Goulding. He's another.
Weighs on his mind. Funny my  watch stopped  at half past four.  Dust. Shark
liver oil they use to clean could do it myself. Save. Was that just when he,
she?
     O, he did. Into her. She did. Done.
     Ah!
     Mr  Bloom  with careful  hand recomposed  his wet shirt.  O  Lord, that
little  limping  devil.  Begins to  feel  cold  and clammy  Aftereffect  not
pleasant.  Still  you  have  to  get  rid of  it  someway.  They don't care.
Complimented perhaps. Go home to nicey bread and milky and say night prayers
with the kiddies. Well, aren't they.  See her as she is spoil all. Must have
the stage setting, the rouge, costume, position, music. The name too. Amours
of  actresses.  Nell  Gwynn, Mrs  Bracegirdle, Maud Branscombe. Curtain  up.
Moonlight silver  effulgence. Maiden discovered  with pensive  bosom. Little
sweetheart come and kiss  me  Still I feel.  The  strength  it  gives a man.
That's the secret  of it.  Good job I  let off there  behind  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 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. Oh, her mouth in the dark! And you  a married man with
a single girl! That's what they enjoy.  Taking a man from  another woman. Or
even hear of it. Different with me. Glad to get away from other chap's wife.
Eating off  his cold plate. Chap in the Burton today spitting back gumchewed
gristle.  French letter still in my pocketbook. Cause  of  half the trouble.
But  might  happen  sometime, I  don't  think. Come in.  All  is prepared. I
dreamt. What? Worst is  beginning. How they change the venue  when it's  not
what they  like.  Ask you do  you like  mushrooms  because she  once  knew a
gentleman who. Or ask you what someone was  going to say when he changed his
mind and stopped.  Yet if I  went  the whole hog, say: I  want to, something
like  that. Because I did. She too.  Offend her. Then make it up. Pretend to
want something  awfully, then cry off for  her sake. Flatters them. She must
have been thinking of someone else all the  time. What harm? Must  since she
came to  the use of  reason, he, he  and he. First Kiss does the trick.  The
propitious moment. Something inside them goes pop. Mushy like, tell by their
eye, on the  sly.  First thoughts are best.  Remember  that till their dying
day.  Molly, lieutenant Mulvey that kissed her under the Moorish wall beside
the  gardens.  Fifteen she  told  me. But  her breasts were developed.  Fell
asleep then. After Gencree dinner that was when we drove home the featherbed
mountain. Gnashing her teeth in sleep. Lord mayor had  his eye off  her too.
Val Dillon. Apoplectic.
     There she is with  them down there for the fireworks. My  fireworks. Up
like a rocket,  down  like a stick.  And the children,  twins  they must be,
waiting for  something to happen. Want to be  grownups. Dressing in mother's
clothes. Time enough, understand all the ways of the world. And the dark one
with the mop head and the nigger mouth. I knew she could whistle. Mouth made
for that.  Like Molly. Why  that high class whore  In Jammet's wore her veil
only  to her nose. Would  you mind, please, telling  me the right time? I'll
tell  you the right time up a dark lane. Say  prunes and prisms forty  times
every morning, cure for fat  lips. Caressing  the little  boy too. Onlookers
see most of the game. Of course they understand  birds, animals,  babies. In
their line.
     Didn't look back when she was going down the strand. Wouldn't give that
satisfaction. Those girls,  those girls, those  lovely  seaside  girls. Fine
eyes  she  had, clear. It's the white of the eye brings that out not so much
the pupil. Did she know what I? Course. Like  a cat sitting  beyond a  dog's
jump.  Women  never meet  one like that Wilkins in the high school drawing a
picture of Venus with all  his belongings on show. Call that innocence? Poor
idiot! His wife has her work cut out for her. Never see  them sit on a bench
marked  Wet Paint. Eyes  all over them. Look under the  bed  for what's  not
there. Longing to get  the fright of their lives. Sharp as needles they are.
When  I said to Molly the man at the corner of Cuffe street was goodlooking,
thought she might like, twigged  at  once he had a false arm. Had too. Where
do  they get that? Typist going  up  Roger Greene's stairs two at a time  to
show  her understandings. Handed down  from father to mother to daughter,  I
mean. Bred in  the  bone. Milly for example drying her  handkerchief on  the
mirror to save the ironing. Best place for an ad to catch a woman's eye on a
mirror. And when I sent her for Molly's Paisley shawl to Presscott'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 carried 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 face.
Mullingar. Who knows? Ways of the world. Young student. Straight on her pins
anyway not like the  other.  Still she was  game. Lord, I am  wet. Devil you
are. Swell of her calf. Transparent stockings, stretched  to breaking point.
Not like that  frump  today. A. E. Rumpled stockings.  Or the one in Grafton
street. White. Wow! Beef to the heel.
     A  monkey puzzle rocket  burst, spluttering in darting  crackles. Zrads
and  zrads, zrads, zrads. And Cissy and Tommy 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  and  the address
Dolphin's barn a blind.
     Her maiden name was Jemina Brown
     And she lived with her mother in Irishtown.
     Place made me think of that I suppose. All  tarred with the same brush.
Wiping pens in their stockings. But the ball  rolled down to  her as  if  it
understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I never could throw anything
straight at school. Crooked  as a ram's horn. Sad however because  it  lasts
only a few years till they settle down to potwalloping and papa's pants will
soon fit Willy and fullers'  earth for the baby when they hold him out to do
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. Cocoa-nut
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 is the blood of the  south. Moorish. Also
the form, the figure. Hands felt for the opulent. Just compare for  instance
those others. Wife locked up at home,  skeleton in the cupboard. Allow me to
introduce my.  Then they trot  you out some kind of a  nondescript, wouldn't
know what  to call her.  Always see a fellow's weak point in his wife. Still
there's destiny in it, falling in love. Have their own secrets between them.
Chaps that would go to the dogs if some woman didn't take them in hand. Then
little chits of girls, height of a shilling in coppers, with little
     hobbies. As God made  them He matched them. Sometimes children turn out
well  enough.  Twice  nought makes  one.  Or  old rich chap of  seventy  and
blushing bride.  Marry in  May  and repent in  December.  This  wet  is very
unpleasant. Stuck. Well the foreskin is not back. Better detach.
     Ow!
     Other hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long and the
short  of  it.  Big  he  and  little  she.  Very  strange  about  my  watch.
Wristwatches are always going wrong. Wonder is there  any magnetic influence
between the person because  that was about the  time he. Yes, I  suppose  at
once. Cat's away  the mice will play. I remember looking  in Pill lane. Also
that now is  magnetism.  Back  of  everything  magnetism. Earth for instance
pulling this and being pulled. That causes movement. And  time?  Well that's
the time the movement takes. Then if  one  thing  stopped  the whole ghesabo
would stop bit  by  bit. Because it's  arranged.  Magnetic  needle tells you
what's going on in the sun, the  stars. Little piece of steel iron. When you
hold out the fork. Come. Come. Tip.  Woman and man that  is. Fork and steel.
Molly, he. Dress up  and look  and suggest and let  you see and see more and
defy  you if you're a man to see that and, like a sneeze coming, legs, look,
look and if you have any guts in you. Tip. Have to let fly.
     Wonder how is she feeling in that region. Shame all put on before third
person. More put out about a hole in her stocking. Molly, her underjaw stuck
out head back, about the farmer in  the ridingboots  and spurs at  the horse
show. And when  the  painters  were in Lombard street west. Fine  voice that
fellow had. How Giuglini began. Smell that I did, like flowers. It was  too.
Violets. Came  from the turpentine probably in the paint. Make their own use
of everything. Same time doing it scraped her slipper on  the  floor so they
wouldn't  hear. But lots of  them  can't kick  the beam, I think. Keep  that
thing up for hours. Kind  of a  general all round over  me and  half down my
back.
     Wait. Hm. Hm. Yes. That's her perfume. Why  she waved her hand. I leave
you  this to  think of  me when I'm  far  away on  the  pillow. What  is it?
Heliotrope? No, Hyacinth? Hm. Roses, I think. She'd like scent of that kind.
Sweet  and cheap: soon  sour.  Why  Molly likes opoponax.  Suits her with  a
little jessamine mixed. Her high notes and her low notes. At the dance night
she met  him, dance of the hours.  Heat brought it out. She  was wearing her
black and it  had the perfume of the time before. Good  conductor, is it? Or
bad? Light too. Suppose there's some connection. For instance if you go into
a cellar where it's dark. Mysterious thing too. Why did I smell it only now?
Took its  time in coming like herself, slow but sure.  Suppose it's  ever so
many millions of tiny grains  blown across. Yes, it  is. Because those spice
islands, Cinghalese  this  morning, smell them leagues off. Tell you what it
is. It's like a fine veil or web they have all over the skin, fine like what
do you call it gossamer and they're  aways spinning it out  of them, fine as
anything, rainbow colours without knowing it. Clings to everything she takes
off.  Vamp of her  stockings. Warm shoe. Stays. Drawers: little kick, taking
them off. Byby till next time. Also the cat likes to  sniff in  her shift on
the  bed.  Know  her smell  in  a thousand.  Bathwater too.  Reminds  me  of
strawberries and cream. Wonder where it is  really. There or the armpits  or
under the neck. Because you get it out of all  holes  and  corners. Hyacinth
perfume made  of oil or 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 for  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. Breath? What you  eat and drink gives that.
No. Mansmell,  I mean. Must be connected with that because  priests that are
supposed to  be are different. Women buzz round it like flies round treacle.
Railed off the altar get on to it at any cost. The tree of forbidden priest.
O father, will you? Let me be the first to. That diffuses itself all through
the  body, permeates. Source of  life  and it's extremely curious the smell.
Celery sauce. Let me.
     Mr Bloom inserted his nose. Hm. Into the. Hm. Opening of his waistcoat.
Almonds or. No. Lemons it is. Ah, no, that's the soap.
     O by the by that lotion. I knew  there was something on my  mind. Never
went back and the soap not paid. Dislike carrying bottles like that hag this
morning.  Hynes  might have  paid me that  three shillings.  I could mention
Meagher's  just  to remind him. Still if he works  that paragraph.  Two  and
nine. Bad opinion of  me he'll have.  Call tomorrow. How much do I  owe you?
Three and nine? Two and nine,  sir. Ah. Might stop him giving credit another
time. Lose  your customers that way. Pubs do.  Fellow run up a  bill on  the
slate and then slinking around the back streets into somewhere else.
     Here's this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the bay. Just went as
far  as turn back. Always at  home  at dinnertime.  Looks mangled out: had a
good tuck in.  Enjoying nature now.  Grace after meals. After supper walk  a
mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government sit. Walk after
him  now  make  him  awkward like those newsboys me today. Still  you  learn
something. See ourselves as others see us. So long as  women don't mock what
matter? That's the  way to find out. Ask yourself who is he now. The Mystery
Man on the Beach,  prize titbit story  by  Mr Leopold  Bloom. Payment at the
rate of one guinea per column. And that fellow today at the graveside in the
brown macintosh.  Corns on his kismet however.  Healthy perhaps  absorb  all
the. Whistle brings rain they  say.  Must be  some  somewhere.  Salt in  the
Ormond  damp. The body feels the atmosphere. Old Betty's  joints are  on the
rack. Mother  Shipton's  prophecy that is about ships around they fly in the
twinkling. No. Signs of rain it is. The royal reader. And distant hills seem
coming nigh.
     Howth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to change or
they might think it a house. Wreckers. Grace Darling. People  afraid of  the
dark.  Also glowworms,  cyclists: lightingup  time.  Jewels  diamonds  flash
better. Light is  a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt you. Better now of
course  than  long ago. Country roads. Run  you through  the  small guts for
nothing.  Still two types there are you bob against. Scowl or smile. Pardon!
Not at all.  Best time to spray plants  too in the shade after the sun. Some
light  still. Red rays  are longest. Roygbiv  Vance taught us:  red, orange,
yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. A  star  I see.  Venus? Can't tell yet.
Two, when three it's night. Were those nightclouds there all the time? Looks
like a phantom ship. No. Wait.  Trees are they. An optical illusion. Mirage.
Land of the setting sun  this. Homerule  sun setting  in the  southeast.  My
native land, goodnight.
     Dew  falling. Bad for you, dear, to  sit on that stone. Brings on white
fluxions. Never have little baby then  less he was  big strong fight his way
up through. Might  get piles myself. Sticks too  like a summer cold, sore on
the mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction  of the position. Like to
be that rock she sat on. O sweet little, you don't know how nice you looked.
I begin to  like them at  that  age.  Green  apples. Grab at all that offer.
Suppose it's the only time we  cross  legs, seated.  Also the library today:
those  girl  graduates.  Happy  chairs  under them.  But  it's  the  evening
influence.  They  feel  all  that.  Open  like  flowers,  know  their hours,
sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes,  in ballrooms,  chandeliers, avenues under
the  lamps.  Nightstock in Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed her  shoulder.
Wish I had  a  full length oil-painting of her  then.  June  that was too  I
wooed. The year returns. History repeats itself. Ye crags and peaks I'm with
you once again. Life, love, voyage round your own little world. And now? Sad
about  her lame of course  but must  be on  your guard not to feel too  much
pity. They take advantage.
     All  quiet  on  Howth  now.  The  distant  hills  seem.  Where we.  The
rhododendrons. I am a fool perhaps. He gets the plums and I the  plumstones.
Where  I come  in.  All  that  old hill has seen. Names change: that's  all.
Lovers: yum yum.
     Tired I feel now. Will I get up? O wait. Drained all the manhood out of
me, little wretch. She kissed me. My youth. Never again. Only once it comes.
Or hers.  Take the  train  there tomorrow. No. Returning not the same.  Like
kids  your second visit to a house. The  new  I want. Nothing new under  the
sun.  Care of  P.  O.  Dolphin's  barn. Are  you not  happy in your? Naughty
darling. At  Dolphin's  barn charades in Luke  Doyle's house. Mat Dillon and
his  bevy of daughters: Tiny,  Atty,  Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty. Molly  too.
Eightyseven that was.
     Year before  we. And the old major  partial to  his  drop  of  spirits.
Curious she an only child,  I an only  child.  So it returns.  Think  you're
escaping and run into yourself.  Longest way round is the shortest way home.
And just when  he and she. Circus horse walking in a ring. Rip van Winkle we
played.  Rip:  tear  in Henny  Doyle's overcoat.  Van: breadvan  delivering.
Winkle: cockles and periwinkles.  Then I did Rip van Winkle coming back. She
leaned on  the  sideboard  watching.  Moorish eyes. Twenty  years asleep  in
Sleepy Hollow. All changed. Forgotten. The young are old. His gun rusty from
the dew.
     Ba. What is  that  flying  about? Swallow?  Bat probably. Thinks I'm  a
tree, so blind. Have birds no smell? Metempsychosis. They believed you could
be  changed into a tree from grief. Weeping willow. Ba. There he goes. Funny
little beggar. Wonder where he lives. Belfry up there. Very likely.  Hanging
by his heels in the odour of sanctity. Bell scared him out, I  suppose. Mass
seems to be  over. Could hear them all at  it. Pray for us. And pray for us.
And pray for us. Good idea the repetition. Same thing with ads. Buy from us.
And buy from us. Yes, there's the light in the priest's  house. Their frugal
meal.  Remember about the mistake in  the  valuation when  I was  in Thom's.
Twentyeight it is. Two houses they have. Gabriel Conroy's brother is curate.
Ba.  Again.  Wonder why  they come out at night like  mice.  They're a mixed
breed.  Birds are like  hopping mice. What frightens them, light  or  noise?
Better sit still. All instinct like the bird in drouth got water out  of the
end of a jar by throwing in pebbles. Like a little man in a cloak he is with
tiny hands. Weeny bones. Almost  see them shimmering, kind of a bluey white.
Colours depend  on the  light you  see. Stare  the sun for example like  the
eagle then look at a  shoe see a  blotch blob yellowish. Wants to  stamp his
trademark on everything.  Instance, that cat this morning on  the staircase.
Colour of brown turf. Say you never see them with  three colours.  Not true.
That half tabbywhite tortoise-shell in the City Anns 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 what they say. Like
our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve?  they have to fly over  the
ocean and back. Lot must be killed in storms, telegraph wires. Dreadful life
sailors have  too. Big brutes of  ocean-going steamers floundering  along in
the dark,  lowing out like  seacows. Faugh a  ballagh. Out  of that,  bloody
curse  to you. Others in vessels, bit of a handkerchief sail, pitched  about
like snuff at a wake when the stormy winds  do blow. Married too.  Sometimes
away for years at  the ends  of  the earth somewhere. No ends really because
it's round. Wife in every port they  say. She has a good job if she minds it
till Johnny comes marching  home again. If  ever he does.  Smelling the tail
end of ports. How can they like the  sea? Yet they do. The anchor's weighed.
Off he sails  with  a  scapular  or a  medal on him for  luck. Well? And the
tephilim no what's  this they call it  poor papa's father had on his door to
touch.  That brought us  out  of the land of  Egypt and into  the  house  of
bondage. Something in all those superstitions because when you go  out never
know what dangers. Hanging on to a plank or astride of a beam for grim life,
life-belt  round 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. Not my
fault, old cockalorum.
     A  lost long candle  wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search of
funds for Mercer's hospital and broke, drooping, and sheda cluster of violet
but one  white stars. They floated, fell: they  faded. The shepherd's  hour:
the  hour  of  holding:  hour  of  tryst.  From  house to house,  giving his
everwelcome double knock, went the nine o'clock postman, the glowworm's lamp
at his belt gleaming here and there through the laurel hedges. And among the
five  young trees a hoisted  lintstock lit the lamp  at Leahy's  terrace. By
screens of lighted  windows,  by equal gardens  a shrill  voice went crying,
wailing: Evening Telegraph, stop press edition! Result of the Gold Cup race!
and from the door of Dignam's house a boy ran out and called. Twittering the
bat flew  here, flew there. Far out  over  the sands the coming  surf crept,
grey. Howth settled for slumber tired of long days,  of yumyum rhododendrons
(he was old)  and  felt  gladly the night  breeze  lift,  ruffle his fell of
ferns. He lay but  opened a red eye  unsleeping, deep  and slowly breathing,
slumberous but awake. And far on Kish bank the anchored lightship  twinkled,
winked at Mr Bloom.
     Life those chaps out  there must  have, stuck in  the same spot.  Irish
Lights board. Penance  for their  sins. Coastguards too. Rocket and breeches
buoy and  lifeboat. Day we  went out for  the pleasure cruise  in the Erin's
King, throwing them the sack of old papers. Bears  in the zoo. Filthy  trip.
Drunkards out  to  shake up  their  livers.  Puking  overboard  to feed  the
herrings. Nausea. And the women, fear of God  in their faces. Milly, no sign
of funk. Her blue scarf loose, laughing. Don't know what death  is  at  that
age. And  then  their stomachs clean. But being lost they  fear. When we hid
behind  the tree at Crumlin. I  didn't want to.  Mamma! Mamma! Babes in  the
wood. Frightening  them with masks too. Throwing them up in the air to catch
them.  I'll  murder  you. Is it  only half fun? Or children playing  battle.
Whole earnest. How can people aim guns at each other? Sometimes they go off.
Poor kids.  Only  troubles wildfire and  nettlerash. Calomel purge I got her
for that. After getting better asleep with Molly.  Very same teeth  she has.
What do they love? Another themselves?  But the morning she chased  her with
the umbrella.  Perhaps so as not to hurt. I felt her pulse.  Ticking. Little
hand it was: now big. Dearest Papli. All that  the hand says when you touch.
Loved  to count my  waistcoat buttons. Her first stays  I remember. Made  me
laugh  to  see.  Little paps to begin  with. Left  one  is more sensitive, I
think.  Mine  too. Nearer the  heart. Padding themselves out  if fat  is  in
fashion. Her growing pains at  night, calling, wakening  me.  Frightened she
was  when her nature came  on her first. Poor child! Strange moment for  the
mother too.  Brings  back her girlhood. Gibraltar. Looking from Buena Vista.
O'Hara's tower. The seabirds screaming. Old Barbary ape that gobbled all his
family. Sundown,  gunfire for  the  men to cross the lines. Looking out over
the  sea  she  told  me.  Evening like this, but clear, no  clouds. I always
thought I'd marry a lord or a gentleman with a private yacht. Buenos noches,
seяorita.  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 Leoh,
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  keys,
museum  with those  goddesses,  Dedalus' song. Then  that  bawler  in Barney
Kiernan's. Got my own back there. Drunken ranters. What I said about his God
made him wince. Mistake to  hit back. Or? No. Ought to go home and laugh  at
themselves. Always want to be swilling in company. Afraid to be alone like a
child of two. Suppose  he  hit me. Look at it other  way round.  Not so  bad
then. Perhaps not to  hurt he meant. Three cheers  for Israel. Three  cheers
for the sister-in-law he hawked about, three fangs in her mouth.  Same style
of beauty. Particularly  nice old party for a cup of  tea. The sister of the
wife  of the wild man of  Borneo has just come to  town. Imagine that in the
early morning at close range. Everyone to his  taste as  Morris said when he
kissed the cow. But Dignam's  put  the  boots on it. Houses  of  mourning so
depressing because you never know. Anyhow she wants the money.  Must call to
those Scottish  widows as I  promised.  Strange name.  Takes it  for granted
we're going to pop  off first. That widow on Monday  was it outside Cramer's
that looked at me. Buried the poor husband but progressing favourably on the
premium. Her widow's mite. Well? What do you expect her to  do? Must wheedle
her way  along. Widower I hate to see.  Looks so forlorn. Poor man  O'Connor
wife and five  children poisoned by mussels here. The sewage. Hopeless. Some
good  matronly  woman in a  pork-pie  hat to  mother  him. Take him  in tow,
platter face and  a large apron.  Ladies' grey  flannelette bloomers,  three
shillings a pair, astonishing bargain. Plain and loved, loved for ever, they
say. Ugly: no woman thinks she is. Love, lie and be handsome for tomorrow we
die.  See him sometimes  walking about  trying  to  find out who  played the
trick. U. p.: up. Fate that is. He, not me. Also a shop often noticed. Curse
seems to dog it.  Dreamt  last night? Wait. Something confused. She had  red
slippers on. Turkish. Wore the breeches. Suppose she  does. Would I like her
in pyjamas? Damned hard to answer. Nannetti's gone. Mailboat. Near  Holyhead
by now. Must  nail that  ad of Keyes's. Work  Hynes and Crawford. Petticoats
for Molly. She has something to put in them. What's that? Might be money.
     Mr Bloom stooped  and turned over a  piece of  paper on  the strand. He
brought it near his  eyes  and  peered. Letter? No. Can't  read.  Better go.
Better.  I'm  tired  to move. Page of  an old  copybook. All those holes and
pebbles.  Who could count them? Never know  what you find. Bottle with story
of a treasure in it  thrown from a wreck. Parcels post. Children always want
to throw  things  in the sea. Trust? Bread cast on the waters. What's  this?
Bit of stick.
     O! Exhausted  that female has  me. Not so young now. Will she come here
tomorrow? Wait  for her  somewhere  for ever. Must  come back. Murderers do.
Will I?
     Mr Bloom with his stick  gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write
a message for her. Might remain. What?
     I.
     Some flatfoot tramp on it in the  morning. Useless.  Washed  away. Tide
comes  here a pool near her foot.  Bend,  see  my  face there,  dark mirror,
breathe on it, stirs. All these  rocks with  lines and scars and letters. O,
those  transparent!  Besides  they don't know.  What is the meaning of  that
other world. I called you naughty boy because I do not like.
     AM. A.
     No room. Let it go.
     Mr Bloom effaced  the letters with  his slow boot. Hopeless thing sand.
Nothing grows in it.  All  fades.  No  fear of  big vessels coming  up here.
Except  Guinness's  barges.  Round  the  Kish in  eighty days. Done  half by
design.
     He flung his wooden pen away. The stick fell in silted sand, stuck. Now
if you were trying to do that for a week on end you couldn't. Chance.  We'll
never meet again. But it was lovely. Goodbye, dear. Thanks.  Made me feel so
young.
     Short snooze now if I had. Must be near nine. Liverpool boat long gone.
Not even the smoke. And she can do the other.  Did too. And Belfast. I won't
go. Race there, race  back to Ennis. Let  him. Just close my eyes  a moment.
Won't sleep though. Half dream. It never comes  the same. Bat again. No harm
in him. Just a few.
     O  sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw dirty bracegirdle  made me
do love sticky we two  naughty Grace darling she him  half past  the bed met
him pike  hoses  frillies for Raoul to perfume  your  wife black hair  heave
under embon  seяorita young eyes  Mulvey plump years  dreams return tail end
Agendath swoony lovey showed me her next year in drawers return  next in her
next her next.
     A bat flew. Here. There. Here. Far in the grey a bell chimed. Mr  Bloom
with open mouth, his left boot sanded sideways, leaned, breathed. Just for a
few.
     Cuckoo
     Cuckoo
     Cuckoo
     The clock on the  mantelpiece in the priest's house  cooed  where Canon
O'Hanlon and Father Conroy  and the  reverend John Hughes S. J.  were taking
tea and sodabread and butter and fried mutton  chops with catsup and talking
about
     Cuckoo
     Cuckoo
     Cuckoo
     Because it was a little canarybird  bird  that  came out of its  little
house to  tell the time that Gerty  MacDowell noticed the time she was there
because  she was as  quick  as anything about  a thing like that,  was Gerty
MacDowell, and  she  noticed at once  that that foreign  gentleman  that was
sitting on the rocks looking was
     Cuckoo
     Cuckoo
     Cuckoo



    Ulysses 14: Oxen of the Sun


     DESHIL HOLLES EAMUS. DESHIL HOLLES EAMUS. DESHIL HOLES 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,  hoyaboy,  hoopsa! Hoopsa,  boyaboy,
hoopsa.
     Universally that  person's  acumen  is esteemed very  little perceptive
concerning whatsoever matters are being held  as most  profitable by mortals
with sapience endowed to be studied  who is ignorant of that  which the most
in doctrine erudite  and  certainly  by  reason of that in  them high mind's
ornament deserving of veneration constantly maintain when by general consent
they affirm that other circumstances being equal by no exterior splendour is
the  prosperity of a  nation more efficaciously asserted than by the measure
of  how far  forward  may have progressed  the tribute of its solicitude for
that  proliferent continuance  which of evils the  original if  it be absent
when  fortunately  present  constitutes  the  certain  sign  of  omnipollent
nature's  incorrupted benefaction.  For  who is there  who  anything of some
significance  has apprehended but is conscious that  that exterior splendour
may be the surface of a downwardtending lutulent reality or  on the contrary
anyone so is there inilluminated as not to perceive that as no nature's boon
can  contend against  the  bounty of increase so it behoves every most  just
citizen to  become the exhortator  and admonisher of  his semblables and  to
tremble lest what  had in the past been by the nation  excellently commenced
might be  in the future  not with  similar  excellence  accomplished  if  an
inverecund habit shall have gradually traduced  the  honourable by ancestors
transmitted  customs to  that  thither  of  profundity  that  that  one  was
audacious excessively who would have the hardihood to rise affirming that no
more odious offence can for anyone be than to oblivious neglect  to  consign
that evangel simultaneously command and promise  which on  all  mortals with
prophecy  of  abundance  or  with  diminution's   menace   that  exalted  of
reiteratedly procreating function ever irrevocably enjoined?
     It  is not why  therefore we shall  wonder if, as  the best  historians
relate,  among the  Celts, who  nothing that was not in its nature admirable
admired, the art  of medicine shall have been highly honoured. Not to  speak
of  hostels,  leperyards,  sweating chambers,  plaguegraves,  their greatest
doctors, the O'Shiels, the O'Hickeys, the O'Lees, have  sedulously set  down
the  divers methods by which  the sick and the relapsed  found  again health
whether  the  malady had been trembling withering  or loose boyconnell flux.
Certainly in  every  public work which  in  it anything  of gravity contains
preparation  should be with importance commensurate and therefore a plan was
by  them adopted  (whether  by having  preconsidered or as the maturation of
experience it is difficult  in being  said which the  discrepant opinions of
subsequent inquirers are not  up to the present congrued to render manifest)
whereby  maternity  was so  far from all accident possibility  removed  that
whatever care  the patient in that allhardest of woman hour chiefly required
and not  solely  for  the  copiously opulent but  also for her who not being
sufficiently  moneyed scarcely  and often  not even scarcely  could  subsist
valiantly and for an inconsiderable emolument was provided.
     To her nothing  already then and thenceforward  was  anyway  able to be
molestful for this chiefly felt all citizens except with proliferent mothers
prosperity at all not  to can  be  and as they  had  received eternity  gods
mortals generation to befit them her beholding, when the case was so  having
itself, parturient  in  vehicle the reward 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 babe bliss  had.  Within womb won he worship.  Whatever  in
that one case done  commodiously done was. A couch by midwives attended with
wholesome food reposeful cleanest swaddles as  though forthbringing were now
done and by wise foresight set:  but to this no less of what drugs there  is
need and surgical implements which are  pertaining to  her case not omitting
aspect  of all  very  distracting  spectacles in various  latitudes  by  our
terrestrial  orb  offered  together  with  images,  divine  and  human,  the
cogitation of which  by sejunct females is to tumescence conducive  or eases
issue in the high sunbright wellbuilt fair home of mothers when,  ostensibly
far gone and reproductitive, it is  come  by her thereto to lie in, her term
up.
     Some man that wayfaring was  stood by housedoor at night's oncoming. Of
Israel's folk was that man that on earth wandering far had fared. Stark ruth
of man his errand that him lone led till that house.
     Of that house  A. Horne  is lord. Seventy beds  keeps  he there teeming
mothers are  wont that they lie for to thole  and bring forth bairns hale so
God's angel to  Mary quoth.  Watchers they 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 mild-hearted eft rising
with swire  ywimpled  to him her gate wide undid. Lo, levin leaping lightens
in eyeblink Ireland's westward welkin! Full  she  dread 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 year had  long  outwandered. Once her in townhithe meeting
he to her  bow had not doffed. Her to forgive now he craved with good ground
of  her  allowed that  that of him  swiftseen  face, hers, so young then had
looked. Light swift her eyes kindled, bloom of blushes his word winning.
     As her eyes then ongot his weeds swart therefor sorrow she feared. Glad
after  she was that ere  adread  was. Her he asked if  O'Hare Doctor tidings
sent  from far coast  and  she  with  grameful sigh him answered that O'Hare
Doctor in heaven  was. Sad was the man that word to hear that him so heavied
in bowels ruthful. All  she there told him, ruing death for friend so young,
algate sore unwilling God's rightwiseness to withsay. She said that he had a
fair  sweet  death through God  His goodness with  masspriest to be shriven,
holy  housel and sick men's oil  to his limbs. The  man  then right  earnest
asked the nun of which death  the dead man was died and the nun answered him
and said that he  was died in Mona island through bellycrab three year agone
come Childermas and she prayed  to God the Allruthful  to have his dear soul
in his undeathliness.  He heard  her  sad words, in held hat sad staring. So
stood they there both awhile in wanhope, sorrowing one with other.
     Therefore, everyman,  look to that last end that  is thy  death and the
dust  that gripeth on every man that is born of woman for  as  he came naked
forth from his mother's womb so  naked shall he wend him at the last  for to
go as he came.
     The man that was come into 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
forth all to him 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 young 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  learning knight  yclept Dixon. And
the  traveller Leopold  was couth to him sithen  it had happed that they had
had ado  each  with  other in the house  of  misericord  where this learning
knight 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 into
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 subtle.  Also the  lady  was of his avis and reproved  the learning knight
though she trowed well that the traveller had said thing that was false  for
his  subtility.  But the learning knight 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 sometimes 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
for enchantment. And on this board were frightful swords and knives that are
made in a great cavern by swinking demons out of  white flames that they fix
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 blares into 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  olive
press. And also it was marvel to see in that castle how by magic they make a
compost  out of fecund wheat kidneys  out  of Chaldee that by aid of certain
angry  spirits that  they do into  it swells up wondrously  like  to a  vast
mountain. And they teach the serpents there to entwine themselves up on long
sticks out of the ground and of the scales of these serpents they brew out a
brewage like to mead.
     And  the learning knight let pour for childe Leopold a draught and halp
thereto  the  while all they that were  there drank  every  each. And childe
Leopold did up his beaver for to pleasure him and  took apertly  somewhat in
amity for  he never drank  no manner  of mead which  he then put by and anon
full  privily  he  voided the  more  part  in  his neighbour  glass  and his
neighbour wist not of his wile. And he sat down in that castle with them for
to rest him there awhile. Thanked be Almighty God.
     This  meanwhile  this good sister stood by the door  and begged them at
the reverence of  Jesu our  alther liege lord to leave  their wassailing for
there  was above one quick with child a gentle dame,  whose  time hied fast.
Sir Leopold heard on the upfloor cry on high and he wondered  what cry  that
it  was whether of child or woman and I marvel, said he, that it be not come
or now. Meseems it dureth overlong. And he  was ware and saw a franklin that
hight Lenehan on that side the  table that was older  than any of the tother
and for that  they both were knights virtuous in  the one emprise and eke by
cause that he was elder he spoke  to him full gently. But, said he, or it be
long too she will bring forth by God His bounty and have joy of her childing
for she hath waited marvellous long. And the franklin that had drunken said,
Expecting each moment to be her next. Also he took the cup that stood tofore
him for him needed never none asking nor desiring of him  to  drink and, Now
drink, said he, fully delectably, and he quaffed as far as he might to their
both's health for he  was  a passing good  man  of  his  lustiness. And  sir
Leopold that was the goodliest  guest that  ever  sat in scholars'  hall and
that was the meekest man and the kindest that ever laid husbandly hand under
hen and  that  was the very  truest knight of  the world  one that ever  did
minion service to  lady  gentle pledged  him courtly in the cup. Woman's woe
with wonder pondering.
     Now let us speak  of that fellowship that was there to the intent to be
drunken  an  they might. There  was a sort of scholars along either side the
board, that is to wit, Dixon  yclept junior of  saint Mary Merciable's  with
other his fellows Lynch and Madden, scholars of  medicine,  and the franklin
that high! Lenehan and one from Alba Longa, one Crotthers, and young Stephen
that had mien of a frere that was at head of the board and Costello that men
clepen Punch  Costello all long of a mastery of him  erewhile gested (and of
all  them, reserved  young  Stephen,  he was the  most drunken that demanded
still  of more mead) and  beside the meek sir Leopold. But  on young Malachi
they waited for that he promised to  have come  and such as intended  to  no
goodness said  how he had  broke his avow. And sir Leopold sat with them for
he bore  fast friendship to sir Simon and to this  his son young Stephen and
for that his languor becalmed him there after longest wanderings insomuch as
they feasted  him for that time in  the honourablest  manner. Ruth  red him,
love led on with will to wander, loth to leave.
     For they were right witty scholars. And  he heard their  aresouns  each
gen other as touching birth and righteousness, young Madden maintaining that
put  such  case it  were  hard the wife to  die (for so  it had fallen out a
matter of some  year agone with a woman of Eblana  in Horne's house that now
was trespassed out  of  this  world and the self night next before her death
all  leeches and pothecaries had taken counsel of her  case).  And they said
farther she should live because in the beginning they said the  woman should
bring  forth in pain  and  wherefore  they  that  were of  this  imagination
affirmed  how young Madden had  said  truth for he had conscience to let her
die. And  not few and of these was young Lynch were in doubt that the  world
was  now right  evil  governed as it was never other howbeit the mean people
believed it  otherwise but the law nor his judges  did provide no  remedy. A
redress  God grant. This was scant said but all cried with one acclaim  nay,
by  our Virgin Mother, the  wife should live and the babe to  die. In colour
whereof they waxed hot upon that head what with argument and what for  their
drinking  but the franklin Lenehan  was prompt each when to pour them ale so
that at the least way mirth might not lack. Then young Madden showed all the
whole  affair and when he  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 purge  fire. But,
gramercy,  what of those Godpossibled souls  that we  nightly unpossibilise,
which is the sin against the Holy Ghost,  Very God, Lord  and Giver of Life?
For, sirs, he said, our lust is brief. We are means to those small creatures
within us and nature has other ends than we. Then said Dixon junior to Punch
Costello wist he what ends. But he had overmuch drunken and the best word he
could have of him was that he would ever dishonest a woman whoso she were or
wife or maid or leman if it so fortuned him to be delivered of his spleen of
lustihead. Whereat Crotthers of Alba  Longa sang young  Malachi's praise  of
that  beast the unicorn how once in the millennium he cometh by his horn the
other all  this  while pricked forward with  their jibes wherewith  they did
malice him, witnessing all and several by saint Foutinus his engines that he
was able to  do any manner of thing that  lay in man to do.  Thereat laughed
they all right jocundly only young Stephen and sir Leopold which never durst
laugh too  open by reason of a strange humour which he  would not bewray and
also ford that he rued for her that bare  whoso she might be or wheresoever.
Then spoke  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 bring forth beastly should die by canon for so saith he that holdeth
the fisherman's seal, even that blessed Peter on which rock was  holy church
for all  ages founded. All they bachelors then asked of sir Leopold would he
in like case so jeopard  her person as risk life to save life. A wariness of
mind  he  would answer  as fitted  all  and,  laying  hand  to  jaw, he said
dissembling, as  his wont was, that as  it  was  informed  him, who had ever
loved  the art of physic  as  might  a layman,  and agreeing  also with  his
experience of so seldom seen an accident it  was good for that Mother Church
belike at one blow had birth and death pence and in  such sort deliverly  he
scaped their questions. That is truth,  pardy, said Dixon,  and, or I err, a
pregnant word. Which hearing young Stephen was  a marvellous glad man and he
averred that he who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord for he was of
a wild  manner when  he was drunken and  that he was now in  that taking  it
appeared eftsoons.
     But sir Leopold was passing grave maugre his word by cause he still had
pity of  the  terrorcausing shrieking of shrill women in their labour and as
he was  minded of his  good lady Marion that had borne  him an only manchild
which on his eleventh day  on live  had died and no man of art could save so
dark is destiny. And  she was wondrous  stricken of heart  for that evil hap
and for his burial did him on a fair corselet of lamb's wool, the flower  of
the flock, lest he might perish utterly and  lie  akeled  (for  it  was then
about  the midst of the winter) and now sir Leopold that  had of his body no
manchild  for an  heir  looked upon  him his friend's son and was shut up in
sorrow for his forepassed happiness and as sad as  he was that him failed  a
son of such gentle courage (for  all accounted him of real parts) so grieved
he also in  no  less measure for young Stephen for  that  he lived riotously
with those wastrels and murdered his goods with whores.
     About that present time young Stephen filled all cups  that stood empty
so as there remained but little mo if the prudenter had not  shadowed  their
approach  from him that still  plied it very busily  who,  praying  for  the
intentions  of the sovereign pontiff, he gave them for a pledge the vicar of
Christ which also as  he said is vicar of  Bray. Now drink we,  quod he,  of
this mazer and quaff ye this mead which is not indeed parcel  of my body but
my soul's bodiment.  Leave ye fraction of bread to them that live  by  bread
alone. Be not afeard neither  for any  want for this will comfort more  than
the other will dismay. See ye here. And he  showed them  glistering coins of
the tribute and goldsmiths'  notes the worth of  two pound nineteen shilling
that he had, he said, for a song which he writ. They all admired to see  the
foresaid riches  in such dearth  of money as was  herebefore. His words were
then  these  as  followeth:  Know  all  men,  he  said, time's  ruins  build
eternity's mansions. What means this? Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but
after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time. Mark
me now. In woman's womb word is made flesh but  in the spirit of  the  maker
all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the
postcreation. Omnis cam 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
parce que  M.  Lиo  Taxil nous a  dit que qui l'avait mise dans cette fichue
position    c'иtait   le   sacrи    pigeon,   ventre   de   Dieu!   Entweder
transsubstantiality oder consubstantiality but in no case subsubstantiality.
And all cried out upon It for a very scurvy word. A pregnancy  without  joy,
he said, a  birth without  pangs, a body  without  blemish, a  belly without
bigness. Let the  lewd  with  faith and fervour  worship. With will will  we
withstand, withsay.
     Hereupon  Punch Costello  dinged with his fist upon the board and would
sing  a bawdy catch Staboo Stabella  about a wench that was put in  pod of a
jolly swashbuckler in Almany which he did 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  not  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 with
menace of  blandishments others whiles all chode with him, a  murrain  seize
the dolt,  what a  devil he would be at, thou chuff, thou puny, thou  got in
the peasestraw, thou losel, thou chitterling, thou  spawn of  a  rebel, thou
dykedropt, thou abortion thou, to shut up his drunken drool out of that like
a  curse  of  God ape, the good sir Leopold that had for his  cognisance the
flower of quiet, margerain gentle, advising also the time's occasion as most
sacred  and  most worthy to  be most  sacred. In Horne's house  rest  should
reign.
     To  be  short this passage was scarce by  when  Master Dixon of Mary in
Eccles, goodly grinning, asked young Stephen what  was the reason why he had
not  cided to take friar's vows and he answered  him  obedience in the womb,
chastity in the tomb but involuntary poverty all his days. Master Lenehan at
this made  return that he had heard of those nefarious deeds and how, as  he
heard  hereof counted,  he had besmirched the  lily  virtue  of a  confiding
female  which  was  corruption of minors  and they all intershowed  it  too,
waxing merry  and toasting  to his fathership.  But he said very entirely it
was clean  contrary  to their suppose for  he was the  eternal son  and ever
virgin.  Thereat mirth grew in them the more  and  they rehearsed to him his
curious rite of wedlock for the disrobing and deflowering of spouses, as the
priests use in  Madagascar  island, she to be in guise of white and saffron,
her groom in white and grain, with burning of nard and tapers, on a bridebed
while  clerks sung  kyries and  the  anthem Ut novetur sexus omnis  corporis
mysterium  till she was there unmaided. He gave  them then a  much admirable
hymen minim by those delicate poets Master John Fletcher  and Master Francis
Beaumont that is in their Maid's Tragedy that was writ for a like twining of
lovers: To bed, to bed, was the burden of it to  be played with accompanable
concent  upon  the  virginals.  An  exquisite   dulcet  epithalame  of  most
mollificative suadency for juveniles amatory whom  the odoriferous flambeaus
of the paranymphs have escorted to the quadrupedal proscenium  of  connubial
communion. Well met they were, said Master Dixon, joyed,  but, harkee, young
sir, better were they named Beau Mount and  Lecher for, by my truth, 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, said Zarathustra, sometime regius
professor of  French letters to the university of  Oxtail nor breathed there
ever that man to whom mankind was more beholden. Bring a stranger within thy
tower it will go hard but thou wilt have the secondbest bed. Orate, fratres,
pro  memetipso.  And  all  the people shall say, Amen.  Remember, Erin,  thy
generations and thy days  of old, how thou settedst little  by me and by  my
word and broughtest 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 the  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 the Indian of dark speech with whom  thy
daughters did lie luxuriously? Look  forth now, my people,  upon the land of
behest, even from Horeb and from Nebo  and from Pisgah and from the Horns of
Hatten  unto  a land  flowing with milk and money. But  thou hast suckled me
with a bitter milk: my moon and my sun thou hast quenched for ever. And thou
hast left me  alone for ever in  the dark  ways of my bitterness: and with a
kiss of ashes hast  thou kissed my mouth. This tenebrosity  of the interior,
he proceeded to say,  hath  not been illumined by the wit of  the septuagint
nor  so  much as mentioned for the Orient from on  high  which  brake hell's
gates  visited  a  darkness   that  was  foraneous.  Assuefaction  minorates
atrocities (as  Tully saith  of  his darling Stoics)  and Hamlet  his father
showeth  the prince no blister of combustion. The  adiaphane  in the noon of
life  is   an  Egypt's  plague  which  in  the  nights  of  prenativity  and
postmortemity  is  their most proper  ubi and quomodo. And as the  ends  and
ultimates  of  all  things  accord in  some  mean  and  measure  with  their
inceptions and  originals,  that same  multiplicit  concordance which  leads
forth growth from  birth accomplishing by a retrogressive metamorphosis that
minishing  and ablation towards the final which is  agreeable unto nature so
is it with our subsolar being. The aged  sisters draw us into life: we wail,
batten, sport,  clip, clasp,  sunder, dwindle, die: over us dead  they bend.
First saved  from  water  of old  Nile, among bulrushes,  a bed of fasciated
wattles: at last the  cavity  of a mountain, an occulted sepulchre  amid the
conclamation of  the hillcat  and  the ossifrage. And as  no  man knows  the
ubicity of his tumulus nor to what processes we shall thereby be ushered nor
whether  to Tophet  or to  Edenville  in the like way  is all hidden when we
would  backward see  from  what region  of  remoteness the  whatness  of our
whoness hath fetched his whenceness.
     Thereto Punch Costello roared out mainly Etienne chanson but  he loudly
bid  them  lo,  wisdom  hath  built  herself  a  house,  this vast  majestic
longstablished vault,  the  crystal palace  of  the Creator  all in applepie
order, a penny for him who finds the pea.
     Behold the mansion reared by dedal Jack,
     See the malt stored in many a refluent sack,
     In the proud cirque of Jackjohn's bivouac.
     A black crack of noise in the street here, alack, bawled, back. Loud on
left Thor  thundered: in  anger awful  the  hammerhurler. Came now the storm
that hist  his  heart. And Master Lynch  bade him have a care  to  flout and
witwanton as the god self was angered for his  hellprate and paganry. And he
that  had erst challenged to be so doughty waxed pale as they might all mark
and  shrank together and his pitch that  was before so haught uplift was now
of a sudden  quite plucked  down and his heart shook within the cage  of his
breast as he tasted the rumour of that storm.  Then did  some mock and  some
jeer  and Punch  Costello fell hard again to his  yale  which Master Lenehan
vowed he would  do after and he was indeed but a word and  a blow on any the
least  colour.  But the braggart boaster cried that an old  Nobodaddy was in
his cups it was muchwhat  indifferent and he would not lag behind his  lead.
But this was  only to dye  his desperation as cowed  he  crouched in Horne's
hall. He drank indeed at one draught to pluck up a heart of any grace for it
thundered long rumblingly over all the heavens  so that Master Madden, being
godly certain whiles, knocked him  on his ribs  upon that crack of doom  and
Master Bloom, at the braggart's side spoke  to him  calming words to slumber
his  great fear,  advertising how  it was no other thing but  a hubbub noise
that he heard, the discharge of fluid from the thunderhead, look you, having
taken place, and all of the order of a natural phenomenon.
     But was young Boasthard's fear vanquished by Calmer's words? No, for he
had in his bosom a spike named  Bitterness which could not by words  be done
away. And was he then neither calm like the one nor godly like the other? He
was neither  as much as he  would have liked to be either. But could  he not
have endeavoured to have found again  as  in  his youth  the bottle Holiness
that then he lived withal? Indeed  not 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 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
and make more shows according  as  men do with  wives  which  Phenomenon has
commanded  them to  do by the book Law. Then wotted he nought of that  other
land  which  is  called  Believe-on-Me, that  is  the land of promise  which
behoves to the king Delightful and shall be for ever where there is no death
and no birth neither wiving nor mothering at which all shall come as many as
believe on it? Yes,  Pious had told him of  that land and Chaste had pointed
him to the way but the reason was that in the way he fell  in with a certain
whore  of an eyepleasing exterior whose name, she  said, is Bird-in-the-Hand
and she beguiled him wrongways from the true path by her flatteries that she
said to him as, Ho, you pretty man, turn aside hither and I will show  you a
brave place, and she lay at him so flatteringly that she had him in her grot
which is named Two-in-the-Bush or, by some learned, Carnal Concupiscence.
     This was it what all that company that sat there at commons in Manse of
Mothers  the  most   lusted  after  and  if   they  met   with   this  whore
Bird-in-the-Hand  (which was within all  foul plagues, monsters and a wicked
devil) they  would  strain the last but they would make at her and know her.
For regarding Believe-on-Me they said it was nought else but notion and they
could  conceive  no  thought of it  for, first, Two-in-the-Bush whither  she
ticed them was the very goodliest grot and in it were  four pillows on which
were four tickets with these words printed on them, Pickaback and Topsyturvy
and Shameface and Cheek by Jowl and, second, for that foul plague Allpox and
the monsters they cared not  for  them,  for Preservative had  given  them a
stout shield  of  oxengut and, third, that  they might take no hurt  neither
from Offspring  that  was that wicked devil by virtue  of  this  same shield
which was named Killchild.  So were  they all in their blind fancy, Mr Cavil
and Mr Sometimes Godly, Mr Ape Swillale, Mr False Franklin, Mr Dainty Dixon,
Young Boasthard and Mr Cautious Calmer. Wherein, O wretched company, were ye
all deceived  for that was the  voice of the god that was in a very grievous
rage that he would  presently lift his  arm and spill their souls for  their
abuses and their spillings done by them contrariwise to his word which forth
to bring brenningly biddeth.
     So Thursday sixteenth June Patk. Dignam laid in clay of an apoplexy and
after hard  drought, please God,  rained, a  bargeman coming  in by water  a
fifty mile or  thereabout with  turf saying the  seed  won't  sprout, fields
athirst, very sadcoloured and stunk mightily, the quags and  tofts too. Hard
to breathe and  all the  young quicks  clean consumed  without sprinkle this
long while  back as no man remembered to be without.  The rosy buds all gone
brown and spread out blobs and on the hills nought but dry flags 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 running that  was before
bonedry and not one chair or coach or fiacre seen  about but  no  more crack
after that first.  Over against  the Rt. Hon. Mr Justice  Fitzgibbon's  door
(that is to  sit  with  Mr  Healy the lawyer upon  the  college lands)  Mal.
Mulligan  a gentleman's  gentleman  that  had but come  from Mr Moore's  the
writer's (that was a papish but is now, folk say, a good Williamite) chanced
against Alec. Bannon  in a cut bob (which  are now In  with dance  cloaks of
Kendal green) that  was new got to town  from Mullingar with the stage where
his coz and Mal M's brother  will stay a month  yet  till  Saint Swithin and
asks what in the earth he does there, he bound home and he to Andrew Horne's
being stayed for to crush a cup of wine, so he said, but would tell him of a
skittish heifer, big  of her  age  and beef to  the heel and all  this while
poured  with rain and so both together  on to Horne's. There Leop.  Bloom of
Crawford's journal  sitting snug  with a  covey of  wags,  likely  brangling
fellows,  Dixon jun.,  scholar  of my  lady  of Mercy,  Vin. Lynch, a  Scots
fellow, Will. Madden, T. Lenehan, very  sad for a racinghorse he fancied and
Stephen  D. Leop.  Bloom there for a languor he had but was  now better,  he
having dreamed  tonight  a strange  fancy  of  his dame Mrs  Moll  with  red
slippers on in pair of  Turkey trunks which is thought by those in ken to be
for  a  change and  Mistress Purefoy there, that got in through pleading her
belly, and  now on  the  stools,  poor body,  two  days  past  her term, the
midwives sore put to it and can't deliver, she queasy for a bowl of riceslop
that is a shrewd drier up of the insides and her breath very heavy more than
good  and should be a bullyboy from the knocks they say, but  God  give  her
soon issue. 'Tis her  ninth chick to live, I hear, and  Lady day bit off her
last chick's  nails that  was then  a  twelvemonth  and with other three all
breastfed that died written out in a fair hand in the king's bible.  Her hub
fifty odd and a methodist but takes the Sacrament and is to be seen any fair
sabbath with  a pair of his boys off  Bullock  harbour dapping  on the sound
with a  heavybraked  reel or  in a  punt he  has  trailing for  flounder and
pollock and catches a fine bag, I  hear. In sum an infinite  great  fall  of
rain and all refreshed and will  much increase the harvest yet those in  ken
say  after wind and water fire shall come for a prognostication of Malachi's
almanac (and I hear that Mr Russell has done a prophetical charm of the same
gist out of the Hindustanish for his farmer's gazette)  to have three things
in all but this a  mere  fetch without bottom of reason  for  old crones and
bairns yet sometimes they are found in the right guess with their queerities
no telling how.
     With  this came up Lenehan  to the  feet  of  the  table to say how the
letter was in that night's gazette and he made a  show to find  it about him
(for  he  swore with  an  oath that he had  been  at pains about  it) but on
Stephen's  persuasion  he gave  over to 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 woman, horseflesh, or hot
scandal he had it pat. To tell the truth he was mean in fortunes and for the
most  part  hankered  about the  coffeehouses and low taverns  with  crimps,
ostlers,  bookies,  Paul's men,  runners, flatcaps, waistcoateers, ladies of
the bagnio and other rogues of  the game or with a chanceable catchpole or a
tipstaff often at  nights till broad day of whom  he picked up  between  his
sackpossets much loose gossip. He took his ordinary at  a boiling-cook'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
brandy shipper that has  a winelodge in Bordeaux  and he spoke French like a
gentleman too. From a child  this Frank had been a donought that his father,
a headborough, who could ill keep him to school to learn his letters and the
use of the globes, matriculated at the university to study the mechanics but
he took the bit between his teeth like a raw colt and was more familiar with
the  justiciary  and the  parish beadle than with  his volumes. One time  he
would be a playactor, then a sutler or a welsher, then nought would keep him
from the bearpit and the  cocking main, then he was for the ocean  sea or to
hoof it on  the  roads with  the Romany folk, kidnapping a squire's heir  by
favour or  moonlight or fecking maid's  linen  or choking  chickens 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  wools, having been  some
years  before actuary for Mr Joseph Cuffe, a worthy salesmaster  that  drove
his trade for live stock and meadow auctions hard  by Mr Gavin Low's yard in
Prussia street. I question with you there, says he. More like 'tis the hoose
of  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  cattle  breeder 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 gold  and  a sweet smoky breath coming  out of  his nostrils  so that the
women of our island, leaving doughballs and rollingpins,  followed after him
hanging his  bulliness  in daisychains.  What for that,  says  Mr Dixon, but
before  he  came  over farmer Nicholas  that was a  eunuch  had him properly
gelded by a college  of doctors,  who were no better off than himself. So be
off  now, says he, and do all my cousin german the Lord  Harry tells you and
take a  farmer's  blessing,  and  with that  he slapped  his posteriors very
soundly.  But the slap and the blessing  stood him  friend, says Mr Vincent,
for  to make up he  taught him a  trick worth two of the other so that maid,
wife, abbess and widow to this day affirm that they would rather any time of
the month whisper in his  ear in the dark of a cowhouse or get a lick on the
nape  from  his  long holy tongue  then lie with the finest  strapping young
ravisher in the four fields of  all  Ireland. Another  then put in his word:
And they dressed him, says he, in a point shift and petticoat with  a tippet
and girdle and ruffles on his wrists and clipped his forelock and rubbed him
all over with spermacetic oil and built stables for him at every turn of the
road with a gold manger  in  each full of the best hay in the market so that
he could doss and dung  to his  heart's  content. By this time the father of
the  faithful (for so  they called  him) was grown  so heavy  that he  could
scarce walk to pasture.  To  remedy  which our cozening  dames  and  damsels
brought him his fodder in their  apronlaps and as soon as his belly was full
he would rear up on his hind quarters to show their  ladyships a mystery and
roar  and bellow  out of him in bull's language and they all after him.  Ay,
says another, and so pampered was he  that he would suffer nought to grow in
all the land but green  grass for himself  (for that was the  only colour to
his mind) and there was a board put up on a  hillock  in the  middle of  the
island with a printed notice,  saying: By the lord Harry  green is the grass
that grows on the ground. And,  says  Mr  Dixon, if ever  he got scent  of a
cattleraider in Roscommon or the wilds of Connemara or a husbandman in Sligo
that was sowing as much as  a handful of mustard or a bag of rapeseed out he
run  amok over half the countryside rooting  up with his horns whatever  was
planted and all by lord Harry's orders. There was bad blood between them  at
first, says Mr Vincent, and the lord Harry  called farmer  Nicholas  all the
old Nicks in the world and an old whoremaster that kept seven trulls  in his
house  and I'll meddle in his matters, says he. I'll make that  animal smell
hell,  says he, with the help of that good pizzle my father left me. But one
evening, says Mr Dixon, when the lord Harry  was cleaning  his royal pelt to
go to dinner after winning a boatrace (he had spade oars for himself but the
first rule of the course was that the others were to row with pitchforks) he
discovered  in himself a wonderful likeness to a  bull  and on picking  up a
blackthumbed chapbook  that he kept in  the pantry he found sure enough that
he was a lefthanded descendant of the  famous champion bull  of the  Romans,
Bos Bovum, which is good bog Latin for boss of the show. After that, says Mr
Vincent, the  lord Harry  put his  head  into a cow's drinking trough 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
bull's 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 up
on what took his fancy, the side of a  rock or a teahouse table or a bale of
cotton or a corkfloat. In short he and the bull of Ireland were soon as fast
friends as an arse and a shirt. They were, says Mr Stephen, and the  end was
that the men of the island, seeing  no help was  toward as the ungrate women
were  all  of  one mind,  made a wherry raft,  loaded  themselves  and their
bundles  of chattels on shipboard,  set  all masts erect, manned the  yards,
sprang their luff, heaved to, spread three sheets in the  wind, put her head
between wind  and  water, weighed anchor, ported her helm, ran up  the jolly
Roger, gave three times three,  let  the bullgine run, pushed  off  in their
bumboat  and  put to  sea to  recover the  main  of America.  Which was  the
occasion,  says  Mr  Vincent, of  the  composing  by  a  boatswain  of  that
rollicking chanty:
     -- Pope Peter's but a pissabed.
     A man's a man for a' that.
     Our worthy acquaintance,  Mr  Malachi  Mulligan, now  appeared  in  the
doorway as the students  were finishing  their apologue accompanied  with  a
friend  whom  he  had just  rencountered,  a young gentleman,  his name Alec
Bannon, who had late come to town, it being his intention to buy a colour or
a  cornetcy in the fencibles  and list for  the wars. Mr Mulligan  was civil
enough to express some relish of it all the more as it jumped with a project
of his own for the cure of the very  evil that had been touched  on. Whereat
he handed round to  the company a set of  pasteboard cards which  he had had
printed that  day at Mr Quinnell's bearing a legend printed in fair italics:
Mr Malachi Mulligan, Fertiliser and Incubator,  Lambay Island.  His project,
as he went on  to  expound, was to withdraw from the round of idle pleasures
such as  form  the chief business  of sir Fopling Popinjay  and  sir Milksop
Quidnunc in town  and  to devote himself to the noblest task  for  which our
bodily organism has  been framed. Well, let us hear of  it, good  my friend,
said Mr Dixon. I make no doubt it smacks of wenching. Come, be seated, both.
'Tis as  cheap sitting as standing. Mr Mulligan  accepted  of the invitation
and, expatiating  on 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 for 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 inconvenience (which he concluded due to  a
suppression  of  latent heat), having  advised with  certain  counsellors of
worth and inspected  into  this matter, he had resolved  to  purchase in fee
simple  for ever the freehold  of Lambay island from its holder, lord Talbot
de Malahide, a Tory gentleman of  not 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.
The both, it seems, had been overtaken by the rain and for all their mending
their  pace  had  taken  water,  as  might  be  observed  by  Mr  Mulligan's
smallclothes  of a hodden grey which was now somewhat piebald.  His  project
meanwhile was very  favourably entertained by his auditors  and  won  hearty
eulogies from all though Mr Dixon of Mary's excepted  to it,  asking with  a
finicking  air did he purpose also to carry  coals to Newcastle. Mr Mulligan
however made court to the  scholarly  by an apt quotation from the  classics
which as it dwelt upon his memory seemed to him a sound and tasteful support
of his contention: Talis ac tanta  depravatio  hujus seculi, O quirites,  ut
matres   familiarum   nostro   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  his  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
befallen  him,  could not  forbear to  tell it  his  nearest  neighbour.  Mr
Mulligan,  now  perceiving the table, asked for  whom  were those loaves and
fishes  and, seeing the  stranger, he made him a civil  bow  and said, Pray,
sir, was you in need of any professional assistance we could give? Who, upon
his offer, thanked him very heartily, though preserving his proper distance,
and replied  that he was come there about a lady, now  an inmate  of Horne's
house, that  was in  an  interesting condition, poor lady,  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  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 storms of mirth and threw the whole room into
the most  violent agitations of delight.  The spry rattle had run  on in the
same vein of mimicry but for some larum in the antechamber.
     Here the listener, who was none other than the Scotch student, a little
fume of a fellow, blond as tow, congratulated in the liveliest  fashion with
the young  gentleman  and, interrupting  the narrative at a  salient  point,
having desired his visavis with a polite beck to have  the  obligingness  to
pass him a flagon of cordial waters at the  same  time by a questioning pose
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 head,
asked  the narrator as plainly as was ever done in words  if  he might treat
him with a  cup of it. Mais bien  sшr, noble stranger, said he  cheerily, et
mille compliments. That you  may and very  opportunely. There wanted nothing
but this cup to crown my felicity. But, gracious heaven, was I left with but
a crust  in my wallet and a  cupful of water from the well, my God, I  would
accept of  them  and find it in my heart to kneel  down upon the ground  and
give thanks to the powers above for the happiness vouchsafed me by the Giver
of good things. With these words he approached the  goblet to his lips, took
a complacent  draught  of the  cordial,  slicked his  hair and, opening  his
bosom, out popped a locket that  hung from  a silk riband that very  picture
which he had cherished ever  since  her hand  had wrote therein. Gazing upon
those  features with a  world of tenderness, Ah, Monsieur, he said, had  you
but  beheld her as I did  with these eyes at that affecting instant with her
dainty tucker and her new coquette cap (a gift for her feast day as she told
me) 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 blessing 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! Would to God that foresight had remembered
me to take my cloak  along! I could weep to think of it. Then, though it had
poured seven showers, we  were neither of us  a penny the worse. But beshrew
me, he cried, clapping hand to his forehead, tomorrow will be a new day and,
thousand thunders, I know of  a  marchand de  capotes, Monsieur Poyntz, from
whom I can have for a livre  as snug a  cloak of the  French fashion as ever
kept a lady from wetting.  Tut, Tut! cries  le Fиcondateur,  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 heart  and it  has become a household word that il y a deux choses
for  which the  innocence  of  our original garb,  in  other circumstances a
breach of the proprieties, is the fittest nay, the only, garment. The first,
said she (and here my pretty philosopher, as I handed her to her tilbury, to
fix my attention,  gently  tipped  with her tongue the  outer  chamber of my
ear),  the first is a bath... but at  this point a bell tinkling in the hall
cut short a discourse  which promised so bravely for the enrichment  of  our
store of knowledge.
     Amid the  general vacant hilarity of the assembly a bell rang and while
all were  conjecturing  what  might be  the cause  Miss Callan  entered and,
having  spoken  a few  words in a low tone to young Mr Dixon, retired with a
profound bow to the company. The presence even for a moment among a party of
debauchees  of  a woman endued with every quality of  modesty  and  not less
severe  than beautiful  refrained the humorous  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 cow-flesh! I'll be sworn  she  has rendezvoused  you. What,  you
dog? Have you a way  with them? Gad's bud. Immensely so,  said Mr Lynch. The
bedside manner it is that  they use in  the Mater  hospice.  Demme, does not
Doctor O'Gargle chuck the nuns there under the chin? As I look to be saved I
had it from  my  Kitty  who has been wardmaid  there  any time  these  seven
months. Lawksamercy,  doctor, cried  the young blood  in  the primrose vest,
feigning  a  womanish simper and immodest squirmings of his body, how you do
tease a body! Drat the man! Bless me, I'm all of a wibblywobbly. 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 ain't in the family  way. I knows a
lady what's  got  a white swelling quick  as I claps  eyes on her. The young
surgeon,  however, rose and begged the company to  excuse his retreat as the
nurse had just then informed him  that he was needed in  the ward.  Merciful
providence had been pleased to put  a  period to the sufferings  of the lady
who  was enceinte which she had borne with a laudable fortitude and  she had
given  birth  to  a bouncing boy.  I want patience, said he,  with those who
without  wit  to enliven  or  learning  to  instruct,  revile  an  ennobling
profession  which, saving the reverence due  to the Deity,  is the  greatest
power  for happiness upon the earth. I am positive  when I say  that if need
were I could produce a  cloud of witnesses  to  the excellence  of her noble
exercitations  which,  so  far  from being a byword,  should  be  a glorious
incentive in the human breast. I cannot away with them. What? Malign such an
one, the amiable Miss Callan, who  is  the lustre of her  own  sex  and  the
astonishment of ours  and at an instant the most momentous that can befall a
puny child of clay?  Perish the thought! I shudder to think of the future of
a race where  the seeds  of such  malice  have been sown and where no  right
reverence is rendered to mother and maid in house of Horne. Having delivered
himself  of  this rebuke he saluted those present on the by and repaired  to
the door. A murmur of approval arose from all and some were for ejecting the
low soaker without  more ado, a design which would  have  been effected  nor
would  he have received  more than his bare deserts had he  not abridged his
transgression by  affirming with a horrid imprecation (for  he swore a round
hand) that he was as good a son of the true fold  as ever drew breath.  Stap
my vitals, said he, them was always the sentiments of  honest Frank Costello
which I was bred up most particular to honour thy father and thy mother that
had the best hand to  a  rolypoly  or a hasty pudding as you ever see what I
always looks back on with a loving heart.
     To revert to Mr Bloom who, after his first entry, had been conscious of
some impudent mocks which he, however,  had  borne with  being the fruits of
that age upon which it is commonly charged that it knows not pity. The young
sparks,  it is  true, were as  full of extravagancies as overgrown children:
the  words  of their tumultuary discussions were  difficultly understood and
not often  nice:  their testiness  and outrageous mots  were  such that  his
intellects  resiled  from:  nor  were  they  scrupulously  sensible  of  the
proprieties  though  their  fund of  strong  animal  spirits spoke in  their
behalf. But the word of Mr Costello was an unwelcome language for him for he
nauseated the wretch that  seemed to him a cropeared creature of a misshapen
gibbosity born out of wedlock and  thrust like a crookback teethed and  feet
first into the world, which  the dint  of the  surgeon's pliers in his skull
lent indeed a colour to, so as it 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 a rare forecast, he had enjoined  his  heart to repress  all
motions  of  a  rising  choler and, by intercepting  them  with the readiest
precaution, foster within his breast that plenitude of sufferance which base
minds  jeer at, rash judgers scorn and all find tolerable and but tolerable.
To  those who create  themselves  wits at  the cost of  feminine delicacy (a
habit of mind which he never did hold with) to them he would concede neither
to bear the name nor to herit the  tradition of a proper breeding: while for
such that, having lost all forbearance, can lose no more, there remained the
sharp antidote of experience to cause their  insolency to beat a precipitate
and inglorious  retreat. Not  but what he  could feel  with mettlesome youth
which,  caring  nought for the mows  of  dotards  or  the  gruntlings of the
severe, is ever (as the  chaste  fancy of the  Holy Writer  express it)  for
eating of the tree forbid it yet not so far forth as  to  pretermit humanity
upon  any  condition  soever  towards a gentlewoman when she was  about  her
lawful occasions. To conclude, while from the sister's words he had reckoned
upon a speedy  delivery  he was, however,  it must be  owned,  not a  little
alleviated by the intelligence that  the issue so auspicated after an ordeal
of such duress now testified once more to the mercy as well as to the bounty
of the Supreme Being.
     Accordingly he broke his mind to his neighbour, saying that, to express
his notion  of  the  thing, his opinion  (who ought not perchance to express
one)  was that one must have a cold constitution  and a frigid genius not to
be rejoiced by this  freshest news of the fruition of her confinement  since
she had  been in such pain through  no fault of hers. The dressy young blade
said it  was  her husband's that put her in that expectation or at least  it
ought to  be unless  she  were another Ephesian matron. I must acquaint you,
said Mr Crothers, clapping on the table so as to evoke a resonant comment of
emphasis, old Glory  Allelujerum was round again to-day, an elderly man with
dundrearies,  preferring  through  his  nose  a  request  to  have  word  of
Wilhelmina, my life, as  he  calls her. I bade him hold himself in readiness
for  that the event would  burst  anon.  'Slife, I'll  be  round with you. I
cannot but extol the virile potency of the old bucko  that could still knock
another  child out  of her.  All fell to praising of it, each  after his own
fashion, though the same young  blade held with his former view that another
than her conjugial had been the man in the gap, a clerk in orders, a linkboy
(virtuous) or  an itinerant  vendor of  articles needed  in every household.
Singular, communed the  guest  with himself, the wonderfully unequal faculty
of metempsychosis possessed by them,  that the puerperal  dormitory  and the
dissecting theatre should be the seminaries of such frivolity, that the mere
acquisition of academic titles  should  suffice to transform  in  a pinch of
time these votaries of levity into exemplary  practitioners of an  art which
most men anywise  eminent have esteemed  the noblest. But, he further added,
it is mayhap to relieve  the pentup feelings that in common oppress them for
I have more than once observed that birds of a feather laugh together.
     But  with what fitness, let it be asked, of the noble lord, his patron,
has this alien, whom the concession  of  a  gracious prince has  admitted to
civil rights, constituted himself the lord paramount of our internal polity?
Where is now that gratitude which loyalty should have counselled? During the
recent war whenever  the enemy had a temporary  advantage  with his granados
did this  traitor to his kind not seize that  moment to  discharge his piece
against the empire of which he is a tenant at will while he trembled for the
security  of  his four  per cents? Has he forgotten this  as he forgets  all
benefits received? Or  is  it  that from being a  deluder  of others he  has
become at  last his  own dupe as he is, if report belie him not his own  and
his  only enjoyer? Far  be  it from candour  to violate the bedchamber  of a
respectable  lady, the daughter  of a  gallant major,  or  to cast the  most
distant reflections upon her virtue but if he challenges attention there (as
it  was indeed highly  his interest not to have done) then be it so. Unhappy
woman she has been  too  long  and  too  persistently denied  her legitimate
prerogative to listen to  his objurgations with  any other feeling than  the
derision of  the desperate. He says this, a censor of morals, a very pelican
in his  piety,  who did not  scruple, oblivious  of  the  ties of nature, to
attempt illicit intercourse with a  female  domestic drawn from  the  lowest
strata of society. Nay, had the hussy's scouringbrush not been her  tutelary
angel  it had gone  with her  as  hard  as with  Hagar, the Egyptian! In the
question of the grazing lands his  peevish  asperity is notorious  and in Mr
Cuffe's hearing brought upon him from an indignant rancher a scathing retort
couched in terms as straightforward as they were bucolic. It ill becomes him
to  preach that gospel. Has he not nearer home a seed-field that lies fallow
for the want of a  ploughshare?  A habit reprehensible at puberty  is second
nature and an  opprobium in  middlelife.  If  he must dispense  his  balm of
Gilead  in nostrums and apothegms  of dubious taste to  restore to health  a
generation of unfledged profligates let his practice consist better with the
doctrines  that  now engross him. His marital  breast is  the repository  of
secrets which decorum  is reluctant to  adduce. The lewd suggestions of some
faded beauty may console him for a consort neglected and  debauched but this
new exponent  of morals and  healer of  ills is at his  best  an exotic tree
which, when  rooted in  its  native orient,  throve and  flourished  and was
abundant in balm but, transplanted to a clime more temperate, its roots have
lost their  quondam  vigour  while  the  stuff  that comes away from  it  is
stagnant, acid and inoperative.
     The news  was  imparted  with a circumspection recalling the ceremonial
usages 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 officer 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 restrain. The moment was too propitious
for the display of that discursiveness which seemed the only bond  of  union
among tempers  so divergent. Every  phase of the situation  was successively
eviscerated:  the  prenatal  repugnance  of  uterine brothers, the Caesarean
section,  posthumity with respect to  the father and, that rarer form,  with
respect to  the mother, the fratricidal case known as the Childs  murder and
endered 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 and dissimulated, acardiac ftus in ftu, aprosopia due to a
congestion, the agnatia  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  perpetuation 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 multigeminal,
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  master-piece  with  chromolithographic
illustrations. The gravest problems of obstetrics and forensic medicine were
examined with as much animation  as the most popular beliefs on the state of
pregnancy such as the forbidding to a gravid  woman  to step over  a country
stile 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 primafacie  and
natural hypothetical explanation of swineheaded (the  case of Madame Grissel
Steevens  was  not forgotten)  or doghaired infants occasionally  born.  The
hypothesis  of a plasmic memory, advanced by the taledonian envoy and worthy
of the metaphysical  traditions of the land he stood for, envisaged  in such
cases  an  arrest  of  embryonic development at some stage antecedent to the
human. An  outlandish delegate sustained  against both these views with such
heat as almost carried conviction the theory of copulation between women and
the males  of brutes,  his authority  being his own avouchment in support of
fables such as that of the Minotaur  which the  genius of the  elegant Latin
poet has handed down to us in the pages of his Metamorphoses. The impression
made by his words was immediate but shortlived. It  was effaced as easily as
it had been evoked by an allocution  from Mr Candidate Mulligan in that vein
of pleasantry which none better than  he knew know 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 in the even  of one
Siamese  twin  predeceasing the other, the difficulty by mutual  consent was
referred to Mr Canvasser Bloom for instant submittal to  Mr Coadjutor Deacon
Dedalus.  Hitherto  silent,  whether the  better  to  show by  preternatural
gravity that curious dignity of the garb with which  he  was  invested or in
obedience to an  inward  voice,  he  delivered briefly, and as  some thought
perfunctorily,  the ecclesiastical ordinance  forbidding man  to put asunder
what God has joined.
     But Malachias' tale  began to freeze  them with horror.  He conjured up
the scene before them. The secret panel  beside the chimney slid back and in
the recess appeared... Haines! Which of us did not feel  his flesh creep? He
had a portfolio full of Celtic literature in one hand, in  the other a phial
marked Poison. Surprise, horror, loathing were  depicted on  all faces while
he  eyed  them with a  ghastly 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 Mananaan! The sage repeated Lex talionis.
The sentimentalist  is he  who  would  enjoy without  incurring  the immense
debtorship for a  thing done.  Malachias, overcome  by emotion, ceased.  The
mystery was unveiled.  Haines  was  the  third brother.  His real  name  was
Childs. The black panther was himself the ghost of his own  father. He drank
drugs to obliterate. For  this relief much  thanks. The  lonely house by the
graveyard  is uninhabited. No  soul will live there. The spider pitches  her
web in  the solitude. The nocturnal rat peers  from his hole.  A curse is on
it. It is haunted. Murderer's ground.
     What is  the age  of the  soul of  man?  As  she hath the virtue of the
chameleon to change her hue at every new approach,  to be gay with the merry
and mournful with the downcast, so too is her age changeable as her mood. No
longer  is  Leopold,  as  he  sits  there, ruminating, chewing  the  cud  of
reminiscence, that staid agent of publicity and holder of a modest substance
in  the funds.  He is young Leopold, 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  Clambrassil  street to  the high school,  his book
satchel on him bandolierwise,  and  in it a goodly  hunk  of wheaten loaf, a
mother's thought. Or it is the  same figure, a  year or so gone over, in his
first hard hat (ah,  that  was a  day!), already on the road, a  fullfledged
traveller  for the  family  firm,  equipped  with  an orderbook,  a  scented
handkerchief (not for  show only), his  case of  bright trinketware (alas, a
thing now of the  past!), and  a quiverful of compliant smiles for  this  or
that halfwon housewife reckoning it out upon her fingertips or for a budding
virgin shyly acknowledging (but the heart? tell me!) his studied baisemoins.
The scent,  the  smile but more  than  these,  the dark  eyes and oleaginous
address brought  home at duskfall many a commission to the head of the  firm
seated with Jacob's pipe after like labours in the paternal ingle (a meal of
noodles, you  may  be  sure,  is  aheating),  reading  through  round horned
spectacles  some paper from the Europe of a month  before. But  hey, presto,
the mirror is breathed on and the young knighterrant recedes, shrivels, 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 luck-penny), together they hear
the heavy tread of  the watch  as  two raincaped  shadows pass the new royal
university.  Bridie!  Bridie  Kelly!  He  will never forget the  name,  ever
remember  the  night,  first night, the  bridenight.  They  are entwined  in
nethermost darkness, the willer with the willed, and  in  an instant (fiat!)
light shall flood the world. Did heart leap to heart? Nay, fair reader. In a
breath 'twas  done but - hold! Back! It must not be! In terror the poor girl
flees  away through the murk. She is  the bride of  darkness, a daughter  of
night.  She dare not bear the sunnygolden babe of day. No, Leopold! Name and
memory  solace thee not. That youthful  illusion  of thy strength  was taken
from thee and in vain.  No son of thy loins is by thee. There is none now to
be for Leopold, what Leopold was for Rudolph.
     The  voices blend  and  fuse  in clouded silence:  silence  that is the
infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the  soul is wafted over regions of
cycles of  cycles  of  generations  that have  lived.  A  region where  grey
twilight  ever  descends,  never  falls  on  wide  sagegreen  pasturefields,
shedding  her dusk,  scattering a  perennial dew of stars.  She  follows her
mother with ungainly steps, a mare leading her fillyfoal.  Twilight phantoms
are they yet moulded in prophetic grace of structure, slim shapely haunches,
a  supple  tendonous  neck,  the  meek  apprehensive skull.  They  fade, sad
phantoms: all is gone. Agendath is  a waste land,  a home of screechowls and
the sandblind upupa. Netaim, the golden, is  no more. And on the highway  of
the clouds they come, muttering thunder of rebellion, the ghosts  of beasts.
Huuh!  Hark! Huuh!  Parallax stalks behind  and goads them,  the lancinating
lightnings of whose brow are scorpions. Elk and yak, the bulls of Bashan and
of  Babylon, mammoth  and mastodon, they  come trooping  to  the sunken sea,
Lacus Mortis. Ominous, revengeful zodiacal host! They moan, passing upon the
clouds, horned and capricorned, the trumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned
the giantantlered,  snouter and crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all
their moving moaning multitude, murderers of the sun.
     Onward to  the dead sea they tramp to drink, unslaked and with horrible
gulpings, the  salt somnolent inexhaustible  flood. And  the  equine portent
grows  again,  magnified  in  the  deserted  heavens, nay  to  heaven's  own
magnitude, till it  looms, vast, over the house of Virgo. And, lo, wonder of
metempsychosis, it is  she, the everlasting bride, harbinger of the daystar,
the bride, ever virgin. It is she,  Martha, thou lost  one,  Millicent,  the
young, the dear, the radiant. How serene does she  now arise, a  queen among
the  Pleiades, in the penultimate antelucan hour, shod  in sandals of bright
gold,  coifed  with a veil of  what do you call it gossamer!  It floats,  it
flows about her starborn flesh and loose it streams emerald, sapphire, mauve
and heliotrope, sustained on currents  of 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.  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 mans face grew dark. All could see how
hard it was for him to be reminded of his promise and of his recent loss. He
would have  withdrawn from the feast had not the noise of voices allayed the
smart. Madden  had lost five drachmas on Sceptre  for a whim of the  rider's
name:  Lenehan as  much more. He  told them  of the race. The flag fell and,
huuh, off,  scamper, the mare  ran out  freshly with O.  Madden  up. She was
leading the  field: all hearts were  beating. Even Phyllis could not contain
herself. She  waved her  scarf and  cried: Huzzah! Sceptre wins!  But in the
straight  on  the  run  home  when all were in close order  the  dark  horse
Throwaway  drew  level, reached, outstripped  her. All was lost now. Phyllis
was silent: her eyes  were sad anemones. Juno, she cried,  I  am undone. But
her lover consoled her  and brought her a bright casket of gold in which lay
some oval sugarplums which  she partook.  A tear  fell: one only. A whacking
fine whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane. Four winners yesterday and three today.
What rider is like him? Mount him on the camel or the boisterous buffalo the
victory in a hack canter is still his. But let us bear it as was the ancient
wont. Mercy on the luckless! Poor Sceptre! he said with a light sigh. She is
not the filly  that she was.  Never, by  this  hand,  shall  we behold  such
another. By gad, sir, a queen of them. Do you remember her,  Vincent? I wish
you  could  have  seen my queen  today, Vincent said,  how young she was and
radiant (Lalage were scarce  fair beside her) in her yellow  shoes and frock
of muslin, I do not know the right  name of it. The chestnuts that shaded us
were in bloom: the air drooped with their  persuasive odour and with  pollen
floating by us. In the sunny patches one might easily have cooked on a stone
a batch of those buns with Corinth fruit  in them that Periplepomenos  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 dose. A week ago she lay ill, four days on the couch, but today she  was
free, blithe, mocked at peril. She is more  taking then. Her posies too! Mad
romp  that it 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 the little mirror she carries. But he had been kind. In going  by he
had blessed us. The gods too are ever kind, Lenehan said. If I had poor luck
with Bass's mare perhaps  this draught of his may  serve me more propensely.
He  was laying his hand upon a winejar: Malachi saw it and withheld his act,
pointing  to  the  stranger  and  to  the  scarlet  label.  Warily,  Malachi
whispered, preserve a druid silence. His soul  is far away. It is as painful
perhaps to  be awakened from a vision as to be born.  Any  object, intensely
regarded, may be a gate of access to  the incorruptible  eon of the gods. Do
you not think it, Stephen?  Theosophos told me so, Stephen answered, whom in
a previous existence Egyptian priests initiated into the mysteries of karmic
law.  The lords of the moon,  Theosophos  told me, an  orange-fiery shipload
from planet Alpha of the lunar chain, would not  assume the etheric  doubles
and  these  were therefore incarnated  by the  ruby-coloured  egos from  the
second constellation.
     However, as a matter of fact though, the preposterous surmise about him
being in some description of a  doldrums  or other or  mesmerised, which was
entirely  due to  a  misconception of the shallowest  character, was not the
case at all. The individual whose visual organs, while  the above  was going
on,  were at this juncture commencing to exhibit symptoms of animation,  was
as astute if not  astuter than any man living  and anybody  that conjectured
the contrary would have found  themselves pretty speedily in the wrong shop.
During the past four  minutes or  thereabouts he had been staring hard at  a
certain  amount  of  number  one Bass  bottled by  Messrs  Bass  and  Co  at
Burton-on-Trent which happened to be situated amongst a lot  of others right
opposite  to  where  he was  and which  was certainly calculated  to attract
anyone's remark on account of  its scarlet  appearance. He  was  simply  and
solely,  as  it  subsequently transpired  for  reasons best known to himself
which put quite an altogether different complexion on the proceedings, after
the  moment  before's  observations  about  boyhood  days   and   the  turf,
recollecting two or three private transactions  of  his own  which the other
two were as  mutually innocent  of as the babe  unborn. Eventually, however,
both their eyes met and, as soon as  it  began to dawn on him that the other
was  endeavouring  to help himself to the thing, he involuntarily determined
to help him himself and so he accordingly took hold of the mediumsized glass
recipient which contained the fluid sought after  and made a  capacious hole
in  it by  pouring a lot of it out with, also at  the  same time  however, a
considerable degree of attentiveness in order not to upset  any of  the beer
that was in it about the place.
     The debate which ensued was in its scope and progress an epitome of the
course of life.  Neither  place  nor  council  was lacking  in  dignity. The
debaters  were the keenest in  the land, the theme they  were engaged on the
loftiest and  most vital. The high hall of Horne's house had never beheld an
assembly so  representative  and so varied nor had the old  rafters of  that
establishment ever listened to a language so  encyclopaedic. A gallant scene
in truth it  made.  Crothers  was there  at the foot  of the  table  in  his
striking Highland garb, his face glowing from the briny airs  of the Mull of
Galloway. There  too,  opposite to him  was  Lynch,  whose  countenance bore
already  the  stigmata of  early  depravity and  premature wisdom.  Next the
Scotchman was  the place  assigned  to Costello, the eccentric, while at his
side was seated in stolid repose the squat form of  Madden. The chair of the
resident indeed stood vacant before the hearth but on either flank of it the
figure  of  Bannon  in  explorer's kit  of tweed  shorts and salted  cowhide
brogues  contrasted sharply with the primrose  elegance and townbred manners
of Malachi Roland St John Mulligan. Lastly at  the head of the board was the
young poet who found a refuge from his labours of pedagogy  and metaphysical
inquisition in the  convivial  atmosphere of Socratic  discussion,  while to
right and  left of him were accommodated the  flippant prognosticator, fresh
from  the  hippodrome,  and that vigilant wanderer, soiled  by the  dust  of
travel  and combat  and stained by the mire  of an  indelible dishonour, but
from  whose steadfast  and constant heart no  lure or  peril  or  threat  or
degradation could ever efface  the image of that voluptuous loveliness which
the inspired pencil of Lafayette has limned for ages yet to come.
     It had better be stated  here and now at  the outset that the perverted
transcendentalism  to  which  Mr S. Dedalus'  (Div. Scep.) contentions would
appear to prove him pretty badly addicted runs  directly counter to accepted
scientific methods.  Science, it cannot be too often  repeated,  deals  with
tangible phenomena.  The man  of science like the man in  the street has  to
face hardheaded facts that cannot  be  blinked and explain  them as  best he
can.  There may be, it is true, some questions which science cannot answer -
at  present -  such as  the first problem submitted by  Mr  L.  Bloom (Pubb.
Canv.) regarding the future determination of sex. Must we accept the view of
Empedocles of  Trinacria  that  the right  ovary (the  postmenstrual period,
assert  others) is responsible for the birth  of  males or are the too  long
neglected spermatozoa or nemasperms the differentiating factors or is it, as
most  embryologists  incline  to  opine,  such  as  Culpepper,  Spallanzani,
Blumenbach,  Lusk, Hertwig,  Leopold and  Valenti,  a mixture of  both? This
would be tantamount to  a  cooperation (one of  nature's favourite  devices)
between  the nisus formativus  of the  nemasperm on the one hand and on  the
other a happily chosen  position, succubitus  felix, of the passive element.
The other problem raised by the same inquirer is scarcely less vital: infant
mortality. It is interesting because, as he  pertinently remarks, we are all
born in the same way but we all die in different ways. Mr M. Mulligan  (Hyg.
et  Eug.  Doc.)  blames  the  sanitary conditions  in  which our  greylunged
citizens  contract  adenoids,  pulmonary  complaints  etc. by  inhaling  the
bacteria  which lurk  in  dust. These facts,  he  alleges, and the revolting
spectacles  offered  by  our streets, hideous  publicity  posters, religious
ministers  of all  denominations,  mutilated soldiers and  sailors,  exposed
scorbutic  cardrivers,  the  suspended carcases of  dead  animals,  paranoic
bachelors and  unfructified duennas - these, he said,  were accountable  for
any and  every  fallingoff  in  the  calibre  of  the  race.  Kalipedia,  he
prophesied, would  soon be  generally adopted and all  the  graces of  life,
genuinely  good  music, agreeable literature, light philosophy,  instructive
pictures,  plastercast reproductions of  the classical statues such as Venus
and Apollo, artistic coloured photographs of  prize babies, all these little
attentions would enable ladies who  were in a  particular  condition to pass
the  intervening months in a most enjoyable manner. Mr  J.  Crotthers (Disc.
Bacc.)  attributes some of  these demises to abnormal 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 balk
nature in her intentions. An ingenious suggestion is that thrown  out by  Mr
V. Lynch (Bacc.  Arith.) that  both natality and mortality,  as well  as all
other  phenomena  of  evolution,  tidal   movements,  lunar  phases,   blood
temperatures,  diseases  in general, everything, in fine,  in  nature's vast
workshop from the extinction of some remote  sun to the blossoming of one of
the countless flowers which beautify our public parks, is  subject to  a law
of numeration as yet unascertained. Still the plain straightforward question
why  a  child of normally healthy parents and  seemingly a healthy child and
properly  looked after succumbs  unaccountably  in early  childhood  (though
other children of the same marriage  do  not)  must certainly, in the poet's
words, give  us pause.  Nature,  we  may rest  assured, has her own good and
cogent reasons for whatever she does and in all probability such deaths  are
due to some law of  anticipation by which  organisms in  which morbous germs
have taken up their residence (modern  science  has conclusively shown  that
only the plasmic substance can  be said to be immortal) tend to disappear at
an increasingly earlier stage of development, an arrangement,  which, though
productive of pain to  some  of  our feelings  (notably  the  maternal),  is
nevertheless, some of us think,  in the long run  beneficial  to the race in
general in  securing  thereby the survival  of  the fittest. Mr  S. Dedalus'
(Div.  Scep.)  remark  (or  should it be called  an interruption?)  that  an
omnivorous being  which  can masticate, deglute,  digest and apparently pass
through  the  ordinary  channel  with  pluterperfect  imperturbability  such
multifarious  aliments  as  cancrenous  females  emaciated  by  parturition,
corpulent  professional gentlemen, not to speak of jaundiced politicians and
chlorotic nuns, might  possibly find gastric relief in an innocent collation
of staggering  bob, reveals  as  nought else could  and in  a very unsavoury
light the tendency above alluded to. For  the enlightenment of those who are
not  so intimately acquainted with the minutiae of the municipal abattoir as
this morbidminded esthete and embryo philosopher who for all his overweening
bumptiousness in things scientific can scarcely distinguish an acid from  an
alkali prides himself on being, it should perhaps be stated  that staggering
bob in  the vile parlance  of our lower class 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 Mdw., 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 esthetic
allusion, presumably,  to one of the most  complicated and marvellous of all
nature's processes, the act of sexual congress) she must let it out again or
give it life, as he phrased it, to save her own.  At the risk of her own was
the telling rejoinder of  his interlocutor none  the less effective for  the
moderate and measured tone in which it was delivered.
     Meanwhile the skill and patience  of  the physician had brought about a
happy accouchement. It had been  a  weary  weary while both for patient  and
doctor. All that surgical skill could  do was  done  and the brave woman had
manfully helped. She had. She had fought the good fight and now she was very
very happy. Those who have passed on, who have gone before, are happy too as
they gaze down and smile  upon the touching scene. Reverently look at her as
she reclines there with the motherlight in her eyes, that longing hunger for
baby fingers (a pretty sight  it is to see),  in  the first bloom of her new
motherhood,  breathing a silent prayer of  thanksgiving to  One  above,  the
Universal Husband. And  as her loving eyes  behold her babe  she wishes only
one blessing more, to have her dear Doady there  with her to share  her joy,
to lay in his  arms  that mite  of God's  clay,  the  fruit  of their lawful
embraces. He is older now (you and I may whisper it) and a trifle stooped in
the shoulders yet in the whirligig of  years a grave dignity has come to the
conscientious second accountant of the Ulster bank, College Green  branch. O
Doady, loved  one of old, faithful lifemate now, it may never be again, that
faroff time of  the roses! With the old shake of her pretty head she recalls
those  days.  God,  how  beautiful now  across  the mist of years! But their
children are  grouped  in her imagination about  the bedside, hers  and his,
Charley,  Mary  Alice,  Frederick Albert  (if  he  had lived),  Mamy,  Budgy
(Victoria  Frances),  Tom, Violet  Constance  Louisa,  darling little  Bobsy
(called after our  famous  hero  of the  South African  war,  lord  Bobs  of
Waterford and Candahar) and now this last pledge of their  union, a  Purefoy
if  ever there was one,  with the true Purefoy  nose. Young hopeful  will be
christened  Mortimer Edward after the influential third cousin of Mr Purefoy
in the Treasury Remembrancer's  office, Dublin  Castle. And so time wags on:
but father Cronion has dealt lightly  here. No,  let no sigh break from that
bosom,  dear  gentle Mina. And Doady, knock  the ashes from  your pipe,  the
seasoned briar  you still fancy when the curfew rings for you (may it be the
distant day!) and dout the light whereby you read in the Sacred Book for the
oil  too has run low  and so with a tranquil heart to bed, to rest. He knows
and will call in His own  good time. You  too have fought the good fight and
played  loyally  your man's part. Sir, to  you my hand. Well done, thou good
and faithful servant!
     There  are  sins or (let  us  call them  as the  world calls them) evil
memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart but
they abide  there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim, let them
be as though  they had not been  and all but persuade himself that they were
not or at least  were  otherwise. Yet  a chance  word will  call  them forth
suddenly  and they  will  rise  up  to  confront  him  in  the  most various
circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while  timbrel  and  harp soothe  his
senses or amid  the  cool silver tranquillity 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
off from the living but shrouded in the piteous vesture of the past, silent,
remote, reproachful.
     The stranger still regarded on the face before  him a slow recession of
that false calm  there, imposed,  as it seemed,  by  habit or  some  studied
trick,  upon  words  so  embittered  as   to  accuse  in  their  speaker  an
unhealthiness,  a  flair,  for the cruder things of life. A scene disengages
itself  in the  observer's memory, evoked,  it would seem, by a  word  of so
natural  a homeliness as if those days  were  really  present there (as some
thought) with their immediate pleasures. A shaven space of lawn one soft May
evening, the wellremembered grove of lilacs at Roundtown, purple and  white,
fragrant  slender spectators of  the game but with much real interest in the
pellets as  they run  slowly forward over the sward or collide and stop, one
by  its fellow,  with a  brief alert shock. And  yonder about  that grey urn
where the water moves at times  in thoughtful irrigation  you saw another as
fragrant sisterhood, Floey, Atty, Tiny and their  darker friend with  I know
not what of arresting  in her  pose then, Our Lady of the Cherries, a comely
brace  of them  pendent from an ear, bringing out the foreign  warmth of the
skin so  daintily against the cool  ardent fruit.  A  lad of four or five in
linseywoolsey (blossomtime but there will be cheer in the kindly hearth when
ere long  the bowls are gathered and hutched) is standing on the urn secured
by that circle of  girlish fond hands. He frowns a little just as this young
man does now with a perhaps too conscious enjoyment of danger but must needs
glance at  whiles towards where his mother watches from the piazzetta giving
upon  the  flower-close  with  a faint shadow  of remoteness or of  reproach
(alles Vergдnghche) in her glad look.
     Mark  this farther  and remember.  The end comes  suddenly. Enter  that
antechamber of  birth where the studious are assembled and note their faces.
Nothing, as it seems, there of rash or violent. Quietude of  custody rather,
befitting their station in that house,  the vigilant  watch of shepherds and
of angels about a crib in  Bethlehem of  Juda  long ago. But  as before  the
lightning  the  serried  stormclouds,  heavy  with  preponderant  excess  of
moisture, in swollen masses turgidly distended, compass earth and sky in one
vast slumber, impending above parched field  and  drowsy oxen  and  blighted
growth of shrub and  verdure till in an instant a flash  rives their centres
and with the reverberation of  the thunder the cloudburst pours its torrent,
so and not otherwise was the transformation, violent and instantaneous, upon
the utterance of the Word.
     Burke's!  Outflings my  lord Stephen,  giving the cry,  and  a  tag and
bobtail  of  all  them  after,  cockerel,  jackanapes, welsher,  pilldoctor,
punctual Bloom at heels with  a universal  grabbing  at headgear, ashplants,
bilbos, Panama  hats  and  scabbards,  Zermatt alpenstocks and  what  not. A
dedale of lusty  youth, noble every student there. Nurse  Callan taken aback
in the hallway cannot stay them nor smiling  surgeon coming  downstairs with
news of placentation ended, a full pound if a milligramme. They hark him on.
The door!  It is open? Ha?  They are  out tumultuously, off  for  a minute's
race, all bravely legging it, Burke's of Denzille  and Holles their ulterior
goal.  Dixon  follows, giving them  sharp language but  raps out an oath, he
too, and on. Bloom stays  with nurse a thought to send a kind  word to happy
mother and  nurseling up  there. Doctor Diet and Doctor Quiet. Looks she too
not other now? Ward of watching in Horne's house has told  its tale in  that
washedout pallor.  Them  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, glistering on  Dublin stone  there under  starshiny coelum. God's
air, the Allfather's air, scintillant circumambient  cessile air. Breathe it
deep into thee.  By heaven, Theodore Purefoy,  thou hast done a doughty deed
and no botch! Thou art,  I vow, the remarkablest  progenitor barring none in
this chaffering allincluding most  farraginous chronicle. Astounding! In her
lay a Godframed  Godgiven preformed possibility which  thou hast  fructified
with thy modicum of man's work. Cleave to her! Serve! Toil on, labour like a
very bandog  and let scholarment and all Malthusiasts go  hang. Thou art all
their  daddies,  Theodore.  Art  drooping  under  thy  load,  bemoiled  with
butcher's  bills at home and ingots (not thine!) in  the countinghouse? Head
up? For every newbegotten thou shalt  gather  thy homer of  ripe wheat. See,
thy fleece is  drenched. Dost envy  Darby Dullman there  with  his  Joan?  A
canting jay and a rheumeyed curdog is all their progeny. Pshaw, I tell thee!
He is a mule, a dead gasteropod, without vim or stamina, not worth a cracked
kreutzer. Copulation without population! No, say I! Herod's slaughter of the
innocents   were   the  truer   name.  Vegetables,  forsooth,  and   sterile
cohabitation!  Give  her  beefsteaks, red,  raw,  bleeding! She  is  a hoary
pandemonium  of  ills, enlarged  glands, mumps, quinsy,  bunions,  hayfever,
bedsores,  ringworm,  floating  kidney,  Derbyshire   neck,  warts,  bilious
attacks,  gallstones,  cold feet, varicose veins.  A  truce  to  threnes and
trentals and jeremies and all such congenital defunctive music. Twenty years
of it, regret  them not.  With thee it  was  not as with many that  will and
would  and wait and never  do. Thou sawest thy America,  thy  lifetask,  and
didst charge to cover like the transpontine bison.  How saith  Zarathusthra?
Deine  kuh Trэbsal melkest  Du. Nun trinkst Du die  sэsse 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 guzzlingden, milk of madness, the  honeymilk of Canaan's
land.  Thy cow's dug was tough, what? Ay, but her milk is hot and  sweet and
fattening. No dollop this but thick rich bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch!
Pap! Per deam Partulam et Pertundam nunc est bibendum!
     All off  for a buster, armstrong, hollering down the street. Bonafides.
Where you slep las nigh?  Timothy of the  battered naggin.  Like ole Billyo.
Any brollies or gumboots in the family? Where the Henry Nevil's sawbones and
ole  clo?  Sorra  one  o  me  knows.  Hurrah there, Dix! Forward 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 us, dear  sir? No
hentrusion in life. Lou heap good man. Allee samee this bunch. En avant, mes
enfants! Fire away number one on the gun. 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  mхre m'a
mariиe. British Beatitudes!  Ratamplan Digidi Boum Boum. Ayes have it. To be
printed  and bound  at the Druiddrum  press  by two  designing females. Calf
covers of pissedon green.  Last word in art shades. Most beautiful book come
out  of Ireland  my time. Silentium!  Get  a spurt on.  Tention. Proceed  to
nearest canteen and there annex liquor stores. March! Tramp, tramp the  boys
are  (attitudes!)   parching.   Beer,  beef,  business,   bibles,  bulldogs,
battleships,  buggery and  bishops. Whether on  the scaffold high.  Beerbeef
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 Эbermensch.  Dittoh.  Five
number  ones. You,  sir?  Ginger  cordial.  Chase  me,  the  cabby's candle.
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 was settin sleep 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 best  a  gert vool.  Well,  doc?  Back  fro Lapland?  Your  corporosity
sagaciating OK? 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 pepper,  you there. Catch aholt.
Caraway seed to  carry  away. Twig?  Shrieks of  silence. Every cove to  his
gentry mort. Venus Pandemos. Les petites femmes. Bold bad girl from the town
of Mullingar. Tell her I was  axing at her. Hauding Sara by the wame. On the
road to Malahide. Me? If she who  seduced me had  left but the name. What do
you  want for ninepence?  Machree,  Macruiskeen. Smutty  Moll for a mattress
jig. And a pull altogether. 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 vely 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. Mowsing 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 Castille. Rows of
cast. Police! Some H2O for a gent fainted. Look at Bantam's flowers. Gemini,
he's going to holler. The colleen  bawn, my colleen bawn. O, cheese it! Shut
his blurry Dutch oven with a firm hand. Had the  winner  today till I tipped
him a dead cert. The ruffin cly the nab of Stephen. Hand as give me the jady
coppaleen. He strike a telegramboy paddock wire big bug Bass  to  the depot.
Shove  him  a  joey and  grahamise.  Mare  on  form hot order. Guinea  to  a
goosegog.  Tell a cram, that. Gospel-true. 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. Comeahome, our Bantam.  Horryvar, mong vioo.
Dinna forget the cowslips for hersel. Cornfide. Wha gev ye thon colt? Pal to
pal. Jannock. Of John Thomas, her spouse. No  fake, old man  Leo.  S'elp me,
honest injun. Shiver my timbers if I had.  There's  a great  big holy friar.
Vyfor you  no me tell? Vel,  I ses, if that aint a sheeny nachez, vel, I vil
get misha mishinnah. Through yerd our lord, Amen.
     You move  a  motion?  Steve  boy, you're  going  it some.  More  bluggy
drunkables? Will immensely splendiferous stander permit one stooder  of most
extreme  poverty  and one  largesize  grandacious  thirst to  terminate  one
expensive inaugurated  libation? Give's a breather. Landlord, landlord, have
you good wine,  staboo? Hoots,  mon, wee drap  to pree.  Cut and some again.
Right  Boniface!  Absinthe  the  lot.  Nos  omnes biberimus  viridum toxicum
diabolus capiat posteriora nostra 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 will
yu  help, yung man hoose  frend  tuk  bungalo kee to find plais whear to lay
crown off his hed 2  night.  Crickey, I'm about sprung. Tarnally dog gone my
shins if this  beent  the bestest putties longbreakyet. 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. Who wander through the world. Health all. A la vтtre!
     Golly, whatten  tunket's  yon guy in the mackintosh? Dusty Rhodes. Peep
at  his  wearables. By mighty!  What's he  got? Jubilee  mutton. Bovril,  by
James. Wants it real bad. D'ye ken  bare  socks? Seedy cuss in the Richmond?
Rawthere! Thought he had a deposit of lead in  his penis. Trumpery insanity.
Bartle the Bread we calls him. That, sir, was once a prosperous cit. Man all
tattered and torn that  married  a maiden all  forlorn. Slung  her hook, she
did.  Here see lost love. Walking Mackintosh of lonely canyon. Tuck and turn
in. Schedule time. Nix  for the hornies. Pardon? See him today at a runefal?
Chum o yourn passed in  his checks? Ludamassy! Pore picanninies!  Thou'll no
be telling me thot, Pold veg! Did  urns blubble bigsplash crytears cos fries
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 thy fou. The Leith police dismisseth  us. The
least tholice.  Ware  hawks for  the chap  puking. Unwell in  his abominable
regions. Yooka. Night. Mona, my thrue love. Yook. Mona, my own love. Ook.
     Hark! Shut your obstropolos. Pflaap! Pflaap! Blaze on. There she  goes.
Brigade!  Bout ship. Mount street way. Cut up.  Pflaap!  Tally ho.  You  not
come? Run, skelter, race. Pflaaaap!
     Lynch! Hey?  Sign on long o me. Denzille lane this way. Change here for
Bawdyhouse. We  two, she said,  will seek  the  kips  there  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 four flushers, false alarms and  excess
baggage! Come  on, you triple extract of infamy! Alexander J.  Christ Dowie,
that's  yanked  to  glory most  half  this  planet  from  'Frisco  Beach  to
Vladivostok. The Deity ain't  no nickel  dime bumshow. I put it to you  that
he's on  the  square and  a  corking  fine  business proposition.  He's  the
grandest  thing yet and don't you forget it.  Shout salvation in King Jesus.
You'll need to rise  precious early, you sinner there, if you want to diddle
the Almighty God.  Pflaaaap! Not half. He's got  a coughmixture with a punch
in it for you, my friend, In his backpocket. Just you try it on.
     Circe
     The Mabbot  street  entrance of  nighttown,  before which  stretches an
uncobbled   transiding   set   with   skeleton   tracks,   red   and   green
will-o'-the-wisps  and danger  signals. Rows of  flimsy  houses with  gaping
doors.  Rare lamps  with  faint  rainbow fans. Round Rabaiotti's  halted ice
gondola stunted men  and women squabble. They grab wafers  between which are
wedged  lumps  of  coal  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 deaf mute  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 Kithoguel Salute.
     THE IDIOT (Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles.) Grhahute!
     THE CHILDREN Where's the great light?
     THE IDIOT (Gobbing.) Ghaghahest.
     (They  release him. He  jerks on. A pygmy  woman swings on a rope slung
between the  railings,  counting.  A form  sprawled  against  a  dustbin and
muffled  by its  arm and  hat  moves,  groans, grinding  growling teeth, and
snores  again. On  a  step a  gnome totting  among a rubbish tip crouches to
shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A crone standing by with a smoky oil lamp
rams the 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
papershuttlecock, crawls  sidling  after  her in spurts, clutches her skirt,
scrambles up. A drunken navvy ups with both hands the  railings of  an area,
lurching heavily. At a corner two night watch in shoulder capes, their hands
upon their staffholsters, loom tall. A  plate crashes;  a  woman screams;  a
child wails. Oaths of a  man roar, mutter, cease. Figures wander, lurk, peer
from warrens. In a room  lit by a candle stuck in  a bottleneck a slut combs
out  the tatts  from the hair of a scrofulous child. Cissy Caffrey's  voice,
still young, sings shrill from a lane.)
     CISSY CAFFREY
     I gave it to Molly
     Because she was jolly,
     The leg of the duck
     The leg of the duck.
     (Private Cart 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 Cart and  Private Compton turn and counterretort, their tunics
bloodbright  in  a  lampglow, black  sockets  of caps on their blond  copper
polls.  Stephen  Dedalus  and  Lynch  pass through  the  crowd  close to the
redcoats.)
     PRIVATE COMPTON (Jerks his finger.) Way for the parson.
     PRIVATE CARR (Turns and calls.) What ho, parson!
     CISSY CAFFREY (Her voice soaring higher.)
     She has it, she got it,
     Wherever she put it
     The leg of the duck.
     (Stephen, flourishing the ashplant  in  his  left hand, chants with joy
the introit for paschal time. Lynch, his jockey cap 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 aliqantulum) Et omnes ad quos pervenit acqua 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 say the one: I seen you up Faithful place
with your squarepusher, the  greaser off  the railway, in his cometobed hat.
Did you, says I. That's not for you to say, says I. You never seen me in the
mantrap with a married  highlander, says  I. The likes of her! Stag that one
is. Stubborn as  a mule!  And  her walking with two  fellows  the one  time,
Kildbride the enginedriver and lancecorporal Oliphant.
     STEPHEN (Triumphaliter.) Salvi facti i 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 scar's it with a kick.)
     LYNCH So that?
     STEPHEN (Looks behind.)  So that gesture, not music, not odours,  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 Mecklenburg 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  and 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 juventutem meam.
     (Stephen  thrusts  the ashplant on him and slowly holds out his  hands,
his head going back till both hands are a span  from his breast, down turned
in planes intersecting, the fingers about to part, the left being higher.)
     LYNCH  Which  is  the  jug  of  bread?  It  skills  not.  That  or  the
customhouse. Illustrate thou. Here take your crutch and walk.
     (They pass. Tommy Caffrey  scrambles to a gaslamp and, clasping, climbs
in spasms. From  the top spur he slides down. Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb.
The navvy  lurches against the lamp. The  twins scuttle off in the dark. The
navvy, swaying, presses a forefinger against a wing of his  nose  and ejects
from the farther nostril a long liquid  jet of snot. Shouldering the lamp he
staggers away through the crowd with his flaring cresset.
     Snakes  of river  fog  creep slowly.  From  drains, clefts,  cesspools,
middens arise on  all sides stagnant fumes. A glow leaps in the south beyond
the seaward reaches of the  river. The navvy staggering  forward cleaves the
crowd and lurches towards the  tramsiding. On  the farther  side  under  the
railway bridge Bloom appears flushed, panting,  cramming bread and chocolate
into a side  pocket. From Gillens hairdressers  window  a composite portrait
shows  him gallant Nelson's image. A concave mirror at the side presents  to
him  lovelorn  longlost lugubru Booloohoom. Grave Gladstone sees  him  level
Bloom for Bloom. He passes,  struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but
in the con vex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck  cheekchops
of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
     At  Antonio Babaiotti's  door  Bloom halts,  sweated  under the  bright
arclamps. He disappears. In a moment he reappears and hurries on.)
     BLOOM Fish and taters. N. g. Ah!
     (He  disappears  into  Olhousen's,  the  pork   butcher'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 rib and groans.)
     BLOOM Stitch in my side. Why did I run?
     (He takes breath with care  and goes forward slowly towards the lampset
siding. The glow leaps again.)
     BLOOM What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.
     (He stands at Cormack's corner watching.)
     BLOOM Aurora  borealis or  a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade, of course.
South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar's bush. We're safe.
(He hums cheerfully.)  London's burning, London's burning! On fire, on fire!
(He catches sight of the navvy lurching  through  the  crowd at the  farther
side of Talbot street.) I'll miss him. Run. Quick. Better cross here.
     (He darts to cross the road. Urchins shout.)
     THE  URCHINS Mind  out,  mister!  (Two  cyclists,  with  lighted  paper
lanterns aswing, swim by him, grazing him, their bells rattling.)
     THE BELLS Haltyaltyaltyall.
     BLOOM (Halts erect stung by a spasm.) Ow.
     (He looks  round,  darts forward suddenly. Through rising  fog a dragon
sandstrewer, travelling  at caution, slews heavily  down  upon him, its huge
red  headlight winking, its  trolley hissing on the wire. The motorman bangs
his footgong.)
     THE GONG Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.
     (The brake  cracks  violently. Bloom, raising a policeman's whitegloved
hand, blunders stifflegged,  out of the track. The motorman  thrown forward,
pugnosed, on the guidewheel, yells as he slides past over chains and keys.)
     THE MOTORMAN Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hattrick?
     BLOOM (Bloom trickleaps to the curbstone and halts again.  He brushes a
mudflake from his cheek with a parcelled hand.) No thoroughfare. Close shave
that  but cured the  stitch. Must take up  Sandow's exercises again. On  the
hands down.  Insure against street accident too. The Providential. (He feels
his trouser pocket.) Poor mamma's panacea. Heel easily  catch in  tracks  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'Beirnes  wall,  a
visage unknown, injected with dark mercury. From under a wideleaved sombrero
the figure regards him with evil eye.)
     BLOOM Buenos noches, seяorita Blanca, que calle es esta?
     THE FIGURE (Impassive, raises a signal arm.) Password. Sraid Mabbot.
     BLOOM Haha. Merci. Esperanto. Slan  leath. (He mutters.)  Gaelic league
spy, sent by that fireeater.
     (He steps forward.  A  sackshouldered ragman  bars his  path. He  steps
left, ragsackman left.)
     BLOOM I beg. (He swerves, sidles, stepsaside, slips past and on.)
     BLOOM Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a fingerpost 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, pursepocket,
sweets of sin, potato soap.)
     BLOOM Beware of pickpockets. Old  thieves'  dodge. Collide. Then snatch
your purse.
     (The  retriever approaches sniffling, 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  smoking cap with magenta tassels.  Horned spectacles
hang down at the wings of the nose. Yellow  poison streaks are on  the drawn
face.)
     RUDOLPH  Second halfcrown waste  money today.  I  told you  not go with
drunken goy ever. So. You catch no money.
     BLOOM  (Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back and, crestfallen,
feels warm and cold feetmeat) Ja, ich weiss, papachi.
     RUDOLPH What you making down this place? Have you no soul? (With feeble
vulture  talons he  feels the  silent face of  Bloom)  Are  you  not my  son
Leopold, the  grandson of Leopold? Are you not my dear son Leopold  who left
the house of his father and left the god of his fathers Abraham and Jacob?
     BLOOM  (With  precaution.) I suppose so,  father. Mosenthal. All that's
left of him.
     RUDOLPH (Severely.) One  night they bring you home  drunk as  dog after
spend your good money. What you call them running chaps?
     BLOOM  (In  youth's  smart  blue  Oxford  suit  with  white  vestslips,
narrowshouldered,  in  brown  Alpine  hat,  wearing  gent's  sterling silver
waterbury keyless watch and  double curb Albert with seal attached, one side
of him coated with stiffening mud.) Harriers, father. Only that once.
     RUDOLPH Once! Mud head to  foot. Cut your hand open. Lockjaw. They make
you kaput, Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps.
     BLOOM (Weakly.)  They  challenged  me  to  a  sprint.  It was muddy.  I
slipped.
     RUDOLPH (With  contempt) Ooim nachez.  Nice  spectacles for  your  poor
mother!
     BLOOM Mamma!
     ELLEN BLOOM (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, crinoline and bustle,
widow Twankey's blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned  behind, grey mittens
and cameo brooch,  her  hairplaited  in  a crisping  net,  appears over  the
staircase  banisters, a slanted candlestick in  her hand  and  cries out  in
shrill alarm.) O blessed Redeemer, what have  they done  to him! My smelling
salts! (She hauls up  a reef of skirt and  ransacks the pouch of her striped
blay petticoat. A phial,  an Agnus Dei, a shrivelled  potato and a celluloid
doll fall out.) Sacred Heart of Mary, where were you at all, at all?
     (Bloom, mumbling,  his  eyes downcast, begins to bestow  his parcels in
his filled pockets but desists, muttering.)
     A VOICE (Sharply.) Poldy!
     BLOOM Who? (He ducks and wards off a blow clumsily.) At your service.
     (He  looks  up. Beside her mirage  of datepalms  a  handsome  woman  in
Turkish  costume  stands  before him. Opulent  curves fill  out  her scarlet
trousers and jacket slashed with gold. A wide yells  cummerbund girdles her.
A white  yashmak violet in the night, covers her face, leaving free only her
lace 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  excuses,  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! Feminimum.
     (The  camel,  lifting a foreleg, plucks from a tree a lace mango fruit,
offers it to his mistress, blinking, in his cloven hoof then droops his head
and, grunting, with  uplifted neck, fumbles  to kneel. Bloom stoops his back
for leapfrog.)
     BLOOM I can give you... I mean as your business menagerer Mrs Marion...
if you...
     MARION So  you  notice some change? (Her  hands passing slowly over her
trinketed  stomacher. A slow friendly mockery in her eyes.) O  Poldy, Poldy,
you are a poor old stick in the mud! Go and see life. See the wide world.
     BLOOM  I was just going  back  for  that lotion whitewax,  orangeflower
water. Shop closes  early on Thursday.  But the  first thing in the morning.
(He pats divers pockets.) This moving kidney. Ah!
     (He  points to the south, then to the east.  A cake of new  clean lemon
soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.)
     THE SOAP
     We're a capital couple are Bloom and I;
     He brightens the earth, I polish the sky.
     (The freckled face of  Sweny, the  druggist, appeals in the disc of the
soapsun.)
     SWENY Three and a penny, please.
     BLOOM Yes. For my wife, Mrs Marion. Special recipe.
     MARION (Softly.) Poldy!
     BLOOM Yes, ma'am?
     MARION Ti trema un poco il cuore?
     (In  disdain she saunters  away,  plump  as  a  pampered pouter pigeon,
humming the duet from Don Giovanni)
     BLOOM Are you sure about that Voglio? I mean the pronunciati...
     (He follows, followed by the sniffing terrier. The  elderly bawd seizes
his sleeve, the bristles of her chinmole glittering.)
     THE  BAWD  Ten shillings  a maidenhead.  Fresh thing was never touched.
Fifteen. There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk.
     (She points.  In the gap of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled Bridie
Kelly stands.)
     BRIDIE Hatch street. Any good in your mind?
     (With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl  and runs. A burly rough pursues
with booted strides. He stumbles on the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom.
Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker.)
     THE  BAWD (Her wolfeyes shining.) He's getting his pleasure.  You won't
get  a  virgin in the flash houses. Ten shillings. Don't be all night before
the polis in plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is a bitch.
     (Leering Gerty MacDowell limps  forward. She draws from  behind ogling,
and shows coyly her bloodied clout.)
     GERTY With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. (She murmurs.) You did
that. I hate you.
     BLOOM I? When? You're dreaming. I never saw you.
     THE BAWD Leave the gentleman  alone, you  cheat.  Writing the gentleman
false letters. Streetwalking and soliciting. Better for your mother take the
strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you.
     GERTY (To  Bloom.)  When you saw all the  secrets  of my bottom drawer.
(She paws his  sleeve,  slobbering.) Dirty married man! I love you for doing
that to me.
     (She slides 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 me? Don't
give me away. Walls  have hears. How  do  you do? It's ages  since I. You're
looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable weather we  are having this time
of  year. Black refracts  heat. Short  cut  home  here. Interesting quarter.
Rescue of fallen women Magdalen asylum. I am the secretary...
     MRS  BREEN  (Holds up a  finger.)  Now don't tell  a  big  fib! I  know
somebody won't like that. O just wait till I see Molly! (Slily.) Account for
yourself this very minute or woe betide you!
     BLOOM (Looks behind.) She often said she'd like to visit. Slumming. The
exotic,  you  see. Negro servants  too  in  livery 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 lace 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.)
     There's someone in the house with Dina
     There's someone in the house, I know,
     There's someone in the house with Dina
     Playing on the old banjo.
     (They  whisk  black  masks  from  raw  babby  faces:  then,  chuckling,
chortling, trumming, twanging they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.)
     BLOOM (With a sour tenderish smile.) A little frivol, shall we,  if you
are  so  inclined? Would  you  like me  perhaps to  embrace you just  for  a
fraction of a second?
     MRS BREEN (Screams gaily.) O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself!
     BLOOM For old sake'sake. I only meant a square party, a mixed  marriage
mingling of our different little  conjugials. You  know  I had a soft corner
for you. (Gloomily.) 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the dear gazelle.
     MRS BREEN Glory Alice,  you do look a holy show!  Killing  simply. (She
puts out her hand inquisitively.) What are you hiding behind your back? Tell
us, there's a dear.
     BLOOM (Seizes her wrist  with his free  hand.)  Josie Powell  that was,
prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember, harking back in
a  retrospective  arrangement,  Old   Christmas  night   Georgina  Simpson's
housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin
blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this snuff box?
     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 watered-silk  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 tea pot  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 thumbs  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.) Lю ci darem la mano.
     MRS BREEN  (In a  onepiece eveningfrock 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!  (Dennis  Breen, whitetallhatted, with Wisdom  Hely's  sandwich
board, shuffles past them in  cadet  slippers, his  dull  beard thrust  out,
muttering to right  and left. Little  Alf Bergan, cloaked in the pall of the
ace of spaces, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter.)
     ALF BERGAN (Points jeering at the sandwich boards.) U.p.: Up.
     MRS BREEN (To Bloom.) High jinks below stairs. (She gives him  the glad
eye.) Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well? You wanted to.
     BLOOM (Shocked.) Molly's best friend! Could you?
     MRS BREEN (Her  pulpy tongue between  her lips,  offers a pigeon kiss.)
Hnhn. The answer is a lemon. Have you a little present for me there?
     BLOOM  (Off  handedly.)  Kosher. A snack for supper.  The home  without
potted meat is  incomplete.  I was at Leah.  Mrs  Bandman Palmer.  Trenchant
exponent of Shakespeare. Unfortunately  threw  away the  programme. Rattling
good place round there for pig's 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  ins it and shows it
full of polonies, kippered, herrings, Findon haddies and tightpacked pills.)
     RICHIE Best value in Dub.
     (Bald  Pat,  bothered beetle,  stands  on  the curbstone,  folding  his
napkin, waiting to wait.)
     PAT (Advances with a tilted dish  of  spillspilling  gravy.)  Steak and
kidney. Bottle of lager. Hee hee hee. Wait till I wait.
     RICHIE Goodgod. Inev erate inall...
     (With hanging head he marches doggedly forward. The navvy, lurching by,
gores him with his flaming pronghorn.)
     RICHIE (With a cry of pain, his hand to his back) Ah! Bright's! Lights!
     BLOOM  (Points to  the  navvy.) A spy. Don't attract attention. I  hate
stupid crowds. I am not on pleasure bent. I am in a grave predicament.
     MRS BREEN Humbugging and  delutbering as  per usual with  your cock and
bull story.
     BLOOM  I want to tell you a little secret about how  I came to be here.
But you must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a most particular reason.
     MRS BREEN (All agog.) O, not for worlds.
     BLOOM Let's walk on. Shall us?
     MRS BREEN Let's.
     (The  bawd makes an unheeded sign.  Bloom walks on with Mrs Breen.  The
terrier follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail.)
     THE BAWD Jewman's melt!
     BLOOM  (In an oatmeal sporting suit,  a sprig of woodbine in the lapel,
tony  buff  shirt, shepherd's  plaid  Saint  Andrew's cross scarftie,  white
spats,  fawn  dustcoat  on  his  arm,  tawny  red  brogues, fieldglasses  in
bandolier and a grey billycock hat.) Do you remember a long long time, years
and  years ago, just after Milly,  Marionette we called her, was weaned when
we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it?
     MRS BREEN  (In  smart  Saxe  tailormade, white  velours hat and  spider
veil.) Leopardstown.
     BLOOM I mean,  Leopardstown. And Molly  won seven shillings  on a three
year  old named  Nevertell  and coming  home along  by  Foxrock in  that old
fiveseater shanderadan of a waggonette  you were in your heyday then and you
had on that  new hat of  white velours  with a  surround of molefur that Mrs
Hayes advised you to  buy because it was marked down to nineteen and eleven,
a bit of wire and an old  rag  of  velveteen, and I'll lay you what you like
she did it on purpose...
     MRS BREEN She did, of course, the cat! Don't tell me! Nice adviser!
     BLOOM Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the other ducky
little tammy  toque with the  bird of paradise wing in it that  I admired on
you and you honestly looked just too fetching in  it though it was a pity to
kill it, you cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of
a fullstop.
     MRS BREEN (Squeezes his arm, simpers.) Naughty cruel I was.
     BLOOM  (Low,  secretly, ever  more  rapidly.)  And Molly was  eating  a
sandwich of spiced beef  out of  Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch  basket.  Frankly,
though she had her advisers or admirers, I never  cared much for her  style.
She was .
     MRS BREEN Too.
     BLOOM Yes.  And Molly was  laughing because Rogers and Maggot  O'Reilly
were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the
tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her
name, and the  poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever heard
or read or knew or came across .
     MRS BREEN (Eagerly.) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
     (She  fades  from  his  side. Followed  by the whining dog  he walks on
towards hellsgates.  In an archway a standing  woman, bent forward, her feet
apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of loiterers listen to
a tale  which their broken snouted gaffer rasps  out with raucous humour. An
armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in maimed sodden playfight.)
     THE GAFFER (Crouches, his voice twisted in  his snout.) And when Cairns
came down from the scaffolding  in Beaver Street what was  he after doing it
into  only into the  bucket of porter that was there waiting on the shavings
for Derwan's plasterers.
     THE LOITERERS (Guffaw with cleft palates.) O jays!
     (Their paintspeckled hats  wag. Spattered  with size and lime  of their
lodges they frisk limblessly about him.)
     BLOOM Coincidence too. They  think  it  funny. Anything but that. Broad
daylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman.
     THE LOITERERS Jays, that's a good one. Glauber salts. O jays, into  the
men's porter.
     (Bloom  passes. Cheap  whores, singly, coupled,  shawled,  dishevelled,
call from lanes, doors, corners.)
     THE WHORES Are you  going far, queer fellow? How's your middle leg? Got
a match on you? Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.
     (He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. >From
a bulge of window curtains a  gramophone  rears a battered brazen  trunk. In
the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy and the two redcoats.)
     THE NAVVY (Belching.) Where's the bloody house?
     THE  SHEBEENKEEPER  Purdon  street.  Shilling   a  bottle   of   stout.
Respectable woman.
     THE NAVVY (Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them.) Come
on, you British army!
     PRIVATE CARR (Behind his back.) He aint half balmy.
     PRIVATE COMPTON (LAughs.) What ho!
     PRIVATE CARR (To the navvy.) Portobello barracks canteen.  You ask  for
Carr. Just Carr.
     THE NAVVY (Shouts.)
     We are the boys. Of Wexford.
     PRIVATE COMPTON Say! What price the sergeantmajor?
     PRIVATE CARR Bennett? He's my pal. I love old Bennett.
     THENAVVY (Shouts.)
     The galling chain.
     And free our native land.
     (He  staggers  forward, dragging  them with him. Bloom stops, at fault.
The dog approaches, his tongue outlolling, panting.)
     BLOOM  Wildgoose  chase  this. Disorderly houses. Lord knows where they
are gone. Drunks cover distance  double quick. Nice mixup. Scene at Westland
row. Then jump in first class  with third ticket. Then too  far.  Train with
engine behind. Might  have taken me to Malahide or a siding for the night or
collision. Second  drink does it. Once  is  a dose. What am I  following him
for? Still, he's the best of that  lot. If I hadn't heard about Mrs  Beaufoy
Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and  wouldn't have met. Kismet. He'll lose that
cash.  Relieving  office here. Good  biz for cheapjacks,  organs. What do ye
lack?  Soon  got,  soon  gone.  Might  have  lost  my  life  too  with  that
mangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut  only  for presence of  mind.  Can't
always save  you, though. If I had  passed Truelock's  window that  day  two
minutes later would  have  been shot. Absence of body. Still if  bullet only
went  through my coat get damages for shock,  five  hundred pounds. What was
he? Kildare street club toff. God help his gamekeeper.
     (He gazes ahead reading on  the wall a scrawled chalk legend  Wet Dream
and a phallic design.)
     Odd!  Molly drawing  on  the  frosted carriagepane at Kingstown. What's
that like?  (Gaudy  dollwomen  loll  in  the  lighted  doorways,  in  window
embrasures,  smoking  birdseye cigarettes. The odour of the  sicksweet  weed
floats towards him in slow round ovalling wreaths.)
     THE WREATHS Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin.
     BLOOM My spine's a bit limp.  Go or turn? And this food? Eat it and get
all  pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste  of money.  One and  eightpence too much.
(The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand, wagging his
tail.)  Strange how they take to me. Even that brute today.  Better speak to
him first.  Like women they like rencontres.  Stinks  like a polecat. Chacun
son goшt.  He might be  mad. Fido.  Uncertain in his movements. 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 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 a hand on Blooms shoulder.)
     FIRST WATCH Caught in the act. Commit no nuisance.
     BLOOM (Stammers.) I am doing good to others.
     (A covey of gulls, storm petrels, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with
Banbury cakes in their beaks.)
     THE GULLS Kaw kave kankury kake.
     BLOOM The friend of man. Trained by kindness.
     (He points. Bob Doran,  toppling from a high  bars tool, sways over the
munching spaniel.)
     BOB DORAN Towser. Give us the paw. Give the paw.
     (The bulldog growls,  his  scruff standing,  a  gobbet of  pigs knuckle
between  his  molars  through  which rabid scrumspittle dribbles.  Bob Doran
falls silently into an area.)
     SECOND WATCH Prevention of cruelty to animals.
     BLOOM (Enthusiastically.)  A  noble work! I  scolded that tramdriver on
Harold's cross bridge for illusing the poor horse with his harness scab. Bad
French  I got for my pains. Of course  it was frosty and the last  tram. All
tales of circus life are highly demoralising.
     (Signor Maffei, passion pale, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs
in his shirtfront,  steps forward,  holding a circus paper hoop,  a  curling
carriagewhip and a revolver with which he covers the going 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 pully will  bring your lion to heel, no
matter how  fractious, even  Leo ferox there, the Libyan maneater. A  redhot
crowbar  and some  liniment  rubbing  on the burning part  produced Fritz of
Amsterdam, the thinking  hyena. (He glares.) I possess  the Indian sign. The
glint  of  my eye  does  it  with these  breastsparklers. (With a bewitching
smile.) I now introduce Mademoiselle Ruby, the pride of the ring.
     FIRST WATCH Come. Name and address.
     BLOOM  I have forgotten for the moment. Ah, yes! (He takes off his high
grade hat, saluting.) Dr Bloom, Leopold,  dental surgeon. You have heard  of
von Bloom Pasha. Umpteen  mil lions. 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. Un lawfully watching
and besetting.
     SECOND WATCH An alibi. You are cautioned.
     BLOOM (Produces from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower.) This is
the  flower in question.  It  was given me by a  man I don't know  his name.
(Plausibly.) You know that old  joke, rose of Castille. 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 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!
Leopold! Lionel, thou lost one! Clear my name.
     FIRST WATCH (Sternly.) Come to the station.
     BLOOM (Scared, hats himself steps back, then, plucking at his heart and
lifting his right  forearm on  the square, he gives the sign and dueguard of
fellowcraft.)  No, no, worshipful master, light of love.  Mistaken identity.
The  Lyons mail. Lesurques  and  Dubosc.  You remember the Childs fratricide
case. We  medical men. By striking him dead with  a hatchet. I am wrongfully
accused. Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned.
     MARTHA (Sobbing behind her veil.) Breach  of promise. My  real  name is
Peggy Griffin. He wrote to me  that he was  miserable. I'll tell my brother,
the Bective rugger fullback, on you, heartless flirt.
     BLOOM  (Behind  his  hand.) She's drunk. The woman  is  inebriated. (He
murmurs vaguely the past of Ephraim.) Shitbroleeth.
     SECOND WATCH (Tears in his eyes, to Bloom.) You  ought to be thoroughly
well ashamed of yourself.
     BLOOM Gentleman 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, who do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of
Britain's  fighting men  who helped to win our battles. Got his majority for
the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift.
     FIRST WATCH Regiment.
     BLOOM (Turns to the gallery.)  The royal Dublins, boys, the salt of the
earth, known the  world  over.  I think  I  see some old comrades in arms up
there among you. The R. D. F. With our own Metropolitan police, guardians of
our homes, the pluckiest lads  and  the finest  body of men, as physique, in
the service of our sovereign.
     A VOICE Turncoat! Up the Boers! Who booed Joe Chamberlain?
     BLOOM (His hand on the shoulder of the first watch.) My old dad too was
a J.P. I'm as staunch a Britisher as you are, sir. I fought with the colours
for king and country in the absentminded war under General Gough in the park
and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was mentioned in dispatches.
I did all a  white man could.  (With quiet  feeling.) Jim Bludso.  Hold  her
nozzle again the bank.
     FIRST WATCH Profession or trade.
     BLOOM Well, I  follow a literary occupation. Author-journalist. In fact
we are  just  bringing out  a collection of prize stories of which  I am the
inventor, something  that is an  entirely new departure. I am connected with
the British and Irish press. If you ring up...
     (Myles Crawford strides  out jerkily, a  quill between his  teeth.  His
scarlet beak blazes within the aureole of his straw  hat. He dangles a  hank
of Spanish onions  in  one hand and  holds  with the other hand a  telephone
receiver nozzle to his ear.)
     MYLES  CRAWFORD  (His  cock's  wattles  wagging.)  Hello,  seventyseven
eightfour.  Hello.  Freeman's  Urinal  and  Weekly Arse wiper 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  cames  a lace portfolio  labelled
Matcham's Masterstrokes.)
     BEAUFOY  (Drawls.)  No, you aren't, not by  a long shot if I know it. I
don't  see  it,  that's  all. No  born  gentleman,  no  one  with  the  most
rudimentary  promptings  of a  gentleman  would  stoop to  such particularly
loathsome  conduct.  One of  those,  my lord. A  plagiarist.  A  soapy sneak
masquerading as  a literateur.  It's perfectly  obvious  that  with the most
inherent  baseness  he has  cribbed  some  of my  bestselling books,  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.) That  bit  about  the laughing
witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may... ?
     BEAUFOY (His lip  upcurled,  smiles  superciliously  on the court.) You
funny ass, you! You're too beastly awfully  weird for  words! I don't  think
you  need  over  excessively  disincommodate  yourself  in that  regard.  My
literary agent  Mr  J. B. Pinker  is in attendance.  I presume, my lord,  we
shall receive the usual witnesses' fees, shan't we?  We are considerably out
of pocket over  this bally pressman  johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who has
not even been to a university.
     BLOOM (Indistinctly.) University of life. Bad art.
     BEAUFOY (Shouts.) It's a damnably foul lie showing the moral rottenness
of the man! (He extends his  portfolio.) We have here damning evidence,  the
corpus  delicti,  my lord,  a specimen  of my maturer work disfigured by the
hallmark of the beast.
     A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY
     Moses, Moses, king of the jews,
     Wiped his arse in the Daily News.
     BLOOM (Bravely.) Overdrawn.
     BEAUFOY You  low  cad!  You ought  to  be ducked  in the horsepond, you
rotter! (To the  court.) Why,  look  at the  man's  private life!  Leading a
quadruple  existence! Street angel and  house devil. Not fit to be mentioned
in mixed society. The arch conspirator 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 mementoes, smart emerald  garters far above your station. Incautiously I
took your part when you  were accused of  pilfering. There's a medium in all
things. Play cricket.
     MARY DRISCOLL (Excitedly.) As God is looking  down on  me this night if
ever I laid a hand to them oysters!
     FIRST WATCH The offence complained of? Did something happen?
     MARY DRISCOLL He surprised me in the rere of the premises, your honour,
when the  missus was out shopping one morning with a  request  for  a safety
pin. He  held me and I was discoloured  in four places as  a result. And  he
interfered twice 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.)
     GEORGES  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 seven months' 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 British born bairns lisping prayers to the  Sacred Infant,
youthful scholars grappling  with their pensums, model young  ladies playing
on the pianoforte or anon all with  fervour reciting the family rosary round
the crackling Yulelog while in the boreens and green lanes the colleens with
their swains  strolled  what  times  the strains of  the organtoned melodeon
Britannia metalbound  with  four acting  stops  and  twelvefold  bellows,  a
sacrifice, greatest bargain ever... )
     (Renewed  laughter. He mumbles  incoherently.  Reporters  complain that
they cannot hear.)
     LONGHAND AND  SHORTHAND  (Without looking  up  from  their  notebooks.)
Loosen his boots.
     PROFESSOR MACHUGH (From the presstable, coughs and calls.) Cough it up,
man. Get it out in bits.
     (The crossexamination  proceeds re Bloom and the bucket. A lace bucket.
Bloom himself Bowel trouble.  In  Beaver street.  Gripe,  yes. Quite  bad. A
plasterers  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 sticking-plaster
across his nose, talks inaudibly.)
     J. J. O'MOLLOY (In barrister's grey  wig and stuffgown, speaking with a
voice of  pained  protest.) This is  no place  for  indecent  levity  at the
expense of an erring mortal disguised  in liquor. We are not in a beargarden
nor  at  an Oxford  rag  nor is this a travesty  of justice. My client is an
infant, a poor  foreign  immigrant  who started scratch as a stowaway and is
now trying to turn an honest penny. The trumped up misdemeanour was due to a
momentary  aberration   of  heredity,  brought  on  by  hallucination,  such
familiarities as the alleged  guilty occurrence being  quite permitted in my
client's native place, the land of the Pharaoh. Prima facie, I put it to you
that  there was no  attempt  at carnally knowing. Intimacy did not occur and
the  offence complained of by  Driscoll,  that her virtue was solicited, was
not repeated. I would deal inespecial with atavism. There have been cases of
shipwreck and somnambulism in my client's family. If the accused could speak
he could  a tale unfold one of the strangest  that  have ever  been narrated
between the covers of a book.  He himself, my lord, is a physical wreck from
cobbler's weak  chest. His submission is that he  is of Mongolian extraction
and irresponsible for his actions. Not all there, in fact.
     BLOOM   (Barefoot,  pigeonbreasted,  in  lascar's  vest  and  trousers,
apologetic toes turned  in, opens his tiny mole's  eyes and looks about  him
dazedly, passing a  slow hand across his  forehead. Then he hitches his belt
sailor fashion  and with  a shrug  of oriental  obeisance salutes the court,
pointing one  thumb  heavenward.)  Him  makee velly  muchee fine  night. (He
begins to lilt simply.)
     Li li poo lil chile,
     Blingee pigfoot evly night.
     Payee two shilly...
     (He is howled down.)
     J.  J. O'MOLLOY (Hotly  to the populace.) This is a lonehand fight.  By
Hades,  I  will not  have any client  of  mine gagged  and badgered in  this
fashion  by a  pack  of curs  and  laughing  hyenas.  The  Mosaic  code  has
superseded the law of the jungle. I say it and I say it emphatically without
wishing for  one  moment to  defeat  the  ends  of  justice, accused was not
accessory  before the  act and prosecutrix has not  been  tampered with. The
young person was treated by defendant as if she  were his very own daughter.
(Bloom takes J.  J. O'Molloy's hand and raises it to his lips.) I shall call
rebutting evidence  to prove up to the hilt that the hidden hand is again at
its old game. When  in doubt persecute Bloom. My client, an innately bashful
man, would be the last man in the world to do  anything ungentlemanly  which
injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong
turning when some dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own
sweet will on her. He wants to go  straight. I regard him as the whitest man
I know. He is  down  on his luck at present  owing to the mortgaging  of his
extensive property at Agendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which
will now  be  shown.  (To  Bloom.)  I suggest that you will do the  handsome
thing.
     BLOOM A penny in the pound.
     (The mirage  of the  lake of Kinnereth  with blurred cattle cropping in
silver haze is projected on the wall.  Moses Dlugacz, ferreteyed  albino, in
blue dungarees, stands up in  the gallery, holding  in each  hand  an orange
citron and a pork kidney.)
     DLUGACZ (Hoarsely.) Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W. 13.
     (J.  J. O'Molloy steps on  to a low plinth and holds the  lapel of  his
coat with solemnity. His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with sunken
eyes, the blotches of phthisis  and hectic cheekbones of John F. Taylor.  He
applies his  handkerchief to his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of
rosepink blood.)
     J. J.  O'MOLLOY (Almost voicelessly.)  Excuse me, I am suffering from a
severe chill, have recently come from a sickbed. A few wellchosen words. (He
assumes the  avine head, foxy moustache and proboscidal eloquence of Seymour
Bushe.) When the angel's  book comes to be opened if  aught that the pensive
bosom has inaugurated of  soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves
to live I say accord the  prisoner at the  bar  the sacred  benefit  of  the
doubt. (A paper with something written on it is handed into court.)
     BLOOM  (In court  dress.)  Can  give best  references.  Messrs  Callan,
Coleman. Mr  Wisdom  Hely J.  P. My  old chief Joe  Cuffe. Mr V. B.  Dillon,
ex-lord mayor of Dublin. I have moved in the charmed circle of the highest .
Queens of Dublin Society. (Carelessly.) I was just  chatting this  afternoon
at the viceregal lodge to my old pals, sir  Robert and lady Ball, astronomer
royal, at the levee. Sir Bob, I said...
     MRS YELVERTON  BARRY  (In  lowcorsaged opal  balldress and  elbowlength
ivory  gloves,  wearing  a  sabletrimmed  brick  quilted  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 coneymantle,  wrapped up to the nose,
steps out of her  brougham  and scans through tortoiseshell  quizzingglasses
which  she  takes from  inside her  huge opossum  muff.) Also  to me. Yes, I
believe it is the same objectionable person. Because he closed  my  carriage
door outside  sir Thornley  Stoker's one  sleety day during the cold snap of
February ninetythree when even the grid of the wastepipe  and ballstop in my
bath  cistern  were frozen. Subsequently  he enclosed a bloom  of  edelweiss
culled  on the  heights,  as he  said, in my honour. I had it examined by  a
botanical expert and elicited the information that it  was  a blossom of the
homegrown potato plant purloined from a forcingcase of the model farm.
     MRS YELVERTON BARRY Shame on him!
     (A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins sues 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 Balmer while  in the same breath he expressed himself as envious of
his  earflaps  and fleecy  sheepskins and of his fortunate proximity  to  my
person,  when standing behind  my chair wearing my  livery and the  armorial
bearings of the Bellingham escutcheon  garnished sable, a buck's head couped
or. He lauded almost extravagantly my nether extremities, my swelling calves
in silk hose drawn up to the limit, and eulogised  glowingly my other hidden
treasures in  priceless lace which, he  said, he  could conjure up. He urged
me, stating that he felt it  his  mission in life to urge me,  to defile the
marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity.
     THE  HONOURABLE  MRS  MERVYN  TALBOYS  (In  amazon  costume, hard  hat,
jackboots cockspurred,  vermilion waistcoat,  fawn musketeer  gauntlets with
bra idea 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
Phnix park at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland. My eyes,
I  know,  shone  divinely  as  I  watched  Captain  Slogger Dennehy  of  the
Inniskillings  win  the  final  chukkar  on  his darling cob  Centaur.  This
plebeian  Don Juan observed  me from  behind  a hackney  car and sent me  in
double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris
boulevards,  insulting  to any  lady.  I  have  it  still. It  represents  a
partially nude senorita,  frail and lovely (his wife as he solemnly  assured
me,  taken  by  him  from  nature), practising  illicit intercourse  with  a
muscular torero, evidently a  blackguard.  He urged  me to do  likewise,  to
misbehave,  to sin with officers of the garrison. He implored me to soil his
letter in an unspeakable  manner, to chastise him  as he richly deserves, to
bestride and ride him, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping.
     MRS BELLINGHAM Me too.
     MRS YELVERTON BARRY Me too.
     (Several highly  respectable Dublin  ladies hold  up  improper  letters
received from Bloom.)
     THE HONOURABLE  MRS MERVYN TALBOYS  (Stamps  her  jingling spurs  in  a
sudden paroxysm of sudden fury.) I  will, by  the God above me. I'll scourge
the pigeonlivered cur as long as I can stand over him. I'll flay him alive.
     BLOOM  (His  eyes  closing,  quails  expectantly.)  Here? (He squirms.)
Again! (He pants cringing.) I love the danger.
     THE  HONOURABLE MRS  MERVYN  TALBOYS Very much so! I'll make it hot for
you. I'll make you dance Jack Latten for that.
     MRS BELLINGHAM Tan  his  breech well, the upstart!  Write the stars and
stripes on it!
     MRS  YELVERTON BARRY Disgraceful! There's no excuse for him!  A married
man!
     BLOOM All these people. I meant only the spanking idea. A warm tingling
glow without effusion. Refined birching to stimulate the circulation.
     THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS (Laughs derisively.)  O,  did you, my
fine fellow? Well,  by the living  God, you'll get the surprise of your life
now, believe me,  the most  unmerciful  hiding a man ever bargained for. You
have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury.
     MRS  BELLINGHAM (Shakes  her  muff and  quizzing-glasses vindictively.)
Make him smart, Hanna  dear. Give  him ginger. Thrash the  mongrel within an
inch of his life. The cat-o' nine-tails. Geld him. Vivisect him.
     BLOOM (Shuddering,  shrinking,  joins his  hands with  hangdog mien.) O
cold! O shivery! It was your ambrosial beauty.  Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let
me off this once. (He offers the other cheek.)
     MRS  YELVERTON  BARRY  (Severely.) Don't  do so  on  any  account,  Mrs
Talboys! He should be soundly trounced!
     THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS (Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently.)
I'll do  no such thing. Pig dog  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 hunting crop savagely in  the air.) Take down his  trousers without loss
of time. Come here, sir! Quick! Ready?
     BLOOM (Trembling, beginning to obey.) The weather has been so warm.
     (Davy Stephens, ringleted, passes with a bevy of barefoot newsboys.)
     DAVY STEPHENS  Messenger of the Sacred Heart and Evening Telegraph with
Saint Patrick's Day  Supplement.  Containing the  new  addresses of all  the
cuckolds in Dublin.
     (The very reverend  Canon  O'Hanlon in cloth of gold cope  elevates and
exposes a marble  timepiece. Before him Father Conroy  and the reverend John
Hughes S.J. bend low.)
     THE TIMEPIECE (Unportalling.)
     Cuckoo
     Cuckoo
     Cuckoo
     (The brass quoits of a bed are heard to jingle.)
     THE QUOITS Jigjag, Jigajiga. Jigjag.
     (A panel of fog rolls back rapidly,  revealing rapidly in  the  jurybox
the  faces  of Martin  Cunningham,  foreman  silkhatted,  Jack  Power  Simon
Dedalus,  Tom  Kernan,  Ned  Lambert,  John  Henry  Menton, Myles  Crawford,
Lenehan, Paddy Leonard Nosey  Flynn,  M'Coy and the  featureless  face of  a
Nameless One.)
     THE NAMELESS ONE  Bareback  riding. Weight for  age. Gob, he  organised
her.
     THE JURORS (All their heads turned to his voice.) Really?
     THE NAMELESS ONE (Snarls.) Arse over tip. Hundred shillings to five.
     THE JURORS (All their heads lowered in  assent.) Most  of us thought as
much.
     FIRST WATCH He is  a marked man. Another girl's plait cut. Wanted: Jack
the Ripper. A thousand pounds reward.
     SECOND WATCH (Awed, whispers.) And in black. A mormon. Anarchist.
     THE  CRIER  (Loudly.)  Whereas Leopold  Bloom of no  fixed  abode  is a
well-known  dynamitard,  forger,  bigamist,  bawd and cuckold  ad  a  public
nuisance to the citizens of Dublin and whereas at this commission of assizes
the most honourable.
     (His Honour sir Frederick Falkiner recorder of Dublin, in judicial garb
of  grey stone rises from the  bench, stonebearded. He bears  in his arms an
umbrella sceptre. From his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns.)
     THE  RECORDER  I will put an end  to this white  slave traffic  and rid
Dublin  of this odious pest. Scandalous! (He dons the black cap.) Let him be
taken, Mr Subsheriff,  from the dock  where  he  now stands and detained  in
custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty's pleasure and there be hanged
by the neck until he is dead  and therein fail not at your peril or  may the
Lord have-mercy on  your soul. Remove  him. (A  black skullcap descends upon
his head.)
     (The subsheriff long  John  Fanning  appears,  smoking a  pungent Henry
Clay.)
     LONG  JOHN  FANNING  (Scowls  and calls with  rich  rolling utterance.)
Who'll hang Judas Iscariot?
     (H.  Rumbold,  master  barber in  a bloodcoloured jerk  in 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
grapping 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 chimpanzees.  (Breathlessly.)  Pelvic
basin.  Her artless blush unmanned me. (Overcome with  emotion.) I left  the
precincts.  (He  turns to a figure  in  the crowd,  appealing.) Hynes, may I
speak to you? You know me. That three shillings  you can keep. If you want a
little more .
     HYNES (Coldly.) You are a perfect stranger.
     SECOND WATCH  (Points to  the  corner.)  The  bomb is here. FIRST WATCH
Infernal machine  with  a  time  fuse. BLOOM No, no. Pig's feet.  I was at a
funeral. FIRST WATCH (Draws his truncheon.) Liar!
     (The beagle lifts his snout, showing the grey  scorbutic face of  Paddy
Dignam. He has gnawed all.  He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath. He  grows
to human size and shape. His dachshund coat becomes  a brown mortuary habit.
His green eyeflashes bloodshot. Half of one ear all the nose and both thumbs
are ghouleaten.)
     PADDY DIGNAM (In a hollow voice.) It is true. It was my funeral. Doctor
Finucane pronounced  life  extinct when  I  succumbed  to the  disease  from
natural causes.
     (He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously.)
     BLOOM (In triumph.) You hear?
     PADDY DIGNAM Bloom, I am Paddy Dignam's spirit. List, list, O list!
     BLOOM The voice is the voice of Esau.
     SECOND WATCH (Blesses himself.) How is that possible?
     FIRST WATCH It is not in the penny catechism.
     PADDY DIGNAM By metempsychosis. Spooks.
     A VOICE O rocks.
     PADDY DIGNAM (Earnestly.) Once I was in the employ of  Mr J. H. Menton,
solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk. Now
I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied. Hard lines. The poor wife
was  awfully cut up. Dow  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,
toad  bellied, wrynecked,  in  a  surplice and  bandanna  nightcap,  holding
sleepily a staff of twisted poppies.)
     FATHER COFFEY (Yawns, then chants with a  hoarse croak.) Namine. Jacobs
Vobiscuits. Amen.
     (Foghorns   stormily  through   his  megaphone.)  Dignam,  Patrick  T.,
deceased.
     PADDY DIGNAM (With pricked up ears, winces.) Overtones.
     (He wriggles forward, places an ear to the ground.) My masters' 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
tailstiffpointed, his ears cocked.)
     PADDY DIGNAM Pray for the repose of his soul.
     (He worms down through a coal hole, 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 two-columned 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. He  stands  before a  lighted  house,  listening. The
kisses, winging  from  their  bowers, fly about  him, twittering,  warbling,
cooing.)
     THE KISSES (Warbling.) Leo!  (Twittering.) Icky licky  micky sticky for
Leo!  (Cooing.)  Coo  coocoo!  Yummyumm Wom worn! (Warbling.)  Big  comebig!
Pirouette! Leopopold! (Twittering.) Leeolee! (Warbling.) O Leo!
     (They  rustle,  flutter upon  his garments, alight, bright giddyflecks,
silvery sequins.)
     BLOOM A man's touch. Sad music. Church music. Perhaps here.
     (Zoe  Higgins,  a  young  whore in a sapphire  slip,  closed with three
bronze buckles, a slim black  velvet  fillet  round her  throat, nods, trips
down the steps and accosts him.)
     ZOE Are you looking for someone? He's inside with his friend.
     BLOOM Is this Mrs Mack's?
     ZOE No, eightyone. Mrs Cohen's.  You might  go  farther and fare worse.
Mother Slipperslapper. (Familiarly.)  She's on the  job herself tonight with
the vet, her tipster, that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in
Oxford. Working overtime but her luck's turned today. (Suspiciously.) You're
not his father, are you?
     BLOOM Not I!
     ZOE You both in black. Has little mousey any tickles tonight?
     (His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach. A hand slides over his
left thigh.)
     ZOE How's the nuts?
     BLOOM Off side. Curiously they are on the right. Heavier I suppose. One
in a million my tailor, Mesias, says.
     ZOE (In sudden alarm.) You've a hard chancre.
     BLOOM Not likely.
     ZOE I feel it.
     (Her hand slides into  his left  trouser  pocket  and brings out a hard
black shrivelled potato. She regards it and Bloom with dumb moist lips.)
     BLOOM A talisman. Heirloom.
     ZOE For Zoe? For keeps? For being so nice, eh?
     (She  puts  the potato greedily into  a  pocket,  then  links  his arm,
cuddling him with supple warmth. He  smiles uneasily.  Slowly, note by note,
oriental music is played.  He gazes in the tawny crystal of her eyes, ringed
with kohol. His smile softens.)
     ZOE You'll know me the next time.
     BLOOM (Forlornly.) I never loved a dear gazelle but it was sure to.
     (Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near are  lakes. Round
their shores  file  shadows  black  of cedargroves.  Aroma rises,  a  strong
hairgrowth  of resin. It burns, the orient, a sky of  sapphire, cleft by the
bronze flight  of eagles.  Under it lies the  womancity, nude, white, still,
cool, in luxury. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Mammoth roses murmur
of scarlet  winegrapes.  A  wine  of shame,  lust,  blood  exudes, strangely
murmuring.)
     ZOE (Murmuring singsong  with the  music, her  odalisk lips  lusciously
smeared  with  salve of  swinefat  and  rosewater.)  Schorach ani  wenowach,
benoith Hierushaloim.
     BLOOM (Fascinated.) I thought you were of good stock by your accent.
     ZOE And you know what thought did?
     (She bites his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth  sending on him
a cloying breath of stale garlic. The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre
of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones.)
     BLOOM (Draws back,  mechanically caressing  her right bub  with  a flat
awkward hand.) Are you a Dublin girl?
     ZOE (Catches a stray hair deftly  and twists it to her coil.) No bloody
fear. I'm English. Have you a swaggerroot?
     BLOOM (As  before.) Rarely smoke, dear.  Cigar now  and then.  Childish
device.  (Lewdly.) The  mouth can be better engaged than with a  cylinder of
rank weed.
     ZOE Go on. Make a stump speech out of it.
     BLOOM (In workman's corduroy  overalls,  black gansy  with red floating
tie and  apache  cap.)  Mankind is incorrigible. Sir  Walter Raleigh 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 buccaneering  Vanderdeckens in  their phantom
ship of finance...
     AN ELECTOR Three times three for our future chief magistrate!
     (The aurora borealis of the torchlight procession leaps.)
     THE TORCH BEARERS 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 lace white silk  scarf) That alder man 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,  bug-bears,  manufactured monsters for mutual  murder,  hideous
hobgoblins produced by a horde  of capitalistic lusts upon  our  prostituted
labour. The poor man starves  while they are grassing their  royal  mountain
stags  or shooting  peasants and phartridges in  their purblind pomp of pelf
and power. But their reign is rover for rever and ever and ev...
     (Prolonged applause. Venetian  masts, maypoles and festal arches spring
up. A  streamer bearing the  legends Cead  Mille  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  Kings  Own  Scottish Boraerers, 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,
the lord mayor of Cork, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo
and Watedord, twentyeight Irish  representative peers, sirdars, grandees and
maharajahs  bearing  the  cloth  of  estate,  the Dublin  Metropolitan  Fire
Brigade, the chapter of the saints  of finance in their plutocratic order of
precedence, the  bishop  of Down and  Connor His  Eminence Michael  cardinal
Logue  archbishop  of Armagh,  primate of all  Ireland,  His Grace, the most
reverend Dr William Alexander archbishop  of Armagh, primate of all Ireland,
the  chief  rabbi,  the presbyterian  moderator, the heads  of  the baptist,
anabaptist, methodist and Moravian chapels and the honorary secretary of the
society of friends. her them march the guilds and trades and trainbands with
flying colours: coopen, bird  fanciers,  millwrights, newspaper  canvassers,
law  scriveners,  masseurs,  vintners,  trussmakers,  chimney  sweeps,  lard
refiners, tabinet and poplin weavers, farriers, Italian warehousemen, church
decorators, bootjack  manufacturers,  undertaken,  silk mercers, lapidaries,
salesmasters,  corkcutters,  assessors of  fire  losses, dyers and cleaners,
export bottlers, fellmongers, ticketwriters,  heraldic seal engravers, horse
repository  hands,  bullion   broken,   cricket   and  archery   outfitters,
riddlemakers,  egg  and  potato   factors,  hosiers  and  glovers,  plumbing
contractors. After them march gentlemen of the bed chamber Black Rod, Deputy
Garter Gold Stick, the master of  hone, 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.
Beefeaten reply, winding clarions of welcome. Under an arch of triumph Bloom
appears bareheaded, in  a crimson velvet mantle trimmed with ermine, bearing
Saint Edward's staff the orb and sceptre with  the dove,  the curtana. He is
seated  on  a  milkwhite  hone   with  long  flowing  crimson  tail,  richly
caparisoned, with golden heads tall. Wild excitement. The  ladies from their
balconies throw down rosepetals. The air is  perfumed with essences. The men
cheer. Bloom's boys run  amid  the bystanders  with branches of hawthorn and
wrenbushes.)
     BLOOM'S BOYS
     The wren, the wren,
     The king of all birds,
     Saint Stephen's his day,
     Was caught in the furze.
     A BLACKSMITH  (Murmurs.) For the Honour  of God! And is that  Bloom? He
scarcely looks thirtyone.
     A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER  That's the famous Bloom now, the world's greatest
reformer. Hats off!
     (All uncover their heads. Women whisper eagerly.)
     A MILLIONAIRESS (Richly.) Isn't he simply wonderful?
     A NOBLEWOMAN (Nobly.) All that man has seen!
     A FEMINIST (Masculinely.) And done!
     A BELLHANGER A classic face! He has the forehead of a thinker.
     (Bloom's weather. A sunburst appears in the northwest.)
     THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND  CONNOR I  here present your  un doubted 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 hair oil over Bloom's
head.) Gaudium magnum annuntio vobis. Habemus carneficem. Leopold,  Patrick,
Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed!
     (Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth  of gold  and  puts on a ruby ring. He
ascends and stands on the  stone of destiny. The representative peers put on
at the same  time their twentyeight crowns.  Joybells ring in Christ church,
Saint Patrick's, George's  and  gay Malahide. Mirus  bazaar fireworks  go up
from  all  sides with  symbolical phallopyrotechnic  designs.  The  peers do
homage, one by one, approaching and genuflecting.)
     THE PEERS I do  become your  liege  man of  life  and  limb  to earthly
worship.
     (Bloom  holds  up  his  right hand  on  which sparkles  the  Koh-i-Noor
diamond.  His palfrey neighs. Immediate  silence. Wireless  intercontinental
and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.)
     BLOOM My subjects! We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula Felix
hereditary  Grand  Vizier and announce that we have this day repudiated  our
former spouse and have bestowed our royal hand upon the princess Selene, the
splendour of night.
     (The former morganatic spouse of Bloom is hastily removed  in the Black
Maria. The princess Selene, in moon  blue robes, a  silver crescent  on  her
head,  descends  from  a Sedan  chair  borne  by  two giants. An outburst of
cheering.)
     JOHN HOWARD PARNELL  (Raises  the  royal  standard.) Illustrious Bloom!
Successor to my famous brother!
     BLOOM  (Embraces John  Howard Parnell.)  We  thank you  from our heart,
John, for this right royal welcome to  green Erin, the promised land of  our
common ancestors.
     (The freedom of the city is presented to him embodied in a charter. The
keys of Dublin, crossed on a crimson cushion, are given to him. He shows all
that he is wearing green socks.)
     TOM KERNAN You deserve it, your honour.
     BLOOM On this day twenty  years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at
Ladysmith.  Our  howitzers and  camel swivel guns  played on  his lines with
telling effect.  Half a league onward! They  charge!  All is lost now! Do we
yield? No! We drive them headlong! Lo! We charge! Deploying to  the left our
light horse swept across the heights  of Plevna and, uttering their  warcry,
Bonafide Sabaoth, sabred the Saracen gunners to a man.
     THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS Hear! Hear!
     JOHN WYSE NOLAN There's the man that got away James Stephens.
     A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY Bravo!
     AN OLD  RESIDENT You're a  credit to your country, sir, that's what you
are.
     AN APPLEWOMAN He's a man like Ireland wants.
     BLOOM My beloved subjects, a new era is about  to dawn.  I, Bloom, tell
you verily it is even now at hand. Yea, on the word of a Bloom, ye shall ere
long enter into the golden city which is to be, the  new Bloomusalem  in the
Nova Hibernia of the future.
     (Thirtytwo workmen wearing  rosettes, from all the counties of Ireland,
under the guidance  of Derwan  the builder construct the new Bloomusalem. It
is a colossal  edifice, with crystal roof built in the shape of a  huge pork
kidney,  containing forty thousand  rooms. In the  course of  its  extension
several  buildings and  monuments  are  demolished.  Government  offices are
temporarily transferred to railway  sheds. Numerous houses  are razed to the
ground. The inhabitants are lodged  in barrels and  boxes, all marked in red
with the letters: L.  B. Several paupers fall  from a ladder. A  part of the
walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses.)
     THE SIGHTSEERS (Dying) Morituri te salutant. (They die.)
     (A  man in a brown macintosh springs  up through a trap-door. He points
an elongated finger at Bloom.)
     THE MAN  IN THE MACINTOSH Don't you believe a word he Says. That man is
Leopold M'Intosh, the notorious fireraiser. His real name is Higgins.
     BLOOM Shoot him! Dog of a christian! So much for M'Intosh!
     (A  cannonshot. The  man  in the macintosh disappears. Bloom  with  his
sceptre  strikes down poppies.  The  instantaneous deaths  of  many powerful
enemies, graziers,  members of parliament,  members of  standing committees,
are  reported.  Bloom's bodyguard  distribute  Maundy  money,  commemoration
medals,  loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry  Clay cigars,
free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives,  in sealed envelopes tied with
gold  thread,  butter scotch,  pineapple  rock, billets doux in the form  of
cocked  hats, readymade suits, porringers  of  toad  in the hole, bottles of
Jeyes'  Fluid,  purchase  stamps,  40  days'  indulgences,  spurious  coins,
dairyfed pork sausages,  theatre passes,  season tickets available  for  all
tram  lines, coupons of the royal and  privileged  Hungarian  lottery, penny
dinner  counters, cheap reprints of the World's Twelve  Worst  Books: Froggy
and Fritz  (politic),  Care  of the  Baby  (infantilic),  So  Meals  for 7/6
(culinic), Was  Jesus a  Sun  Myth?  (historic), Expel  that  Pain  (medic),
Infant's Compendium  of the Universe (cosmic), Let's All  Chortle (hilaric),
Canvasser's  Vade  Mecum  (journalic),  love-letters  of   Mother  Assistant
(erotic),  Who's  Who  in  Space  (astric),  Songs that  Reached  Our  Heart
(melodic),  Pennywise's  Way  to Wealth  (parsimonic). A  general  rush  and
scramble.  Women press forward to touch  the  hem of Bloom's  robe. The lady
Gwendolen Dubedat bursts through the throng, leaps on his  horse and  kisses
him on both cheeks amid great acclamation. A magnesium flashlight photograph
is taken. Babes and sucklings are held up.)
     THE WOMEN Little father! Little father!
     THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS
     Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home,
     Cakes in his pocket for Leo alone.
     (Bloom, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the stomach.)
     BABY BOARDMAN (Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his mouth.) Hajajaja.
     BLOOM (Shaking hands with  a blind stripling.)  My more  than  Brother!
(Placing his arms round the shoulders of an old couple.) Dear  old  friends!
(He  plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls.)  Peep! Bopeep! (He
wheels twins in a perambulator.)  Ticktacktwo wouldyousetashoe? (He performs
juggler's tricks,  draws red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet
silk  handkerchiefs  from  his mouth.)  Roygbiv.  32  feet per  second.  (He
consoles  a  widow.)  Absence makes the heart  grow younger. (He  dances the
Highland fling  with grotesque antics.)  Leg  it, ye devils! (He kisses  the
bedsores of  a palsied  veteran.)  Honourable  wounds!  (He trips  up  a fat
policeman.)  U.p.:  up. U.p.:  up. (He  whispers  in  the ear of a  blushing
waitress and  laughs kindly.) Ah, naughty, naughty!  (He  eats a  raw turnip
offered him by  Maurice Butterly,  farmer.) Fine!  Splendid! (He  refuses to
accept  three shillings  offered him by Joseph  Hynes, journalist.)  My dear
fellow, not  at all! (He gives his  coat  to a beggar.)  Please accept.  (He
takes part in a stomach  race with  elderly male  and female cripples.) Come
on, boys! Wriggle it, girls!
     THE CITIZEN (Choked with  emotion, brushes aside a tear  in his emerald
muffler.) May the good God bless him!
     (The rams' horns sound for silence. The standard of Zion is hoisted.)
     BLOOM (Uncloaks  impressively, revealing obesity,  unrolls  a paper and
reads solemnly.) Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah Tephilim Kosher Yom Kippur
Hanukah Ros chaschana  Beni  Brith Bar Mitzvah  Mazzoth Askenazim  Meshuggah
Talith.
     (An official translation is read by Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk.)
     JIMMY HENRY The Court  of  Conscience is now  open.  His  Most Catholic
Majesty will now administer open air justice. Free medical and legal advice,
solution of doubles and other problems. All cordially invited. Given at this
our loyal city of Dublin in the year I of the Paradisiacal Era.
     PADDY LEONARD What am I to do about my rates and taxes?
     BLOOM Pay them, my friend.
     PADDY LEONARD Thank you.
     NOSEY FLYNN Can I raise a mortgage on my fire insurance?
     BLOOM (Obdurately.) Sirs,  take notice that by the law of torts you are
bound over  in  your  own  recognisances for six months in the  sum of  five
pounds.
     J.J. O'MOLLY 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. mix. vom., 4 minims.
     Extr. taraxel. lig., 30 minims.
     Aq. dis. ter in die.
     CHRIS  CALLINAN  What  is  the parallax  of the  subsolar  ecliptic  of
Aldebaran?
     BLOOM Pleased to hear from you, Chris. K. 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 eight day licence  for my  new premises. You remember
me, sir Leo, when you were in  number  seven. I'm sending around a dozen  of
stout for the missus.
     BLOOM  (Coldly.)  You have the advantage  of  me. Lady Bloom accepts no
presents.
     CROFTON This is indeed a festivity.
     BLOOM (Solemnly.) You call it a festivity. I call it a sacrament.
     ALEXANDER KEYES When will we have our own house of keys?
     BLOOM I stand  for  the  reform of municipal  morals and the plain  ten
commandments. New worlds  for  old. Union of  all,  jew, moslem and gentile.
Three acres and a cow for all  children  of  nature.  Saloon motor  hearses.
Compulsory  manual labour  for  all.  All parks  open to the  public day and
night. Electric dishscrubbers. Tuberculosis, lunacy, war and mendicancy must
now cease. General  amnesty, weekly  carnival, with  masked licence, bonuses
for  all,  esperanto  the  universal  brotherhood.  No  more  patriotism  of
barspongers and dropsical impostors. Free money,  free  love and a  free lay
church in a free lay state.
     O'MADDEN BURKE Free fox in a free henroost.
     DAVY BYRNE (Yawning.) Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach!
     BLOOM Mixed races and mixed marriage.
     LENEHAN What about mixed bathing?
     (Bloom explains  to those near him his schemes for social regeneration.
All  agree  with  him.  The  keeper  of  the Kildare  Street Museum appears,
dragging  a  lorry  on which  are  the  shaking  statues  of  several  naked
goddesses, Venus Callipyge, Venus Pandemos Venus Metempsychosis, and plaster
figures,  also naked, representing the  new  nine muses, Commerce,  Operatic
Music,  Amor  Publicity,  Manufacture,  liberty  of  Speech, Plural  Voting,
Gastronomy,  Private  Hygiene,  Seaside  Concert  Entertainments,   Painless
Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People.)
     FATHER FARLEY He  is  an episcopalian,  an agnostic,  an any thingarian
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 tooralcom tooraloom.
     HOPPY HOLOHAN Good old Bloom! There's nobody like him after all.
     PADDY LEONARD Stage Irishman!
     BLOOM What railway opera is like a tramline in  Gibraltar? The Rows  of
Casteele. (Laughter.)
     LENEHAN Plagiarist! Down with Bloom!
     THE VEILED SIBYL (Enthusiastically.) I'm a Bloomite  and I glory in it.
I believe in him in spite of all. I'd give my life for him, the funniest man
on earth.
     BLOOM (Winks at the bystanders.) I bet she's a bonny lassie.
     THEODORE PUREFOY  (In fishing cap  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  gas  ovens, hanging themselves  in
stylish garters, leaping from windows of different storeys.)
     ALEXANDER J. DOWIE (Violently.) Fellowchristians and antiBloomites, the
man  called  Bloom is from the roots of hell, a disgrace to christian men. A
fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat of Mendes gave
precocious signs of infantile debauchery recalling the  cities of the plain,
with a dissolute granddam. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy,  is the
white bull mentioned  in the Apocalypse. A worshipper  of the Scarlet Woman,
intrigue  is  the  very  breath of his nostrils. The stake  faggots  and the
caldron of boiling oil are for him. Caliban!
     THE MOB Lynch him! Roast him! He's as bad as Parnell was. Mr Fox!
     (Mother Grogan throws her boot at Bloom. Several shopkeepers from upper
and lower  Dorset  street throw objects of  little or  no  commercial value,
hambones,  condensed milk  tins,  unsaleable cabbage, stale  bread,  sheeps'
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 motoroggles on his brow.) Dr Bloom
is bisexually abnormal. He has  recently escaped  from Dr  Eustace's private
asylum  for demented  gentlemen. Born out  of bedlock hereditary epilepsy is
present,  the consequence  of unbridled  lust. Traces  of elephantiasis have
been discovered  among his ascendants.  There are marked symptoms of chronic
exhibitionism.  Ambidexterity is also latent. He  is  prematurely bald  from
selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence,  a reformed rake,  and  has
metal teeth. In consequence  of a family complex he has temporarily lost his
memory and I believe him to be more sinned against than sinning. I have made
a pervaginal examination and,  after application of  the  acid test to  5427
anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be virgo intacta.
     (Bloom holds his high grade hat over his genital organs.)
     DR  MADDEN  Hypsospadia  is also  marked.  In  the interest  of  coming
generations I suggest that the parts affected should be preserved in spirits
of wine in the national teratological museum.
     DR CROTTHERS I have examined the  patient's  urine.  It is  albuminoid.
Salivation is insufficient, the patellar reflex intermittent.
     DR PUNCH COSTELLO The fetor judaicus is most perceptible.
     DR  DIXON  (Reads  a  bill  of health.)  Professor Bloom is a  finished
example of the new womanly man. His moral nature is simple and lovable. Many
have found him  a dear  man,  a dear person. He is a rather quaint fellow on
the whole, coy though not feeble-minded in the medical sense. He has written
a really beautiful letter, a poem in  itself, to the court missionary of the
Reformed  Priests'  Protection Society which  clears  up  everything. He  is
practically  a total abstainer and  I  can affirm  that he sleeps on a straw
litter and eats the most  Spartan food, cold dried grocer's peas. He wears a
hairshirt 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, bank cheques,
banknotes,  jewels, treasury  bonds, maturing  bills  of  exchange, I.O.U.s,
wedding  rings'  watch-chains,  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  are  handsome,  with   valuable  metallic   faces,  wellmade,
respectably  dressed  and  wellconducted,  speaking  five  modern  languages
fluently  and  interested  in various arts and  sciences.  Each has his name
printed  in   legible  letters  on  his  shirtfront:  Nasodoro,  Goldfinger,
Chrysostomos,  Maindorиe, Silversmile,  Silberselber  Vifargent,  Panargros.
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, vice  chairmen 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.
     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 the ledge by
his  eyelids, eats  twelve  dozen  oysters (shells included), heals  several
sufferers  from  kings  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,
Rossuth, Jean Jacques  Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson  Crusoe,
Sherlock  Holmes,  Pasteur, turns  each  foot  simultaneously  in  different
directions,  bids the tide turn  back,  eclipses the  sun by  extending  his
little finger.)
     BRINI,  PAPAL  NUNCIO (In papal zouave's  uniform, steel  cuirasses  as
breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large profane moustaches and
brown  paper  mitre.)  Leopoldi autem generatio.  Moses begat  Noah and Noah
begat Eunuch and Eunuch begat O'Halloran and O'Halloran begat Guggenheim and
Guggenheim  begat  Agendath and Agendath  begat  Netaim  and Netaim begat Le
Hirsch and Le Hirsch begat Jesurum and Jesurum begat MacKay and MacKay begat
Ostrolopsky and Ostrolopsky begat Smerdoz and Smerdoz begat Weiss and  Weiss
begat Schwarz and Schwarz begat Adrianopoli  and Adrianopoli  began 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.  A CRAB  (In  bush
ranger'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  front  to nates, three tears
falling from his left eye.) Spare my past.
     THE IRISH EVICTED  TENANTS (In bodycoats, kneebreeches, with Donnybrook
fair shillelaghs.) Sjambok him!
     (Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in the pillory with crossed arms,
his feet protruding. He whistles Don Giovanni, a cenar teco. Artane orphans,
joining hands,  caper round him. Girls  of the Prison Gate Mission,  joining
hands, caper round in the opposite direction.)
     THE ARTANE ORPHANS
     You big, you bog, you dirty dog!
     You think the ladies love you!
     THE PRISON GATE GIRLS
     If you see kay
     Tell him he may
     See you in tea
     Tell him from me.
     HORNBLOWER (In ephod and huntingcap, announces.) And he shall carry the
sins of the people to Azazel, the spirit which is in the wilderness, and  to
Lilith, the nighthag. And they shall stone him and defile him, yea, all from
Agendath Netaim and from Mizraim, the land of Ham.
     (All  the people cast  soft pantomime stones  at  Bloom.  Many bonafide
travellers and ownerless  dogs come near  him and defile him. Mastiansky and
Citron  approach in gaberdines, wearing long earlocks. They wag their beards
at Bloom.)
     MASTIANSKY AND CITRON  Belial!  Laemlein of Istria!  the false Messiah!
Abulafia!
     (George S. 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, black  bearded Iscariot,  bad shepherd, bearing on his
shoulders the drowned corpse of his son, approaches the pillory.)
     REUBEN J. (Whispers hoarsely.)  The squeak is out. A split  is gone for
the flatties. Nip the first rattler.
     THE FIRE BRIGADE Pflaap!
     BROTHER  BUZZ (Invests  Bloom  in  a yellow  habit with  embroidery  of
painted flames and high pointed hat. He places  a bag of gunpowder round his
neck  and  hands him  over to  the  civil  power, saying.)  Forgive  him his
trespasses.
     (Lieutenant Myers  of the Dublin  Fire Brigade by general request  sets
fire to Bloom. Lamentations.)
     THE CITIZEN Thank heaven!
     BLOOM (In  a seamless  garment marked  I.  H.  S.  stands  upright amid
phoenix flames.) Weep not for me, O daughters of Erin.
     (He  exhibits to Dublin reporters traces  of burning. The daughters  of
Erin,  in black garments with lace prayerbooks  and long lighted candles  in
their hands, kneel down and pray.)
     THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN Kidney of Bloom, pray for us. Flower of the Bath,
pray for us. Mentor of Menton, pray for us. Canvasser for the Freeman,  pray
for us.  Charitable Mason, pray  for us. Wandering Soap, pray for us. Sweets
of  Sin, pray  for  us.  Music without Words,  pray for  us. Reprover of the
Citizen,  pray for us. Friend  of all Frillies, pray  for  us. Midwife  Most
Merciful, pray  for us.  Potato Preservative against Plague and  Pestilence,
pray for us.
     (A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Mr  Vincent O'Brien, sings
the Alleluia chorus, accompanied on the organ by Joseph Glynn. Bloom becomes
mute, shrunken, carbonised.)
     ZOE Talk away till you're black in the face.
     BLOOM (In caubeen  with clay pipe stuck in the band, dusty brogues,  an
emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his hand, leading a  black bogoak  pig
by a sugaun, with a  smile in his eye.) Let  me  be  going now, woman of the
house, for  by  all the goats in  Connemara I'm after having the  father and
mother  of a  bating. (With a  tear in  his eye.) All  insanity. Patriotism,
sorrow  for the dead, music, future of the race. To be or not  to be. Life's
dream  is  o'er. End it  peacefully.  They can live on. (He  gazes far  away
mournfully.) I am ruined. A few pastilles  of aconite.  The blinds drawn.  A
letter. Then lie  back to rest. (He breathes softly.) No more. I have lived.
Fare. Farewell.
     ZOE  (Stiffly, her finger in  her neckfillet.)  Honest?  Till  the next
time. (She sneers.) Suppose you got up the wrong side of the bed or came too
quick with your best girl. O, I can read your thoughts.
     BLOOM (Bitterly.) Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and bottle.
     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  play  the organs.  I'm
Yorkshire born. (She holds his hand which is feeling for her nipple.) I say,
Tommy  Tittlemouse. Stop  that and  begin  worse. Have you cash for  a short
time? Ten shillings?
     BLOOM (Smiles, nods slowly.) More, houri, more.
     ZOE And more's mother? (She pats him offhandedly with velvet paws.) Are
you coming  into  the musicroom to  see our new pianola? Come and I'll  peel
off.
     BLOOM   (Feeling   his   occiput  dubiously   with   the   unparalleled
embarrassment  of  a  harassed pedlar gauging  the  symmetry of  her  peeled
pears.) Somebody  would  be dreadfully  jealous if  she knew.  The greeneyed
monster. (Earnestly.) You know how difficult it is. I needn't tell you.
     ZOE (Flattered.) What the eye can't  see the  heart  can't grieve  for.
(She pats him.) Come.
     BLOOM Laughing witch! The hand that rocks the cradle.
     ZOE Babby!
     BLOOM (In babylinen and pelisse,  bigheaded, with a  caul of dark hair,
fixes big eyes on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles with a chubby
finger,  his  moist  tongue tolling 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 pass touch of secret monitor,
luring him to doom.) Hot hands cold gizzard.
     (He  hesitates amid  scents,  music, temptations. She leads him towards
the steps, drawing him  by the odour of her armpits, the vice of her painted
eyes,  the rustle of her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks  the lion reek of
all the male brutes that have possessed her.)
     THE MALE BRUTES (Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in  their
loosebox, faintly roaring, their drugged heads swaying to and fro.) Good!
     (Zoe  and  Bloom reach the doorway where two sister whores are  seated.
They examine him curiously from under their pencilled brows and smile to his
hasty bow. He trips awkwardly.)
     ZOE (Her lucky hand instantly saving him.) Hoopsa! Don't fall upstairs.
     BLOOM  The  just  man  falls  seven times.  (He  stands  aside  at  the
threshold.) After you is good manners.
     ZOE Ladies first, gentlemen after.
     (She crosses  the threshold.  He hesitates.  She turns and, holding out
her hands, draws him over. He hops. On the an tiered 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 thrown open. A man
in  purple shirt and  grey trousers, brownsocked, passes with an apes  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 tapes-tried with a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. In the
grate is  spread a screen of peacock feathers.  Lynch squats crosslegged  on
the hearth rug of matted  hair, his cap  back to  the front. With  a wand he
beats time  slowly. Kitty  Ricketts, a bony  pallid  whore in navy  costume,
doeskin gloves rolled back from a coral wristlet, a chain purse in her hand,
sits  perched on the  edge of  the table  swinging her leg and  glancing  at
herself in  the gilt  mirror over the mantelpiece. A tag of her corset  lace
hangs slightly below her jacket. Lynch indicates mockingly the couple at the
piano.)
     KITTY (Coughs behind her  hand.) She's a bit imbecilic. (She signs with
a  waggling  forefinger.)  Blemblem.  (Lynch lifts up her  skirt  and  white
petticoat with  the wand. She settles them down quickly.) Respect  yourself.
(She hiccups, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which  her hair glows,
red with henna.) O, excuse!
     ZOE More limelight, Charley. (She goes to the chandelier  and turns the
gas full cock.)
     KITTY (Peers at the gasjet.) What ails it tonight?
     LYNCH (Deeply.) Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.
     ZOE Clap on the back for Zoe.
     (The wand in Lynch's hand flashes: a brass poker. Stephen stands at the
pianola on which sprawl his  hat and ashplant.  With two  fingers he repeats
once more the series of empty fifths. Florry Talbot, a blond feeble goosefat
whore in a tatterdemalion gown of  mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in
the sofa  corner, her limp forearm  pendent over  the bolster, listening.  A
heavy stye droops over her sleepy eyelid.)
     KITTY (Hiccups again with a kick of her horsed foot.) O, excuse!
     ZOE (Promptly.) Your boy's thinking of you. Tie a knot on your shift.
     (Kitty Ricketts bends her head.  Her  boa uncoils, slides, glides  over
her  shoulder,  back,  arm,  chair  to the ground. Lynch  lifts  the  curled
caterpillar on his wand.  She  snakes  her neck,  nestling.  Stephen glances
behind at the squatted figure with its cap back to the front.)
     STEPHEN As  a matter of  fact it is  of no importance whether Benedetto
Marcello found it or made it. The rite is the poet's rest.  It may be an old
hymn  to Demeter or also  illustrate Cla 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 his almightiness.  Mais,  nom  de  nom, that is
another  pair of trousers. Jetez  la gourme. Faut que jeunesse se passe. (He
stops, points  at Lynch's cap, smiles, laughs.) Which side is your knowledge
bump?
     THE  CAP  (With saturnine spleen.)  Bah!  It is because it  is. Woman's
reason.  Jewgreek is greekjew.  Extremes meet. Death is the highest  form of
life. Bah!
     STEPHEN You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes.
How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty? Whetstone!
     THE CAP Bah!
     STEPHEN  Here's another for you. (He frowns.) The reason is because the
fundamental and the dominant are separated by the greatest possible interval
which .
     THE CAP Which? Finish. You can't.
     STEPHEN  (With on  effort.) Interval  which.  Is  the greatest possible
ellipse. Consistent with. The ultimate return. The octave. Which.
     THE CAP Which? (Outside the gramophone begins to blare The Holy City.)
     STEPHEN (Abruptly.)  What  went  forth  to  the ends  of the  world  to
traverse not  itself. God, the  sun, Shakespeare,  a  commercial  traveller,
having itself traversed in reality itself, becomes that self. Wait a moment.
Wait a second. Damn that fellow's noise in the street.  Self which it itself
was ineluctably preconditioned to become. Ecco!
     LYNCH  (With  a  mocking whinny  of  laughter  grins at Bloom  and  Zoe
Higgins.) What a learned speech, eh?
     ZOE  (Briskly.) God  help  your  head,  he  knows  more than  you  have
forgotten.
     (With obese stupidity Florry Talbot regards Stephen.)
     FLORRY They say the last day is coming this summer.
     KITTY No!
     ZOE (Explodes in laughter.) Great unjust God!
     FLORRY (Offended.) Well, it was in the papers about Anti  christ. O, my
foot's tickling.
     (Ragged  barefoot  newsboys,   jogging  a   wagtail  kite,  patterpast,
yelling.)
     THE  NEWSBOYS Stop press edition. Result of the rockinghorse races. Sea
serpent in the royal canal. Safe arrival of Antichrist.
     (Stephen turns and sees Bloom.)
     STEPHEN A time, times and half a time.
     (Reuben  J.  Antichrist,  wanderingjew, a  clutching  hand open on  his
spine,  stumps forward. Across his  loins is  slung  a  pilgrims wallet from
which  protrude  promissory  notes and  dishonoured  bills.  Aloft  over his
shoulder he bears a long boatpole from the hook of  which the sodden huddled
mass of his only son,  saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the slack of its
breeches. A  hobgoblin in the image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked,
hydrocephalic,  prognathic  with  receding forehead  and  Ally Sloper  nose,
tumbles in somersaults through the gathering darkness.)
     ALL What?
     THE HOBGOBLIN (His  jaws  chattering,  capers to and  fro, goggling his
eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping, with outstretched clutching arms, then all
at once thrusts his lipless face through the fork of  his thighs.) Il vient!
C'est moi! L'homme  qui rit! L'homme  primigene! (He whirls round and  round
with  dervish  howls.)  Sieurs  et  dames,  faites  vos jeux!  (He  crouches
juggling. Tiny roulette planets fly from his  hands.)  Les  jeux son! faits!
(The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks.) Rien n'va plus. (The
planets, buoyant balloons, sail  swollen  up  and away. He  springs off into
vacuum.)
     FLORRY (Sinking into torpor, crosses  herself secretly.) The end of the
world!
     (A  female  tepid  effluvium  leaks  out from  her. Nebulous  obscurity
occupies space. Through the drifting fog without  the gramophone blares over
coughs and feetshuffling.)
     THE GRAMOPHONE Jerusalem! Open your gates and sing Hosanna...
     (A rocket rushes up  the sky and  bursts.  A white  star falls from it,
proclaiming the consummation  of  all things  and second coming  of  Elijah.
Along  an infinite invisible tight-rope taut from zenith to nadir the End of
the World, a two headed octopus in gillies kilts, busby and tartan filibegs,
whirls  through the  murk, head over  heels, in the fob of the Three Lugs of
Man.)
     THE END OF THE WORLD (With a Scotch accent.) Wha'll dance the keel row,
the keel row, the keel row?
     (Over the passing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, harsh
as a  corncrakes, jars  on  high.  Perspiring  in a loose lawn surplice with
funnel sleeves he is seen, vergefaced 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, Dave Campbell, Abe Kirschner,  do your coughing with your  mouths shut.
Say,  I am operating all  this trunk line.  Boys, do it  now.  God's time is
12.25.  Tell mother you'll  be there. Rush your  order  and you play a slick
ace. Join on right here! Book through to eternity junction, the nonstop run.
Just one word more.  Are you  a god or a doggone  clod? If the second advent
came  to  Coney  Island are  we ready?  Florry  Christ,  Stephen Christ, Zoe
Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ,  it's up to  you to  sense
that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? No. Be on the side of
the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the higher self. You
can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Are you all in this
vibration?  I  say you are. You once  nobble that, congregation, and a  buck
joyride to heaven becomes  a back number. You got me? It's a lifebrightener,
sure. The hottest stuff ever was.  It's the whole pie with jam in. It's just
the  cutest snappiest line out. It is immense, supersumptuous. It  restores.
It vibrates. I know and I am some vibrator. Joking apart and getting down to
bedrock, A. J. Christ Dowie and the harmonial philosophy, have you got that?
O.K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street. Got me? That's it. You call me  up
by sunphone  any old time. Bumboosers,  save  your stamps. (He  shouts.) Now
then our glory  song. All join heartily  in the singing. Encore! (He sings.)
Jeru...
     THE GRAMOPHONE (Drowning his voice.) Whorusalaminyour highhohhhh.
     (The disc rasps gratingly against the needle.)
     THE THREE' WHORES (Covering their ears, squawk.) Ahhkkk!
     ELIJAH (In rolledup shirtsleeves, black in the face,  shouts at the top
of his voice, his  arms  uplifted.) Big Brother  up there, Mr President, you
hear what  I done just  been  saying to you. Certainly,  I  sort  of believe
strong in you, Mr President. I  certainly am  thinking now Miss Higgins  and
Miss Ricketts got religion way inside them.  Certainly seems  to me  I don't
never see no  wusser scared female than the way  you been, Miss Florry, just
now  as I  done seed you. Mr President, you come long and help me  save  our
sisters dear.  (He winks  at his audience.) Our Mr President,  he  twig  the
whole lot and he ain't 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. 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 stars I was guilty  with Whelan  when  he  slipped into the
bed.
     STEPHEN In the beginning was  the word, in  the  end  the world without
end. Blessed be the eight beatitudes.
     (The beatitudes,  Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, Lenehan,  Bannon,
Mulligan  and  Lynch  in  white  surgical  students'  gowns,  four  abreast,
goosestepping, tramp fast past in noisy marching.)
     THE  BEATITUDES  (Incoherently.)  Beer  beef battledog  buybull businum
barnum buggerum bishop.
     LYSTER  (In   quakergrey  kneebreeches   and   broadbrimmed  hat,  says
discreetly.)  He is our friend.  I need not  mention  names.  Seek thou  the
light.
     (He corantos by. Best enters in hairdresser  attire, shinily laundered,
his  locks in  curlpapers.  He  leads John  Eglinton who  wears a mandarin's
kimono of Nankeen yellow, lizard-lettered, 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. (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  search light  behind the  coalscuttle,  ollave,
holyeyed, the bearded figure  of Mananaan MacLir  broods,  chin on knees. He
rises  slowly. A  cold seawind blows from his druid  mantle.  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.)
     MANANAAN 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! Dark hidden Father! (He smites with his
bicycle pump the crayfish in his  left hand. On  its co-operative  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  judas hand strangles the light. The green light  wanes to
mauve. The gasjet wails whistling.)
     THE GASJET Pooah! Pfuiiiiii!
     (Zoe runs to the chandelier and, crooking her leg, adjusts the mantle.)
     ZOE Who has a fag as I'm here?
     LYNCH (Tossing a cigarette on to the table.) Here.
     ZOE (Her head perched aside in mock pride.) Is that the way to hand the
pot to  a  lady? (She stretches up to light  the  cigarette  over the flame,
twirling it  slowly, showing the  brown tufts of her armpits. Lynch with his
poker lifts boldly a  side of her slip. Bare from her garters up  her  flesh
appears  under  the  sapphire a  nixie's  green. She  puffs  calmly  at  her
cigarette.) Can you see the beauty spot of my behind?
     LYNCH I'm not looking.
     ZOE (Makes sheep's  eyes.)  No? You wouldn't do a less thing. Would you
suck a lemon?
     (Squinting  in  mock shame she glances with  sidelong meaning at Bloom,
then  twists  round towards  him,  pulling her slip free  of the poker. Blue
fluid again flows over her flesh. Bloom stands, smiling desirously, twirling
his  thumbs.  Kitty Ricketts licks her  middle  finger with her  spittle and
gazing in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate,
chutes rapidly down through the chimneyflue and struts two steps to the left
on  gawky  pink stilts. He  is  sausaged into several overcoats and  wears a
brown macintosh  under which he holds a roll of  parchment. In his left  eye
flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. On
his head is perched an Egyptian pshent. Two quills project over his ears.)
     VIRAG (Heels together bows.) My name is Virag  Lipoti,  of Szombathely.
(He coughs thoughtfully, drily.) Promiscuous nakedness  is much  in evidence
hereabouts, eh? Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not
wearing  those  rather  intimate garments of  which  you  are  a  particular
devotee. The injection mark on the thigh I hope you perceived? Good.
     BLOOM Granpapachi. But...
     VIRAG  Number two  on  the other  hand,  she of the  cherry  rouge  and
coiffeuse white,  whose hair  owes not  a  little  to  our tribal elixir  of
gopherwood, is in walking costume  and tightly  staysed by her sit, I should
opine. Backbone in front, so to say. Correct me but I always understood that
the act so performed by  skittish humans with glimpses of  lingerie appealed
to you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity. In a word. Hippogriff. Am I
right?
     BLOOM She is rather lean.
     VIRAG  (Not  unpleasantly.) Absolutely! Well observed and those pannier
pockets of  the skirt and  slightly  pegtop effect  are devised  to  suggest
bunchiness of hip. A new purchase at some monster sale for which  a gull has
been mulcted. Meretricious finery to deceive the  eye. Observe the attention
to details of dustspecks. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today.
Parallax! (With a  nervous  twitch of his head.) Did  you hear my  brain  go
snap? Pollysyllabax!
     BLOOM (An elbow resting in a hand, a forefinger against his cheek.) She
seems sad.
     VIRAG (Cynically, his  weasel teeth bared yellow, draws  down  his left
eye with a finger and barks hoarsely.) Hoax! Beware of the flapper and bogus
mournful.  Lily of the alley.  All possess  bachelor's button  discovered by
Rualdus Colombus. Tumble her. Columble her. Chameleon. (More genially.) Well
then, permit me to draw your attention to item number three. There is plenty
of  her visible to the naked eye.  Observe the mass of  oxygenated vegetable
matter on her  skull.  What ho,  she bumps! The ugly duckling of  the party,
longcasted and deep in keel.
     BLOOM (Regretfully.) When you come out without your gun.
     VIRAG We  can do you  all  brands,  mild, medium and strong.  Pay  your
money, take your choice. How happy could you be with either...
     BLOOM With?...
     VIRAG (His tongue  upcurling.) Lyum!  Look. Her  beam is broad.  She is
coated with quite a considerable layer of fat. Obviously mammal in weight of
bosom you remark that she has in front well to the fore two protuberances of
very  respectable  dimensions, inclined  to fall  in the  noonday soupplate,
while on her rere lower down are two additional protuberances, suggestive of
potent rectum and  tumescent for palpation which leave nothing to be desired
save compactness. Such fleshy parts are the product of careful nurture. When
coopfattened their livers reach  an  elephantine size.  Pellets of new bread
with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down  by potions of  green tea endow
them during their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal
blubber. That  suits your book, eh? Fleshhotpots  of Egypt  to hanker after.
Wallow  in  it. Lycopodium.  (His throat twitches.) Slapbang!  There he goes
again.
     BLOOM The stye I dislike.
     VIRAG  (Arches  his  eyebrows.)  Contact  with  a  goldring,  they say.
Argumentum  ad  feminam,  as we  said in old Rome and  ancient Greece in the
consulship of Diplodocus and  Ichthyo saurus.  For the rest  Eve's sovereign
remedy. Not for  sale. Hire only.  Huguenot.  (He  twitches.)  It is a funny
sound.
     (He coughs encouragingly.)  But possibly it  is only a  wart. I presume
you  shall  have remembered  what  I  will  have  taught you on  that  head?
Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg.
     BLOOM  (Reflecting.)  Wheatenmeal  with  lycopodium and  syllabax. This
searching  ordeal.  It  has been  an unusually  fatiguing day, a chapter  of
accidents. Wait. I mean, wartsblood spreads warts, you said .
     VIRAG (Severely,  his  nose  hardhumped,  his  side eye winking.)  Stop
twirling your thumbs  and have a  good old thunk.  See, you have  forgotten.
Exercise  your mnemotechnic. La causa х santa. Tara.  Tara. (Aside.) He will
surely remember.
     BLOOM  Rosemary also did I understand  you  to  say or will  power 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 1882 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  gusseted
knickers,  closed?  Or,  put  we the case, those  complicated  combinations,
camiknickers? (He crows derisively.) Keekeereekee!
     (Bloom surveys uncertainly the  three whores, then gazes at the  veiled
mauve light, hearing the everflying moth.)
     BLOOM I wanted  then to have now concluded. Nightdress was never. Hence
this. But tomorrow is a new day will be. Past was is today. What now is will
then tomorrow as now was be past yester.
     VIRAG  (Prompts  into his ear in a  pig's whisper.) Insects  of the day
spend their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the smell of the
inferiorly pulchritudinous  female  possessing extendified pudendal verve in
dorsal region.  Pretty  Poll! (His yellow parrotbeak gabbles  nasally.) They
had a  proverb in the Carpathians in or about  the  year  five thousand five
hundred and fifty of our era. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend
Bruin  more than half  a dozen barrels of  first choice malt vinegar. Bear's
buzz bothers bees. But of this apart. At another time we may resume. We were
very pleased, we  others.  (He coughs and, bending his  brow, rubs his  nose
thoughtfully with a scooping hand.)  You shall find that these night insects
follow the light. An  illusion for remember their complex  unadjustable eye.
For all these knotty  points see the  seventeenth book of my Fundamentals of
Sexology  or the Love Passion which Doctor L. B.  says is the book sensation
of  the  year.  Some,  to  example,  there are  again  whose  movements  are
automatic.  Perceive.  That  is  his  appropriate  sun.  Nightbird  nightsun
nighttown. Chase me, Charley! 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 head with cackling  raillery.) Jocular. With
my eyeglass in my ocular.
     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 contradict. Not a  historical fact. Obvious analogy to my  idea.
Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk. Wind  their way through miles of
omnivorous forest  to sucksucculent her breast dry. Like those bubblyjocular
Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantuliasis.
     VIRAG (His mouth projected  in  hard  wrinkles, eyes  stonily forlornly
closed,  psalms  in outlandish  monotone.)  That the  cows with  their those
distended udders that they have been the 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  wing-  shoulders, peers
at the moth out of blear bulged eyes, points a homing claw and cries.) Who's
Ger Ger?  Who's dear 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.) Luss puss puss puss! (He sighs, draws
back and stares sideways down  with dropping  underjaw.) Well, well. He doth
rest anon.
     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 sliding  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 Jacobs 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 pendent dewlap to the piano.)
     STEPHEN (To himself.) Play with your eyes shut. Imitate  pa. Filling my
belly with  husks of swine.  Too much  of this. I will  arise and go  to my.
Expect this  is  the. Steve, thou art in a parlous way. Must visit old Deasy
or  telegraph.  Our  interview  of  this  morning  has left  on  me  a  deep
impression. Though our ages. Will write fully tomorrow. I'm partially drunk,
by the way. (He  touches the keys  again.) Minor  chord comes now.  Yes. Not
much however.
     (Almidano  Artifoni  holds out  a  batonroll  of  music  with  vigorous
moustachework.)
     ARTIFONI Ci rifletta. Lei rovina tutto.
     FLORRY Sing us something. Love's old sweet song.
     STEPHEN No voice. I am  a  most finished  artist. Lynch, did I show you
the letter about the lute?
     FLORRY (Smirking.) The bird that can sing and won't sing.
     (The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and  Philip Sober two Oxford dons with
lawnmowers,  appear in the  window embrasure. Both are  masked with  Matthew
Arnold's face.)
     PHILIP SOBER  Take a fool's advice.  All  is not well. Work it out with
the buttend of a pencil,  like a good young idiot.  Three  pounds twelve you
got, two notes,  one sovereign, two crowns, if  youth but  knew. Mooney's en
ville,  Mooney's sur  mer,  the  Moira, Larchet's, Holles  street  hospital,
Burke's. Eh? I am watching you.
     PHILIP DRUNK (Impatiently.)  Ah, bosh, man. Go to hell!  I paid my way.
If  I could only find out about octaves. Reduplication of  personality.  Who
was it told me his name?
     (His  lawnmower begins  to purr.)  Aha, yes. Zoe mou sas  agapo. Have a
notion  I  was here  before.  When  was it  not  Atkinson  his  card I  have
somewhere? Mac  somebody.  Unmack I  have  it.  He  told me about,  hold on,
Swinburne, was it, no?
     FLORRY And the song?
     STEPHEN Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.
     FLORRY Are you out of Maynooth? You're like someone I knew once.
     STEPHEN Out of it now. (To himself.) Clever.
     PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER (Their lawnmowers purring with a rigadoon
of grasshalms.)  Clever  ever.  Out of it. Out of it. By the by have you the
book,  the thing, the ashplant? Yes,  there it,  yes. Cleverever outofitnow.
Keep in condition. Do like us.
     ZOE  There  was  a priest down here two nights  ago to  do  his bit  of
business with his coat buttoned up. You needn't try to hide, I says to  him.
I know you've a Roman collar.
     VIRAG Perfectly logical from his standpoint. Fall of man. (Harshly, his
pupils waxing.) To hell with  the pope! Nothing new under the sun.  I am the
Virag who disclosed  the  sex secrets of monks  and maidens. Why I  left the
Church of Rome. Read  the Priest, the Woman and  the Confessional.  Penrose.
Flipperty Jippert. (He wriggles.) Woman, undoing with sweet  pudor  her belt
of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man's lingam.  Short time after man
presents  woman  with pieces of jungle  meat.  Woman  shows  joy  and covers
herself with featherskins. Man loves her yoni fiercely with big lingam,  the
stiff  one.  (He cries.)  Coactus  volui. Then giddy woman  will run  about.
Strong  man grasps  woman's  wrist. Woman  squeals, bites, spucks. Man,  now
fierce angry,  strikes woman's fat yadgana.  (He chases his tail.) Piffpaff!
Popo! (He stops, sneezes.) Pchp! (He worries his butt.) Prrrrrht!
     LYNCH  I  hope you  gave the good father a  penance.  Nine  glorias for
shooting a bishop.
     ZOE (Spouts  walrus  smoke through her  nostrils.) He  couldn't  get  a
connection. Only, you know, sensation. A dry rush.
     BLOOM Poor man!
     ZOE (Lightly.) Only for what happened him.
     BLOOM How?
     VIRAG (A  diabolic rictus  of black  luminosity contracting his visage,
cranes  his scraggy  neck forward.  He lifts  a mooncalf  nozzle and howls.)
Verfluchte Goim! He had a father, forty fathers.  He never existed. Pig God!
He  had two left  feet. He was Judas  Iacchias, 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'иtait le sacrи 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 whores
shoulders. Lynch puts on her hat. She whips it off.)
     LYNCH  (Laughs.)  And  to  such  delights  has  Metchnikoff  inoculated
anthropoid apes.
     FLORRY (Nods.) Locomotor ataxy.
     ZOE (Gaily.) O, my dictionary.
     LYNCH Three wise virgins.
     VIRAG (Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his bony epileptic
lips.)  She sold  lovephiltres, whitewax, orange  flower. Panther, the Roman
centurion,  polluted her  with his genitories.  (He sticks  out a flickering
phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his hand on his fork.) Messiah! He burst her
tympanum.  (With gibbering  baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the  cynical
spasm.) Hik! Hek! Hak! Hok! Huk! Kok! Kuk!
     (Ben   Jumbo   Dollard,    rubicund,   musclebound,    hairynostrilled,
hugebearded,  cabbageeared,  shaggychested,  shockmaned,  fatpapped,  stands
forth, his loins  and genitals  tightened  into  a  pair  of  black  bathing
bagslops.)
     BEN POLLARD (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 MacChree!
     A VOICE Hold that fellow with the bad breeches.
     BEN DOLLARD (Smites his thigh in abundant laughter.) Hold him now.
     HENRY (Caressing on his breast a  severed female head,  murmurs.) Thine
heart, mine love. (He plucks his lutestrings.) When first I saw.
     VIRAG (Sloughing his skins, his  multitudinous plumage moulting.) Rats!
(He yawns; showing a coalblack throat and closes his  jaws by an upward push
of  his  parchment roll.)  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  cows lick to  his hair. Steered by his rapier, he glides to the
door his wild had slung  behind him. Virag reaches the door in  two ungainly
stilthops,  his  tail  cocked,  and  deftly  claps sideways  on  the wall  a
pusyellow flybill, butting it with his head.)
     THE FLYBILL K. 11. post no bills. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks.
     HENRY All is lost now.
     (Virag unscrews his head in a trice and holds it under his arm.)
     VIRAG'S HEAD Quack!
     (Exeunt severally.)
     STEPHEN  (Over  his shoulder  to Zoe.)  You would  have  preferred  the
fighting  parson who  founded the protestant  error. But beware Antisthenes,
the  dog sage,  and  the last  end  of Anus Heresiarchus.  The  agony in the
closet.
     LYNCH All one and the same God to her.
     STEPHEN (Devoutly.) And Sovereign Lord of all things.
     FLORRY (To Stephen.) I'm sure you are 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  lace  wave  gestures  and  proclaims  with
bloated pomp.)
     THE CARDINAL
     Conservio lies captured.
     He lies in the lowest dungeon
     With manacles and chains around his limbs
     Weighing upwards of three tons.
     (He  looks at all for a  moment, his right  eye closed tight,  his left
cheek puffed out.  Then,  unable to  repress  his merriment, he rocks to and
fro, ads akimbo, and sings with broad rollicking humour.) O, the poor little
fellow Hi-hi-hi-hi-his 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 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 train bearers. The
dwarf  acolytes, giggling,  peeping,  nudging, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag
behind him. His voice is heard mellow from afar, merciful, male, melodious.)
Shall carry my heart to thee, Shall carry  my heart to thee,  And the breath
of the balmy night Shall carry my heart to thee.
     (The trick doorhandle turns.)
     THE DOORHANDLE Theeee.
     ZOE The devil is in that door.
     (A male form passes down the creaking staircase and is heard taking the
waterproof and  hat  from the rack. Bloom starts  forward involuntarily and,
half closing the door as  he passes, takes the chocolate from his pocket and
offers it nervously to Zoe.)
     ZOE (Sniffs his hair briskly.) Hum. Thank your mother for  the rabbits.
I'm very fond of what I like.
     BLOOM  (Hearing a male voice  in talk with the whores on  the doorstep,
pricks his ears.) If it were he? After? Or because not? Or the double event?
     ZOE (Tears open the  silverfoil.) Fingers was made  before  forks. (She
breaks  off  and nibbles a piece, gives a piece to  Kitty Ricketts  and then
turns kittenishly to Lynch.) No objection to French lozenges? (He nods.  She
taunts  him.) Have it now or  wait till you get it? (He opens his mouth, his
head  cocked. She whirls the prize  in left circle.  His  head  follows. She
whirls it back in right circle. He eyes her.) Catch.
     (She  tosses a piece.  With an adroit snap  he catches it and bites  it
through with a crack.)
     KITTY (Chewing.) The engineer I was with at the bazaar does have lovely
ones. Full of the best  liqueurs.  And the viceroy was  there with his lady.
The gas we had on the Toft's hobbyhorses. I'm giddy still.
     BLOOM  (In Svengali's  fur  overcoat, with  folded arms and  Napoleonic
forelock,  frowns  in ventriloquial  exorcism  with  piercing  eagle  glance
towards  the door. Then, rigid,  with left  foot advanced, he  makes a swift
pass  with impelling fingers and gives the  sign of past master, drawing his
right arm downwards  from  his  left shoulder.) Go,  go, go,  I conjure you,
whoever you are.
     (A male  cough and  tread are  heard passing through the mist  outside.
Blooms 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 is heard on the stairs.)
     BLOOM  (Takes the  chocolate.) Aphrodisiac? But I  thought  it. Vanilla
calms  or? Mnemo. Confused  light  confuses  memory.  Red influences  lupus.
Colours affect women's characters, any  they have. This black makes  me sad.
Eat and be merry for tomorrow. (He eats.) Influence taste too, mauve. But it
is  so long since I. Seems  new. Aphro. That priest.  Must come. Better late
than never. Try truffles at Andrews.
     (The  door opens. Bella Cohen,  a massive whoremistress  enters. She is
dressed in a threequarter  ivory gown, fringed  round the hem with tasselled
selvedge, and cools herself  flirting a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck  in
Carmen.  On her left hand are  wedding and keeper rings. Her eyes are deeply
carboned. She  has a sprouting moustache. Her  olive face is heavy, slightly
sweated  and fullnosed, with orangetainted  nostrils. She has  lace  pendant
beryl eardrops.)
     BELLA My word! I'm all of a mucksweat.
     (She glances  around her  at the couples. Then  her eyes rest  on Bloom
with hard insistence.  Her  lace fan winnows wind towards  her heated  face,
neck 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 eardrop.)  Have  you
forgotten me?
     BLOOM Yes. No.
     THE FAN (Folded akimbo  against  her waist.) Is me her  was you dreamed
before? Was then she him you us since knew? Am all them and the same now we?
(Bella approaches, gently tapping with the fan.)
     BLOOM  (Wincing.)  Powerful being. In my  eyes read  that slumber which
women love.
     THE FAN (Tapping.) We have met. You are mine. It is fate.
     BLOOM   (Cowed.)   Exuberant  female.  Enormously  I   desiderate  your
domination. I am exhausted, abandoned, no more young. I stand,  so to speak,
with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before the too late
box of the general  postoffice of  human life. The door and window open at a
right  angle  cause a draught of thirtytwo  feet per second according to the
law of falling bodies. I  have felt this  instant a twinge of sciatica in my
left glutear muscle. It runs in our family. Poor dear papa, a widower, was a
regular barometer from it. He believed in animal heat. A skin of tabby lined
his winter waistcoat. Near the end, remembering king David and the Sunamite,
he shared his bed with Athos, faithful after death. A  dog's spittle, as you
probably... (He winces.) Ah!
     RICHIE GOULDING (Bagweighted, passes the door.) Mocking  is catch. Best
value in Dub. Fit for a prince's liver and kidney.
     THE FAN (Tapping.) All things end. Be mine. Now.
     BLOOM (Undecided.) All now? I should  not have parted with my talisman.
Rain, exposure at dewfall on the sea rocks, 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 Kellet'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 ageing, bends over  her  hoof and with  gentle fingers draws out
and in her laces.)
     BLOOM  (Murmurs  lovingly.)  To  be  a shoefitter in Mansfield's was my
love's  young  dream, the darling  joys of  sweet buttonhooking, to lace  up
crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so incredibly
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. Nook 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  mid-brow. His  eyes  grow
dull, darker and pouched, his nose thickens.)
     BLOOM (Mumbles.) Awaiting your further orders, we remain, gentlemen.
     BELLO (With  a hard basilisk  stare,  in a  baritone  voice.)  Hound of
dishonour!
     BLOOM (Infatuated.) Empress!
     BELLO (His heavy cheekchops sagging.) Adorer of the adulterous rump!
     BLOOM (Plaintively.) Hugeness!
     BELLO Dungdevourer!
     BLOOM (With sinews semiflexed.) Magnificence.
     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.) Truffles!
     (With  a  piercing  epileptic  cry she sinks on  all  fours,  grunting,
snuffling,  rooting  at his  feet, then lies,  shamming dead with eyes  shut
tight,  trembling  eyelids, bowed  upon the ground in  the attitude of  most
excellent master.)
     BELLO  (With  bobbed  hair  purple gills, fat moustache rings round his
shaven  mouth, in  mountaineer's puttees,  green  silverbuttoned coat, sport
skirt and alpine  hat with moor cock's feather,  his hands stuck deep in his
breeches pockets, places his  heel on  her  neck and  grinds it in.) Feel my
entire weight. Bow, bondslave,  before the  throne of your despot's glorious
heels, so glistening in their proud erectness.
     BLOOM (Enthralled, bleats.) I promise never to disobey.
     BELLO (Laughs loudly.) Holy smoke!  You little know what's in store for
you. I'm the tartar to  settle your little lot and break  you  in! I'll  bet
Kentucky cocktails  all round I shame  it out  of  you, old son. Cheek me, I
dare  you.  If  you do tremble  in anticipation  of  heel discipline  to  be
inflicted in gym costume.
     (Bloom creeps under the sofa and peers out through the fringe.
     ZOE (Widening her slip to screen her.) She's not here.
     BLOOM (Closing her eyes.) She's not here.
     FLORRY (Hiding her with her gown.) She didn't mean it, Mr Bello. She'll
be good, sir.
     KITTY Don't be too hard on her, Mr Bello. Sure you won't, ma'amsir.
     BELLO (Coaxingly.) Come, ducky dear. I want  a  word with you, darling,
just to administer correction. Just  a little  heart to  heart talk, sweety.
(Bloom puts out her timid head.)  There's a good girly now. (Bello grabs her
hair violently and drags her forward.) I  only want to correct you for  your
own good  on a  soft safe spot. How's that tender behind? O, ever so gently,
pet. Begin to get ready.
     BLOOM (Fainting.) Don't tear my.
     BELLO (Savagely.) The nosering, the pliers, the  bastinado, the hanging
hook, the knout I'll make you kiss  while the  flutes play  like  the Nubian
slave of old. You're in for it  this time. I'll make you remember me for the
balance  of  your  natural  life.  (His  forehead  veins  swollen,  his face
congested.) I shall sit on your  ottoman  saddleback every morning after  my
thumping  good breakfast of  Matterson's  fat  ham  rashers 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 squeaks, 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, flour-smeared, a  rollingpin stuck
with raw pastry in her bare red arm and hand, appears at the door.)
     MRS KEOCH (Ferociously.) Can I help? (They hold and pinion Bloom.)
     BELLO  (Squats,  with  a  grunt,  on  Bloom's  upturned  face,  puffing
cigar-smoke, nursing a fat leg.) I see Keating Clay is elected  chairman  of
the Richmond Asylum and bytheby Guinness's preference shares  are at sixteen
three  quarters. Curse  me for a  fool  that I didn't buy that lot Craig and
Gardner told me about. Just  my  infernal luck, curse it. And that Goddamned
outsider  Throwaway  at  twenty to one. (He  quenches his cigar  angrily  on
Bloom's ear.) Where's that Goddamned cursed ashtray?
     BLOOM (Goaded, buttocksmothered.) O! O! Monsters! Cruel one!
     BELLO  Ask for  that every  ten minutes. Beg, pray  for it as you never
prayed before. (He thrusts out a  figged  fist  and foul  cigar.) Here, kiss
that. Both.  Kiss. (He throws a leg  astride and,  pressing with  horseman's
knees, calls  in  a hard voice.) Gee up! A  cockhorse to Banbury cross. I'll
ride him for the Eclipse stakes. (He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's
testicles  roughly,  shouting.)  Ho! off  we  pop! I'll  nurse you in proper
fashion. (He horserides cockhorse, leaping  in  the saddle.) The lady goes a
pace a pace  and the  coachman goes a trot a  trot  and the gentleman goes a
gallop a gallop a gallop a gallop.
     FLORRY (Pulls at Bello.)  Let me on him now.  You  had enough.  I asked
before you.
     ZOE  (Pulling at Florry.) Me. Me. Are you not  finished  with  him yet,
suckeress?
     BLOOM (Stifling.) Can't.
     BELLO Well, I'm not. Wait. (He  holds in  his  breath.) Curse it. Here.
This bung's about burst.  (He uncorks  himself behind: then,  contorting his
features,  farts  loudly.) Take  that! (He recorks himself) Yes,  by  Jingo,
sixteen three quarters.
     BLOOM (A sweat breaking out over him.) Not man. (He sniffs.) Woman.
     BELLO  (Stands up.) No more blow hot and cold. What you longed for  has
come to pass. Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a thing under
the  yoke. Now for your punishment frock. You will  shed your male garments,
you understand, Ruby Cohen? and don the  shot silk luxuriously rustling over
head and shoulders and quickly too.
     BLOOM  (Shrinks.)  Silk,  mistress  said!  O crinkly!  scrapy!  Must  I
tip-touch it with my nails?
     BELLO (Points to  his whores.) As they are now, so will you be, wigged,
singed,  perfumesprayed,   ricepowdered,  with  smoothshaven  armpits.  Tape
measurements will  be  taken  next your  skin. You  will be laced with cruel
force into  vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille,  with whalebone busk, to
the diamond trimmed 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 chafing soubrette with  dauby cheeks, mustard  hair  and  lace
male hands and nose,  leering  mouth.) I  tried her  things on only once,  a
small prank, in Holles street. When we were hardup 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 close-drawn  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 trunk
leg naughties  all split  up  the  stitches at her last rape that Mrs Miriam
Dandrade sold you from the Shelbourne Hotel, eh?
     BLOOM Miriam, Black. Demimondaine.
     BELLO (Guffaws.) Christ Almighty,  it's too tickling, this!  You were a
nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgate hairs and lay swooning
in  the  thing  across  the bed as  Mrs  Dandrade,  about  to be violated by
Lieutenant Smythe  Smythe, Mr  Philip Augustus  Blockwell, M.P., Signor Laci
Daremo, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the liftboy, Henry Fleury of Gordon
Bennett  fame, Sheridan, the quadroon Cr&Aelig;sus, the varsity wetbob eight
from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess
of Manorhamilton. (He guffaws again.) Christ, wouldn't it make a Siamese cat
laugh?
     BLOOM (Her hands and features working.) It  was Gerald converted me  to
be a true corsetlover when I was female impersonator in the High School play
Vice  Versa. It was  dear  Gerald. He got that kink,  fascinated by sister's
stays. Now dearest Gerald uses pinky greasepaint and gilds his eyelids. Cult
of the beautiful.
     BELLO (With wicked glee.) Beautiful!  Give us a breather! When you took
your  seat  with  womanish  care,  lifting  your billowy  flounces,  on  the
smoothworn throne.
     BLOOM Science. To compare the various joys we each enjoy.  (Earnestly.)
And really it's better the position... because often I used to wet.
     BELLO (Sternly.) No insubordination. The sawdust is there in the corner
for you. I gave you strict instructions, didn't I? Do it standing, sir! I'll
teach you to behave like a jinkleman!  If I catch a  trace on your swaddles.
Aha! By the ass of the Dorans you'll  find I'm a martinet. The sins  of your
past are rising against you. Many. Hundreds.
     THE SINS OF THE PAST (In a medley of voices.) He went through a form of
clandestine  marriage  with at least one woman in  the  shadow of  the Black
Church. Unspeakable  messages  he  telephoned  mentally to  Miss Dunn at  an
address  in  d'Olier  Street while he  presented himself  indecently to  the
instrument in the  callbox.  By  word  and  deed he  encouraged a  nocturnal
strumpet  to  deposit  fecal  and  other matter  in an  unsanitary  outhouse
attached to empty premises. In  five public conveniences he wrote  pencilled
messages offering  his nuptial partner to  all strongmembered males. And  by
the offensively smelling vitriol  works did he not pass night after night by
loving courting couples to see if and what and how much he could see? Did he
not  lie  in bed,  the  gross boar,  gloating  over  a  nauseous fragment of
wellused  toilet  paper  presented to him by a nasty  harlot, stimulated  by
gingerbread and a postal order?
     BELLO  (Whistles loudly.) Say! What  was the  most revolting  piece  of
obscenity in all your  career of crime?  Go the whole hog. Puke  it out.  Be
candid for once.
     (Mute  inhuman  faces  throng forward,  leering, vanishing,  gibbering,
Eooloohoom.  Poldy Hock, Bootlaces a penny, cassidy's hag, blind  stripling,
Larry Rhinoceros, the girl, the woman, the whore, the other the... )
     BLOOM Don't ask me. Our mutual faith. Pleasants street. I  only thought
the half of the... I swear on my sacred oath...
     BELLO (Peremptorily.) Answer.  Repugnant  wretch! I insist on  knowing.
Tell me something to amuse me, smut or a bloody good-ghoststory or a line of
poetry, quick, quick, quick!  Where? How?  What time? With how many?  I give
you just three seconds. One! Two! Thr... !
     BLOOM (Docile, gurgles.) I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant...
     BELLO (Imperiously.) O get out, you skunk! Hold your tongue! Speak when
you're spoken to.
     BLOOM (Bows.) Master! Mistress! Mantamer!
     (He lifts his arms. His bangle bracelets fall.)
     BELLO  (Satirically.)  By  day  you  will souse  and bat  our  smelling
underclothes, also when we ladies are unwell, and swab out our latrines with
dress  pinned up and a dishclout tied to your tail. Won't  that be nice? (He
places a ruby ring on her finger.) And there now! With this ring I thee own.
Say, thank you, mistress.
     BLOOM Thank you, mistress.
     BELLO  You will make the beds, get my tub ready,  empty the pisspots in
the different rooms, including old Mrs Keogh's the cook's, a sandy one.  Ay,
and rinse  the seven  of them well, mind, or lap it up like champagne. Drink
me piping hot. Hop! you will dance attendance or  I'll lecture  you on  your
misdeeds,  Miss Ruby, and spank your bare  bot  right well,  miss, with  the
hairbrush.  You'll  be  taught  the  error  of  your  ways.  At  night  your
wellcreamed  braceleted hands  will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered
with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. For such favours knights
of old laid down their lives. (He chuckles.)  My boys will be no end charmed
to see you  so ladylike, the  colonel,  above  all. When they come here  the
night before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. First,
I'll have a go at you myself. A man I know on the turf named Charles Alberta
Marsh (I  was  in  bed with him  just now and  another  gentleman out of the
Hanaper and Petty Bag office) is on the  lookout for a maid of all work at a
short  knock.  Swell  the bust.  Smile.  Droop shoulders. What  offers?  (He
points.) For that lot trained  by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth.
(He bares  his arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva.)  There's fine
depth for  you!  What, boys? That give you a hardon? (He shoves his arm in a
bidder's face.) Here, wet the deck and wipe it round!
     A BIDDER A florin!
     (Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell.)
     A VOICE One and eightpence too much.
     THE LACQUEY Barang!
     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 stock getter, 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 Con Bloom's croup.) So! Warranted  Cohen! What
advance on two bob, gentlemen?
     A DARKVISAGED MAN (In disguised accent.) Hoondert punt sterlink.
     VOICES (Subdued.) For the Caliph Haroun Al Raschid.
     BELLO  (Gaily.)  Right.  Let them all come.  The scanty, daringly short
skirt, riding up at the knee to show a peep of white pantalette, is a potent
weapon  and  transparent stockings, emeraldgartered, with  the long straight
seam trailing  up  beyond  the  knee, appeal to the  better instincts of the
blasи man about town.  Learn the smooth mincing walk  on  four inch Louis XV
heels, the Grecian bend  with provoking croup,  the thighs  fluescent, knees
modestly kissing.  Bring all  your  power 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 suetfolds of
Bloom's haunches.) Up! Up! Manx  cat! What have we here? Where's your  curly
teapot gone to or who docked it on you,  cockyolly? Sing, birdy, sing.  It's
as limp as a boy of  six's doing his pooly  behind  a cart. Buy  a bucket or
sell your pump. (Loudly.) Can you do a man's job?
     BLOOM Eccles Street.
     BELLO (Sarcastically.) I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the  world but
there's a man  of  brawn  in possession there. The tables are turned, my gay
young fellow! He is something like  a fullgrown  outdoor man.  Well for you,
you muff, if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts all over it.
He shot his  bolt, I  can  tell  you! Foot to foot, knee to knee,  belly  to
belly, bubs  to breast! He's no eunuch. A shock of red hair  he has sticking
out  of him behind  like  a furzebush!  Wait for nine  months,  my lad! Holy
ginger, it's  kicking and  coughing up and down  in  her guts  already! That
makes  you  wild,  don't  it?  Touches the  spot?  (He spits  in  contempt.)
Spittoon!
     BLOOM I was indecently treated, I... inform the police. Hundred pounds.
Unmentionable. I.
     BELLO Would  if  you could, lame  duck. A downpour  we  want,  not your
drizzle.
     BLOOM To drive me mad! Moll! I forgot! Forgive! Moll!... We... Still...
     BELLO (Ruthlessly.)  No, Leopold Bloom, all is  changed by woman's will
since you  slept  horizontal  in Sleepy Hollow your  night of twenty  years.
Return and see.
     (Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the wold.)
     SLEEPY HOLLOW Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!
     BLOOM  (In tattered  moccasins with a rusty  fowlingpiece,  tip toeing,
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 bluescab  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 writing table where we never wrote,
Aunt Hegarty's armchair, our classic reprints of old masters. A man  and his
men friends are living there in clover. The Cuckoos' Rest! Why not? How many
women had you, say? Following them up dark streets,  flatfoot, exciting them
by your  smothered grunts.  What,  you male prostitute? Blameless dames with
parcels of groceries. Turn about. Sauce for the goose, my gander, O.
     BLOOM They... I
     BELLO (Cuttingly.) Their  heelmarks  will  stamp the Brusselette carpet
you bought at  Wren's auction. In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find
the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue you carried
home  in the rain for  art for art's  sake. They will violate the secrets of
your bottom drawer. Pages will be torn from  your  handbook  of astronomy to
make them pipespills. And they  will spit in your ten shilling brass  fender
from Hampton Leedom's.
     BLOOM Ten and six. The act of low scoundrels. Let me go. I will return.
I will prove...
     A VOICE Swear!
     (Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, a bowie knife between his
teeth.)
     BELLO  As a paying guest or  a  kept man? Too late.  You have made your
secondbest bed and others  must lie in it. Your epitaph is  written. You are
down and out and don't you forget it, old bean.
     BLOOM Justice! All Ireland versus one! Has nobody... ?
     (He bites his thumb.)
     BELLO Die and be damned  to you  if you  have  any  sense of decency or
grace about you. I can give you a rare old wine that'll send you skipping to
hell and back. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have. If  you have none
see you damn well get it, steal it, rob it! We'll  bury you in our shrubbery
jakes where you'll be dead  and dirty with old Cuck Cohen,  my stepnephew  I
married, the bloody old gouty  procurator  and sodomite with a crick in  his
neck, and my other ten  or eleven  husbands,  what ever the  buggers'  names
were, suffocated in  the one  cess  pool. (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 will power! 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,  0.  Mastiansky,  the Reverend Leopold  Abramovitz,  Chazen.  With
swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the recreant Bloom.)
     THE CIRCUMCISED (In  a dark  guttural chant as they cast dead sea fruit
upon him, no flowers.) Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.
     VOICES  (Sighing.)  So he's  gone.  Ah, yes. Yes, indeed.  Bloom? Never
heard of him. No? Queer kind of chap. There's the widow. That so? Ah, yes.
     (From the suttee pyre the  flame of gum camphire  ascends.  The pall of
incense smoke screens and disperses. Out of her oak  frame a nymph with hair
unbound, lightly clad  in teabrown art colours, 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, high kickers, coster
picnic makers, pugilists, popular  generals,  immoral  panto  boys in  flesh
tights and the nifty shimmy  dancers, La Aurora and Karini, musical act, the
hit of the century. I was hidden in cheap pink paper that smelt of rock oil.
I was surrounded  by the stale smut of clubmen,  stories  to  disturb callow
youth,  ads  for  transparencies,  truedup dice  and  bustpads,  proprietary
articles  and  why  wear a truss  with  testimonial from ruptured gentleman.
Useful hints to the married.
     BLOOM  (Lifts a turtle  head  towards her  lap.) We have met before. On
another star.
     THE NYMPH (Sadly.) Rubber goods.  Neverrip. Brand  as  sup plied 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 my bed or
rather was pushed. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. For the rest there is
that  English  invention,  pamphlet  of  which  I received  some  days  ago,
incorrectly addressed. It claims to afford a noiseless inoffensive vent. (He
sighs.) 'Twas ever thus. Frailty, thy name is marriage.
     THE NYMPH  (Her fingers  in her  ears.)  And words. They are  not in my
dictionary.
     BLOOM You understood them?
     THE YEWS Ssh.
     THE NYMPH (Covers her face with her hand.) What have I not seen in that
chamber? What must my eyes look down on?
     BLOOM (Apologetically.)  I know. Soiled personal  linen, wrong side  up
with care. The quoits are loose. From Gibraltar by long sea, long ago.
     THE NYMPH (Bends her head.) Worse! Worse!
     BLOOM  (Reflects precautiously.) That antiquated commode. It wasn't her
weight. She scaled  just eleven stone nine. She put  on  nine  pounds  after
weaning. It  was a crack and want of glue.  Eh? And that  absurd orangekeyed
utensil which has only one handle.
     (The sound of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade.)
     THE WATERFALL
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.
     THE  YEWS  (Mingling their boughs.) Listen. Whisper. She is  right, our
sister. We grew by Poulaphouca waterfall. We gave shade on languorous summer
days.
     JOHN  WYSE  NOLAN  (In  the  background, in Irish National For  ester'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   (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 school cap 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, instincts of the herd,
and the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles  vice.  Even a pricelist of their
hosiery. And then the heat.  There were sunspots that summer. End of school.
And tipsycake. Halcyon days.
     (Halcyon Days, high school boys in blue  and white football jerseys and
shorts,  Master  Donald Turnbull,  Master Abraham  Chatterton,  Master  Owen
Goldberg, Master Jack Meredith,  Master Percy Apjohn, stand in a clearing of
the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)
     THE HALCYON DAYS Mackerel! Live us again. Hurray!
     (They cheer.)
     BLOOM  (Hobbledehoy,  warmgloved,  mammamufflered,  stunned  with spent
snowballs,  struggles to  rise.) Again! I feel  sixteen! What a lark!  Let's
ring all the bells in  Montague Street. (He cheers feebly.) Hurray  for  the
High School!
     THE ECHO Fool!
     THE  YEWS (Rustling.) She  is  right, our  sister.  Whisper. (Whispered
kisses  are heard  in all the wood. Faces  of  hamadryads  peep out from the
boles and  among the leaves and break blossoming  into  bloom.) Who profaned
our silent shade?
     THE NYMPH (Coyly through parting fingers.) There! In the open air?
     THE YEWS (Sweeping downward.) Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward.
     THE WATERFALL
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
     Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.
     THE NYMPH (With wide fingers.) O! Infamy!
     BLOOM I  was precocious.  Youth. The fauns. 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  ill-closed  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 Me. Me see.
     BLOOM Simply satisfying a need. (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 curvants.)
     THE NANNYGOAT (Bleats.) Megegaggegg! Nannannanny!
     BLOOM  (Hatless,  flushed,  covered   with  burn   of  thistledown  and
gotrepine.) 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 rotatingly from the Lion's  Head  cliff into the purple Waiting
waters.)
     THE DUMMYMUMMY Bbbbblllllbbblblodschbg?
     (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  NANNETI (Alone  on deck, in dark alpaca,  yellow kitefaced,
his hand in his  waistcoat  opening,  declaims.) When  my  country takes her
place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then let my epitaph
be written. I have...
     BLOOM Done. Prff.
     THE NYMPH (Loftily.) We immortals, as you  saw today,  have  not such a
place and no hair there either. We are  stonecold and pure. We eat  electric
light. (She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger
in her mouth.) Spoke to me. Heard from behind. How then could you... ?
     BLOOM  (Pacing the heather abjectly.) O, I  have  been  a  perfect pig.
Enemas too I have administered. One third of a pint of quassia, to which add
a tablespoonful of rocksalt. Up the fundament. With Hamilton Long's syringe,
the ladies' friend.
     THE NYMPH In  my presence. The powderpuff.  (She  blushes  and makes  a
knee.) And the rest.
     BLOOM (Dejected.) Yes. Peccavi! I have paid homage on that living altar
where  the back  changes name.  (With sudden  fervour.) For  why  should the
dainty scented jewelled hand, the hand that rules... ?
     (Figures wind serpenting in slow woodland pattern around the treestems,
cooeeing.)
     THE VOICE OF KITTY (In the thicket.) Show us one of them cushions.
     THE VOICE OF FLORRY Here.
     (A grouse wings clumsily through the underwood.)
     THE VOICE OF LYNCH (In the thicket.) Whew! Piping hot!
     THE VOICE OF ZOE (From the thicket.) Came from a hot place.
     THE VOICE OF VIRAG  (A  birdchief  bluestreaked and  feathered  in  war
panoply  with  his  assegai,  striding  through a  crackling  canebrake over
beechmast and acorns.) Hot! Hot! Ware Sitting Bull!
     BLOOM It overpowers  me. The warm impress of her warm form. Even to sit
where  a  woman has sat,  especially with divaricated  thighs, as  though to
grant the last favours, most  especially with previously well uplifted white
sateen coatpans. So womanly full. It fills me full.
     THE WATERFALL
     Phillaphulla Poulaphouca
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.
     THE YEWS Ssh! Sister, speak!
     THE NYMPH (Eyeless, in nun's white habit, coif  and huge winged wimple,
softly, with remote eyes.) Tranquilia  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 trousers button snaps.)
     THE BUTTON Bip!
     (Two sluts of the Coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly.)
     THE SLUTS
     O Leopold lost the pin of his drawers
     He didn't know what to do,
     To keep it up,
     To keep it up.
     BLOOM  (Coldly.)  You have  broken the spell. The  last straw. If there
were  only  ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? Shy but
willing, like an ass pissing.
     THE YEWS (Their silverfoil of leaves  precipitating,  their skinny arms
ageing and swaying.) Deciduously!
     THE NYMPH 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 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 of  nine lives!
Fair play, madam. No pruning knife. The fox  and the grapes, is it? What  do
we lack  with your barbed wire? Crucifix not thick  enough? (He clutches her
veil.) A holy  abbot you want or Brophy, the lame gardener, or the spoutless
statue of the watercarrier or good Mother Alphonsus, eh Reynard?
     THE NYMPH  (With  a  cry, flees from  him  unveiled,  her plaster  cast
cracking, a cloud of stench escaping from the cracks.) Poli... !
     BLOOM  (Calls after  her.)  As  if  you  didn't get  it on  the  double
yourselves. No jerks and multiple  mucosities all over you. I tried it. Your
strength our weakness. What's our  stud fee? What will  you pay on the nail?
You fee  men  dancers 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.) But. Onions. Stale. Sulphur. Grease.
     (The figure of Bella Cohen stands before him.)
     BELLA You'll know me the next time.
     BLOOM (Composed, regards  her.) Passиe. Mutton dressed as lamb. Lone in
the  tooth and superfluous hairs. 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 glass eyes 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.)
Fohracht!
     BLOOM (Contemptuously.) Clean  your nailless middle  finger  first, the
cold spunk of your bully is dripping from your  cockscomb. Take a handful of
hay and wipe yourself.
     BELLA I know you, canvasser! Dead cod!
     BLOOM I saw him, kipkeeper! Pox and gleet vendor!
     BELLA (Turns  to  the piano.) Which of  you was playing the  dead march
from Saul?
     ZOE Me. Mind your cornflowers. (She darts to the piano and bangs chords
on it  with crossed arms.) The cat's ramble  through the slag.  (She glances
back.) Eh? Who's making love to my sweeties? (She darts back  to the table.)
What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own.
     (Kitty  disconcerted  coats her  teeth with  the  silver  paper.  Bloom
approaches Zoe.)
     BLOOM  (Gently.)  Give  me  back that potato, will you? Zoe Forfeits, a
fine thing and a superfine thing.
     BLOOM (With feeling.) It is nothing, but still a relic of poor mamma.
     ZOE
     Give a thing and take it back
     God'll ask you where is that
     You'll say you don't know
     God'll send you down below.
     BLOOM There is a memory attached to it. I should like to have it.
     STEPHEN To have or not to have, that is the question.
     ZOE  Here.  (She hauls up a reef  of her slip, revealing her bare thigh
and unrolls the potato from the top of her stocking.) Those that hides knows
where to find.
     BELLA  (Frowns.)  Here.  This  isn't a musical peepshow. And  don't you
smash that piano. Who's paying here?
     (She goes to the pianola. Stephen fumbles in his pocket and, taking out
a banknote by its corner, hands it to her.)
     STEPHEN (With exaggerated politeness.) This silken purse I made  out of
the  sow's  ear of  the public.  Madam,  excuse  me.  If  you allow  me. (He
indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom.) We are all in the same sweepstake, Kinch
and Lynch. Dans ce bordel oы tenons nostre иtat.
     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 Zoe, Florry and Kitty.) Do you want
three girls? It's ten shillings here.
     STEPHEN (Delightedly.) A hundred  thousand apologies. (He fumbles again
and takes out  and hands her two  crowns.)  Permit, brevi manu,  my sight is
somewhat troubled.
     (Bella  goes to the table  to count the  money  while Stephen talks  to
himself  in monosyllables. Zoe bounds  over  to 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  gentle man paid  down like a gentleman...  drink...
it's long after eleven.
     STEPHEN (At the  pianola, making a gesture  of abhorrence.) No bottles!
What, eleven? A riddle.
     ZOE (Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the top
of her stocking.) Hard earned on the flat of my back.
     LYNCH (Lifting Kitty from the table.) Come!
     KITTY Wait. (She clutches the two crowns.)
     FLORRY And me?
     LYNCH Hoopla!  (He lifts  her  carries  her  and bumps her  down on the
sofa.)
     STEPHEN The fox crew, the cocks flew, The bells in heaven Were striking
eleven. 'Tis time for her poor soul To get out of heaven.
     BLOOM  (Quietly lays a half  sovereign on the table  between Bella  and
Florry.) So. Allow me. (He takes up  the pound note.) Three times ten. We're
square.
     BELLA (Admiringly.) You're such  a slyboots, old  cocky. I  could  kiss
you.
     ZOE (Points.) Hum? Deep as a drawwell. (Lynch bends Kitty back over the
sofa and kisses her. Bloom goes with the poundnote to Stephen.)
     BLOOM This is yours.
     STEPHEN  How  is that? Le distrait  or absentminded beggar. (He fumbles
again in his pocket and draws out a handful of coins. An object falls.) That
fell.
     BLOOM (Stooping, picks up and hands a box of matches.) This.
     STEPHEN Lucifer. Thanks.
     BLOOM (Quietly.) You had better hand over that cash to me to take  care
of. Why pay more?
     STEPHEN (Hands him all his coins.) Be just before you are generous.
     BLOOM I will but is it wise? (He counts.) One, seven, eleven, and five.
Six. Eleven. I don't answer for what you may have lost.
     STEPHEN  Why  striking eleven?  Proparoxyton. Moment  before  the  next
Lessing  says. Thirsty fox. (He  laughs  loudly.)  Burying  his grandmother.
Probably he killed her.
     BLOOM That is one pound six and eleven. One pound seven, say.
     STEPHEN Doesn't matter a rambling damn.
     BLOOM No, but...
     STEPHEN (Comes  to  the  table.)  Cigarette,  please. (Lynch  tosses  a
cigarette  from the sofa to the table.) And so Georgina Johnson is  dead and
married. (A  cigarette appears on  the table. Stephen looks at  it.) Wonder.
Parlour  magic. Married. Hm. (He strikes a  match  and proceeds to light the
cigarette with enigmatic melancholy.)
     LYNCH (Watching him.) You would have a  better chance of lighting it if
you held the match nearer.
     STEPHEN (Brings the  match nearer his eye.) Lynx eye. Must get glasses.
Broke them yesterday.  Sixteen years ago. Distance.  The  eye sees all flat.
(He draws the match away. It goes out.) Brain thinks. Near: far. Ineluctable
modality of the visible.  (He  frowns  mysteriously.) Hm. Sphinx.  The beast
that has two backs at midnight. Married.
     ZOE It was  a commercial  traveller married her and  took her away with
him.
     FLORRY (Nods.) Mr Lambe from London.
     STEPHEN Lamb of London, who takest away the sins of our world.
     LYNCH (Embracing Kitty on  the sofa, chants deeply.) Dona  nobis pacem.
(The cigarette slips from Stephens fingers. Bloom picks it up  and throws it
into 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 kaput.
     ZOE (Tragically.) Hamlet, I am thy  father's  gimlet!  (She  takes  his
hand.) Blue eyed 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. Pandy bat.
     (Twice loudly a  pandybat cracks, the coffin of the pianola flies open,
the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of Father Dolan springs up.)
     FATHER DOLAN Any boy want flogging? Broke his glasses? Lazy idle little
schemer. See it in your eye.
     (Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the head of Don John  Conmee rises
from the pianola coffin.)
     DON JOHN CONMEE Now, Father Dolan! Now. I'm sure that Stephen is a very
good little boy.
     ZOE (Examining Stephen's palm.) Woman's hand.
     STEPHEN (Murmurs.) Continue. Lie.  Hold me. Caress. I never could  read
His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on the haddock.
     ZOE What day were you born?
     STEPHEN Thursday. Today.
     ZOE  Thursday's  child  has far to go. (She traces lines  on his hand.)
Line of fate. Influential friends.
     FLORRY (Pointing.) Imagination.
     ZOE  Mount of the  moon. You'll meet with a... (She peers at his  hands
abruptly.) I won't tell you what's not good for you. Or do you want to know?
     BLOOM  (Detaches her fingers and offers his palm.) More harm than good.
Here. Read mine.
     BELLA Show. (She turns up Bloom's hand.) I thought so. Knobby knuckles,
for the women.
     ZOE (Peering  at Bloom's  palm.)  Gridiron. Travels beyond  the sea and
marry money.
     BLOOM Wrong.
     ZOE  (Quickly.) O, I see. Short little finger.  Henpecked husband. That
wrong?
     (Black  Liz,  a  huge rooster  hatching  in a  chalked  circle,  rises,
stretches her wings and clucks.)
     BLACK LIZ Gara. Klook. Klook. Klook.
     (She sidles from her newlaid egg and waddles off.)
     BLOOM (Points  to his  hand.) That weal there is  an accident. Fell and
cut it twenty-two years ago. I was sixteen.
     ZOE I see, says the blind man. Tell us news.
     STEPHEN See?  Moves to  one great  goal. I  am twenty two too.  Sixteen
years ago I twentytwo tumbled, twentytwo  years ago  he sixteen fell off his
hobbyhorse. (He winces.) Hurt my hand somewhere. Must see a dentist. Money?
     (Zoe  whispers  to  Florry.  They  giggle. Bloom releases  his hand and
writes idly on the table in backhand, pencilling slow curves.)
     FLORRY What?
     (A   hackneycar  number   three  hundred   and   twentyfour,   with   a
gallantbuttocked mare,  driven by James  Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook,
trots past.  Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the  sideseats. The
Ormond  boots  crouches behind on the axle. Sadly over  the crossblind Lydia
Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze.)
     THE BOOTS (Jogging, mocks them with  thumb and wriggling  wormfingers.)
Haw, haw, have you the horn?
     (Bronze by gold they whisper.)
     ZOE (To Florry.) Whisper.
     (They whisper again.)
     (Over  the well  of the car Blazes Boylan  leans, his  boater straw set
sideways, a red flower in his mouth. Lenehan, in a yachtsman's cap and white
shoes, officiously detaches a long hair from Blazes Boylan s 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  bumps surely from the car and calls  loudly  for all to hear. )
Hello, Bloom! Mrs Bloom up yet?
     BLOOM (In a flunkey's plum plush  coat and kneebreeches, buff stockings
and powdered wig.) I'm afraid not, sir, the last articles...
     BOYLAN (Tosses him  sixpence.) Here, to buy yourself a gin  and splash.
(He hangs his hat smartly on a peg of Bloom's antlered head.) Show me in.  I
have a little private business with your wife. You understand?
     BLOOM Thank you, sir. Yes, sir, Madam Tweedy is in her bath, sir.
     MARION He ought  to  feel himself highly honoured. (She plops splashing
out of  the water.) Raoul, darling, come and dry me. I'm in my pelt. Only my
new hat and a carriage sponge.
     BOYLAN (A merry twinkle in his eye.) Topping!
     BELLA What? What is it?
     (Zoe whispers to her.)
     MARION Let  him look,  the  pishogue! Pimp!  And scourge himself!  I'll
write to a  powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the bearded woman, to raise
weals out  on  him an inch thick and  make  him  bring me back a  signed and
stamped receipt.
     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 an ointment  jar.) Vaseline,  sir?
Orangeflower?... Lukewarm water?...
     KITTY (From the sofa.) Tell us, Florry. Tell us. What.
     (Florry  whispers  to  her.  Whispering  lovewords  murmur  lip-lapping
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 cock horse. 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!
Weeshwashtkissima, pooisthnapoohuck!
     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
hu.
     (Stephen and Bloom gaze in the mirror. The face of William Shakespeare,
beardless,  appears  there,  rigid  in  facial  paralysis,  crowned  by  the
reflection of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the hall.)
     SHAKESPEARE  (In dignified ventriloquy.) 'Tis  the loud  laugh bespeaks
the vacant  mind. (To Bloom.) Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible.
Gaze. (He crows with a black capon's laugh.) Iagogo! How my Oldfellow chokit
his Thursdaymomun. Iagogogo!
     BLOOM (Smiles yellowly at the 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 near the skin after his death...
     (Mrs  Dignam,  widow  woman,  her  snubnose  and  cheeks  flushed  with
deathtalk, tears  and  Tunny'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,  lace eights.  She  holds  a Scottish
widow's insurance policy and lace marqueeumbrella under which her brood runs
with  her,  Patsy hopping on one  short foot, his collar  loose,  a  hank of
porksteaks dangling, Freddy whimpering, Susy with a crying cods 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  Shakespeares
beardless face. The marqueeumbrella sways drunkenly, the children run aside.
Under the  umbrella appears  Mrs  Cunningham  in  Merry Widow hat and kimono
gown. She glides sidling and bowing, twisting 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 grandoldgross  father  made the first
confessionbox. Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the
house of Lambert. And Noah was drunk with wine. And his ark was open.
     BELLA None of that here. Come to the wrong shop.
     LYNCH Let him alone. He's back from Paris.
     ZOE (Runs to Stephen and links him.) O go on! Give us some parleyvoo.
     (Stephen  claps  hat  on head and leaps over to the fireplace, where he
stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands  outspread,  a  painted smile on
his face.)
     LYNCH (Pommelling on the sofa.) Rmm Rmm Rmm Rrr rrrmmmmm.
     STEPHEN  (Gobbles,  with  marionette  jerks.  )  Thousand   places   of
entertainment to expenses your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and
other things perhaps  her  heart  beerchops  perfect fashionable house  very
eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about  princesses  like
are dancing cancan  and walking there parisian clowneries extra  foolish for
bachelors foreigns the  same  if talking a poor english how much  smart they
are on things love  and sensations  voluptuous.  Misters very selects for is
pleasure must to visit  heaven and hell show with mortuary  candles and they
tears  silver  which  occur  every  night.  Perfectly  shocking terrific  of
religion's things mockery  seen  in  universal  world. All chic womans which
arrive full  of modesty  then  disrobe and  squeal  loud to see  vampire man
debauch nun very fresh young with dessous  troublants. (He clocks 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  cos  turned. 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 tompeeptoms virgins  nudities very lesbic the kiss five  ten times.
Enter gentlemen to see in  mirrors every positions trapezes all that machine
there besides also if  desire  act awfully bestial butcher's boy pollutes in
warm veal liver or omelette on the belly piхce de Shakespeare.
     BELLA  (Clapping her belly, sinks  back  on  the sofa  with a shout  of
laughter.) An omelette on the... Ho! ho! ho! ho!... Omelette on the...
     STEPHEN  (Mincingly.)  I love  you, Sir darling.  Speak  you englishman
tongue  for  double  entente  cordiale.  O yes,  mon loup.  How  much  cost?
Waterloo. Watercloset. (He ceases suddenly and holds up a forefinger.)
     BELLA (Laughing.) Omelette...
     THE WHORES (Laughing.) Encore! Encore!
     STEPHEN Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon.
     ZOE Go abroad and love a foreign lady.
     LYNCH Across the world for a wife.
     FLORRY Dreams go by contraries.
     STEPHEN  (Extending  his  arms.)  It was here.  Street of  harlots.  In
Serpentine Avenue  Beelzebub showed me her,  a fubsy widow.  Where's the red
carpet spread?
     BLOOM (Approaching Stephen.) Look.
     STEPHEN No, I  flew.  My foes  beneath  me. And ever  shall  be.  World
without end. (He cries.) Pater! Free!
     BLOOM I say, look...
     STEPHEN Break my spirit, will he? O merde alors! (He cries, his vulture
talons sharpened.) Hola! Hillyho!
     (Simon Dedalus' voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready.)
     SIMON  That's  all  right.  (He  swoops  uncertainly  through  the air,
wheeling, uttering cries of  heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard wings.)
Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with  those halfcastes.
Wouldn't let them within  the bawl of an ass. Head up! Keep our flag flying!
An eagle gules volant  in a field argent displayed. Ulster king at arms! hai
hoop!  (He makes the  beagle's call giving tongue.) Bulbul! Burblblbrurblbl!
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,  bright-eyed,  seeking badger  earth,  under the
leaves. The  pack of staghounds follows, nose  to the ground, sniffing their
quarry, beaglebaying,  burblbrblng 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, salmongaffs,
lassos, flockmasters  with stockwhips, bearbaiters with  tomtoms,  toreadors
with bullswords,  grey negroes  waving  torches. The crowd bowls of  dicers,
crown and anchor players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse
bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.)
     THE CROWD
     Card of the races. Racing card!
     Ten to one the field!
     Tommy on the clay here!
     Tommy on the clay!
     Ten to one bar one.
     Ten to one bar one.
     Try your luck on spinning Jenny!
     Ten to one bar one!
     Sell the monkey, boys!
     Sell the monkey!
     I'll give ten to one!
     Ten to one bar one!
     (A dark horse,  riderless, bolts  like  a phantom past the winningpost,
his  mane  moonfoaming,  his eyeballs stars. The field follows, a  bunch  of
bucking mounts. Skeleton horses: Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the
Duke of Westminsters Shotover, Repulse, the Duke of Beauforts'  Ceylon, prix
de Paris.  Dwarfs  ride  them, rusty  armoured, leaping,  leaping  in  their
saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain, on a broken-winded isabelle nag, Cock of
the  North, the favourite, honey cap, green  jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett
Deasy  up,  gripping  the  reins,  a hockey  stick at  the  ready.  His nag,
stumbling on 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
postage  stamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his blue  eyes flashing  in the
prism of the  chandelier as his mount lopes by at  a  schooling gallop.) Per
vias rectas!
     (A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag, a torrent
of  mutton broth  with  dancing  coins of  carrots, barley, onions, turnips,
potatoes.)
     THE GREEN LODGES Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!
     (Private  Carr,  Private Compton  and  Cissy Caffrey  pass  beneath the
windows, singing in discord.)
     STEPHEN Hark! Our friend, noise in the street!
     ZOE (Holds up her hand.) Stop!
     PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON and CISSY CAFFREY
     Yet I've a sort a
     Yorkshire relish for...
     ZOE  That's me. (She claps her hands.) Dance! Dance!  (She runs  to the
pianola.) Who has twopence?
     BLOOM Who'll.
     LYNCH (Handing her coins.) Here.
     STEPHEN  (Cracking his fingers impatiently.) Quick!  Quick! Where's  my
augur's rod? (He runs to the piano and takes  his ashplant, beating his foot
in tripudium.)
     ZOE (Turns the drumhandle.) There.
     (She drops two pennies in the slot.  Glow  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 piano stool and lifts and beats handless  sticks of
arms on the keyboard, nodding with damsels grace, his bowknot bobbing.)
     ZOE (Twirls around herself heeltapping.) Dance. Anybody here for there?
Who'll dance?
     (The  pianola, with changing lights, plays in waltz time the prelude to
My  Girl's a Yorkshire Girl.  Stephen  throws his ashplant  on the table and
seizes  Zoe  around the waist. Florry and Bella push the table  towards  the
fireplace. Stephen, aiming Zoe  with exaggerated grace,  begins to waltz her
around the  room. Her sleeve,  falling  from gracing arms,  reveals  a white
fleshflower  of  vaccination.  Bloom  stands  aside.  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  go-et of cream
tulle,  a  green lowcut  waistcoat, stock collar  with  white kerchief tight
lavender trousers,  patent  pumps and  canary gloves. In his buttonhole is a
dahlia. He  twirls  in  reversed directions a clouded cane,  then wedges  it
tight  in  his oxter. He  places a hand limply on his  breastbone, bows  and
fondles his flower and buttons.)
     MAGINNI The poetry of motion,  art of callisthenics. No connection with
Madam  Legget  Byrne's  or   Levinstone's.  Fancy   dress  balls   arranged.
Deportment.   The  Katty  Lanner  steps.  So.  Watch  me!  My  terpsichorean
abilities.  (He minuets forward three paces on tripping bee's feet.) Tout le
monde an avant! Rиvиrence! Tout le monde en place!
     (The prelude  ceases. Professor Goodwin,  beating  vague arms,shrivels,
shrinks,  his  live cape falling about  the stool.  The air, in firmer waltz
time, pounds. Stephen and Zoe circle freely.  The lights change, glow, fade,
gold, rose, 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, slim, 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.)  Carrи!  Avant  deux! Breathe
evenly! Balance!
     (The  morning and noon hours waltz in their places, turning,  advancing
to each other, shaping their curves, bowing vis a vis. Cawaliers behind them
arch and suspend their arms, with hands descending to, touching, rising from
their shoulders.)
     HOURS You may touch my.
     CAVALIERS May I touch your?
     HOURS O, but lightly!
     CAVALIERS O, so lightly!
     THE PIANOLA My little shy little lass has a waist.
     (Zoe  and  Stephen turn  boldly with looser swing.  The twilight  hours
advance,  from  long  landshadows,  dispersed,  lagging,  languideyed, their
cheeks delicate  with cipria and false faint bloom. They are  in  grey gauze
with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the land breeze.)
     MAGINNI Avant! huit! Traversи! Salut! Cours de mains! Croisи!
     (The eight hours 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 (Twisting, her hand to her brow.) O!
     MAGINNI Los tiroirs! Chaнne de dames! La corbeille! Dos ю dos!
     (Arabesquing  wearily, they  weave  a pattern  on  the floor,  weaving,
unweaving, curtseying, twisting, simply swirling.)
     ZOE I'm giddy.
     (She frees herself droops  on  a chair, Stephen seizes Florry and turns
with her.)
     MAGINNI Boulangхre! Los ronds! Los ponts! Chevaux de bois! Escargots!
     (Twining,  receding, with interchanging hands,  the  night hours  link,
each with  arching arms, in a  mosaic of movements. Stephen and  Florry turn
cumbrously.)
     MAGINNI  Dansez  avec  vos  dames!  Changes de dames!  Donnes le  petit
bouquet a votre dame! Remerciez!
     THE PIANOLA
     Best, best of all,
     Baraabum!
     KITTY  (Jumps  up.) O, they played that on the hobbyhorses at the Mirus
bazaar!
     (She  runs  to Stephen. He leaves Florry brusquely and  seizes Kitty. A
screaming bit tern's harsh high whistle shrieks.  Groangrousegurgling Toft's
cumbersome whirligig turns slowly the room right roundabout the room.)
     THE PIANOLA My girl's a Yorkshire girl.
     ZOE Yorkshire through and through. Come on all!
     (She seizes Florry and waltzes her.)
     STEPHEN Pas seul!
     (He  wheels Kitty into Lynch's arm's, 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 horn blower 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
scotlootshoot lumbering by. Baraabum!)
     TUTTI Encore! Bis! Bravo! Encore!
     SIMON Think of your mother's people!
     STEPHEN Dance of death.
     (Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, horse, nag,  steer piglings,
Conmee  on  Christass  lame  crutch  and  leg sailor  in cockboat  armfolded
ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe' through and through, Baraabum! On nags,
hogs, bellhorses,  Gadarene swine, Corny  in coffin. Steel shark  stone  one
handled Nelson,  two  trickies  Frauenzimmer plumstained from  pram  falling
bawling. Gum, he's a champion.  Fuseblue peer from barrel rev. evensong love
on hackney jaunt  Blazes  blind coddoubled bicyclers  Dilly with snowcake no
fancy clothes. Then in last wiswitchback lumbering up and down bump mash tub
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 wall. He stops dead.)
     STEPHEN Ho!
     (Stephen's  mother, emaciated,  rises stark through the floor in  leper
grey with a wreath of faded orange blossoms and a torn bridal veil, her face
worn and  noseless,  green with grave mould. Her hair is scant and lank. She
fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets  on Stephen and opens  her toothless
mouth  uttering  a  silent  word. A  choir of  virgins  and  confessors sing
voicelessly.)
     THE CHOIR
     Liliata rutilantium te confessorum...
     Iubilantium te virginum...
     (From the top of a tower Buck Mulligan, in particoloured jester's dress
of puce and yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, stands  gaping at her,
a smoking buttered split scone in his hand.)
     BUCK MULLIGAN She's  beastly  dead. The pity of it!  Mulligan meets the
afflicted mother. (He upturns his eyes.) Mercurial Malachi.
     THE MOTHER  (With the subtle smile of death's madness.) I was  once the
beautiful May Goulding. I am dead.
     STEPHEN (Horrorstruck.) Lemur, who are you?  What bogey man's trick  is
this?
     BUCK  MULLIGAN (Shakes his  curling capbell.) The mockery  of it! Kinch
killed  her  dogsbody  bitchbody.  She kicked  the bucket. (Tears of  molten
butter  fall  from his eyes into  the scone.) Our  great  sweet mother!  Epi
oinopa ponton.
     THE MOTHER  (Comes  nearer,  breathing  upon him softly  her  breath of
wetted ashes.) All must go through  it,  Stephen. More women than men in the
world. You too. Time will come.
     STEPHEN (Choking with fright, remorse  and horror.) They  said 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  all powerful. 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 brain work. Years and years I loved  you,
O my son, my firstborn, when you lay in my womb.
     ZOE (Fanning herself with the grate fan.) I'm melting!
     FLORRY (Points to Stephen) Look! He's white.
     BLOOM (Goes to the window to open it more.) Giddy.
     THE MOTHER (With smouldering eyes.) Repent! O, the fire of hell!
     STEPHEN (Panting.) 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  fingers.) Beware! God's hand! (A
green crab  with  malignant red  eyes  sticks  deep  its  grinning  claws in
Stephen's heart.)
     STEPHEN (Strangled with rage.) Shite! (His features grow drawn and grey
and old.)
     BLOOM (At the window.) What?
     STEPHEN Ah non, par exemple!  The intellectual imagination! With me all
or not at all. Non serviam!
     FLORRY Give him some cold water. Wait. (She rushes out.)
     THE MOTHER  (Wrings  her hands  slowly, moaning  desperately.) O Sacred
Heart  of  Jesus, have  mercy on him! Save  him  from  hell, O divine Sacred
Heart!
     STEPHEN No! No! No! Break  my  spirit all of you if you can! I'll bring
you all to heel!
     THE MOTHER  (In  the agony of her deathrattle.) Have mercy on  Stephen,
Lord,  for my sake! Inexpressible  was  my anguish  when expiring with love,
grief and agony on Mount Calvary.
     STEPHEN Nothung!
     (He hits 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 flees from the room past the whores at the door.)
     BELLA (Screams.) After him!
     (The two whores rush to the halldoors. 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.) There. You
were with him. The lamp's broken.
     BLOOM (Rushes to the hall, rushes back.) What lamp, woman?
     A WHORE He tore his coat.
     BELLA (Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points.) Who's to pay for
that? Ten Shillings. You're a witness.
     BLOOM (Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.) Me? Ten  shillings? Haven't you
lifted enough off him? Didn't he...
     BELLA (Loudly.) Here, none of your tall  talk. This isn't  a brothel. A
ten shilling house.
     BLOOM (His hand under the  lamp, pulls the chain. Pulling,  the  gasjet
lights up a crushed  mauve purple shade. He raises the  ashplant.) Only  the
chimney's broken. Here is all he...
     BELLA (Shrinks back and screams.) Jesus! Don't!
     BLOOM (Warding off a blow.) To show you  how he hit the paper.  There's
not a 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 boat races
and paying nothing. Are you my commander here? 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 you incog?
     ZOE (In the doorway.) There's a row on.
     BLOOM  What?  Where?  (He throws a shilling on the  table  and shouts.)
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 uses on  her
whores. They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses. Corny Kelleher replies with
a  ghostly  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  Baschid, he  flits behind  the  silent lechers  and  hastens  on  by the
railings  with  fleet  step  of a pard strewing  the drag behind  him,  torn
envelopes  drenched in  aniseed. The ashplant  marks his  stride. A  pack of
bloodhounds, led  by Hornblower  of Trinity brandishing a dogwhip in tallyho
cap  and an old  pair of  grey trousers,  follows from far,  picking  up the
scent,  nearer,  baying, panting,  at fault,  breaking away,  throwing their
tongues, biting his  heels, leaping at his tail.  He  walks,  runs, zigzags,
gallops,  lugs  laid  back.   He  is   pelted  with  gravel,  cabbagestumps,
biscuitboxes,  eggs, potatoes, dead codfish, womans  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,
Whatdoyoucallhim,  Strangeface,  Fellowthatslike,   Sawhimbefore,  Chapwith,
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, man in the street,
other man  in  the  street, 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 Generals, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with  tweezers, Mrs
Bob   Doran,   Mrs   Kennefick,   Mrs   Wyse   Nolan,   John   Wyse   Nolan,
handsomemamedwomanrubbed againstwidebehindinClonskeatram, the bookseller  of
Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad,  Mesdames  Gerald  and Stanislaus
Moran of Roebuck, the managing  clerk of Drimmies 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  (Helterskelterelterwelter) He's  Bloom!  Stop Bloom!
Stopabloom! Stopperrobber! Hi! Hi! Stop him 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. The uninvited. By  virtue of the fifth  of George and seventh of
Edward. History to blame. Fabled by mothers of memory.
     PRIVATE CARR (To Cissy Caffrey.) Was he insulting you?
     STEPHEN   Addressed  her   in  vocative   feminine.   Probably  neuter.
Ungenitive.
     VOICES No, he didn't. The girl's telling lies.  He  was in Mrs Cohen's.
What's up? Soldiers and civilians.
     CISSY CAFFREY I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do
- you know and the young man ran 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 Kitty's and Lynch's  heads.) Hail, Sisyphus.
(He points to himself and the others.) Poetic. Neopoetic.
     VOICES She's 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 (In Union Jack blazer  and  cricket flannels, bareheaded,
flowingbearded.) Their's not to reason why.
     PRIVATE COMPTON Biff him, Harry.
     STEPHEN (To Private Compton. ) I don't know your name but you are quite
right. Doctor  Swift  says one  man  in armour  will  beat ten men  in their
shirts. Shirt is synechdoche. Part for the whole.
     CISSY CAFFREY (To the crowd.) No, I was with the private.
     STEPHEN (Amiably.) Why not? The bold soldier  boy. In my  opinion every
lady for example...
     PRIVATE CARR  (His cap  awry, advancing to  Stephen.) Say, how would it
be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw?
     STEPHEN  (Looks  up  in the sky.)  How? Very unpleasant.  Noble  art of
self-pretence.  Personally, I detest action. (He waves his hand)  Hand hurts
me slightly. Enfin, ce sont vos oignons.
     (To Cissy Caffrey.) Some trouble is on here. What is it, precisely?
     DOLLY  GRAY (From her balcony waves her handkerchief giving the sign of
the heroine  of Jericho.) Rahab.  Cook's son, goodbye.  Safe home  to Dolly.
Dream of the girl you left behind and she will dream of you.
     (The soldiers turn their swimming eyes.)
     BLOOM (Elbowing through the crowd plucks  Stephen's sleeve vigorously.)
Come now, professor, that carman is waiting.
     STEPHEN (Turns.)  Eh? (He disengages himself) Why should I not speak to
him or to  any  human being who walks upright  upon this oblate  orange? (He
points  his finger.) I'm not afraid of what  I can talk to if I see his eye.
Retaining the perpendicular.
     (He staggers a pace back.)
     BLOOM (Propping him.) Retain your own.
     STEPHEN  (Laughs  emptily.) My centre of  gravity is displaced. I  have
forgotten the trick. Let  us sit down somewhere  and  discuss.  Struggle for
life is the law of existence  but modern 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  much  marked  refinement  of
phraseology.
     CUNTY KATE Indeed,  yes.  And at  the  same  time  with  such  apposite
trenchancy.
     PRIVATE CARR (Pulls himself free and comes forward.) What's that you're
saying about my king?
     (Edward the Seventh  appears in an archway. He  wears a white jersey on
which an  image of the Sacred Heart is stitched, with the insignia of Garter
and  Thistle, Golden  Fleece, Elephant of Denmark,  Skinners'  and  Probyns'
horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of
Massachusetts. He sucks a red jujube. He is robed  as a  grand elect perfect
and sublime mason with trowel and apron, marked made in Germany. In his left
hand he holds a plasterers bucket  on which is printed: Dиfense 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 back.
     (He shakes hands with Private Carr, Private Compton, Stephen, Bloom and
Lynch. General applause. Edward  the Seventh lifts the bucket graciously  in
acknowledgement.)
     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 medicine. 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 don't  want it to die. Damn death. Long
live life!
     EDWARD THE SEVENTH  (Levitates over heaps of slain in the garb and with
the halo of Joking Jesus, a white jujube in his phosphorescent face.)
     My methods are new and are causing surprise.
     To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes.
     STEPHEN Kings  and unicorns! (He falls back a pace.) Come somewhere and
we'll... What was that girl saying?...
     PRIVATE COMPTON Eh, Harry, give  him a kick in the  knackers. Stick one
into Jerry.
     BLOOM  (To  the privates, softly.)  He doesn't know what  he's  saying.
Taking a little more  than is good for him. Absinthe, the greeneyed monster.
I know him. He's a gentleman, a poet. It's all right.
     STEPHEN (Nods, smiling and laughing.)  Gentleman, patriot, scholar  and
judge of impostors.
     PRIVATE CARR I don't give a bugger who he is. PRIVATE  COMPTON We don't
give a bugger who he is.
     STEPHEN I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull.
     (Kevin Egan of  Paris  in black Spanish tasselled shirt and peep-o'-day
boys hat signs to Stephen.)
     KEVIN EGAN H'lo. Bonjour! The vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes.
     (Patrice  Egan peeps from  behind, his  rabbit face nibbling  a  quince
leaf.)
     PATRICE Socialiste!
     DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY (In medieval hauberk, two
wild geese  volant on his helm, with  noble indignation points a mailed hand
against  the privates.) Were those  eykes to footboden, big grand  porcos of
johnyellows todos covered of gravy!
     BLOOM (To Stephen.) Come home. You'll get into trouble.
     STEPHEN (Swaying.) I don't avoid it. He provokes my intelligence.
     BIDDY THE  CLAP  One  immediately  observes  that  he  is of  patrician
lineage.
     THE VIRAGO Green above the red, says he. Wolfe Tone.
     THE BAWD The red's  as good as the green, and better. Up the  soldiers!
Up King Edward!
     A ROUGH (Laughs.) Ay! Hands up to De Wet.
     THE CITIZEN (With a huge emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls.)
     May the God above
     Send down a cove
     With teeth as sharp as razors
     To slit the throat
     Of the English dogs
     That hanged our Irish leaders.
     THE CROPPY BOY (The rope noose round  his neck,  gripes in his  issuing
bowels with both hands.)
     I bear no hate to a living thing,
     But love my country beyond the king.
     RUMBOLD,  DEMON  BARBER  (Accompanied  by  two blackmasked  assistants,
advances with  a  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 the body  of  Miss Barrow which  sent  Seddon to the
gallows.
     (He jerks the  rope, the assistants leap at the  victims  legs and drag
him downward, grunting: the croppy boys tongue protrudes violently.)
     THE CROPPY BOY Horhot ho hray ho rhother's hest.
     (He gives up the ghost. A violent erection of the hanged sends gouts of
sperm spouting  through his  death  clothes  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 His Royal Highness. (He
plunges his head into the gaping belly of the  hanged and draws out his head
again clotted with  coiled  and smoking entrails.) My painful  duty  has now
been done. God save the king!
     EDWARD THE  SEVENTH (Dances slowly, solemnly,  rattling his  bucket and
sings with soft contentment.)
     On coronation day, on coronation day,
     O, Won't We have a merry time,
     Drinking whisky, beer and wine!
     PRIVATE CARR Here. What are you saying about my king?
     STEPHEN (Throws  up his hands.) O, this is too monotonous! Nothing.  He
wants my money and my life, though want must be his master, for some brutish
empire of his. Money I haven't. (He  searches his pockets vaguely.)  Gave it
to someone.
     PRIVATE CARR Who wants your bleeding money?
     STEPHEN (Tries  to  move off.) Will  some  one tell me where I am least
likely to meet these  necessary evils?  гa se voit  aussi ю  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, grammer! Hamlet, revenge! The old  sow that
eats her farrow!
     OLD GUMMY GRANNY  (Rocking to and fro.) Ireland's sweetheart,  the king
of Spain's daughter,  alanna. Strangers  in my house, bad manners  to  them!
(She keens with banshee woe.) Ochone! Ochone! Silk of the kine! (She wails.)
You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand?
     STEPHEN How do I stand you? The hat trick!  Where's the third person of
the Blessed Trinity? Soggarth Aroon? The reverend Carrion Crow.
     CISSY CAFFREY (Shrill.) Stop them from fighting!
     A ROUGH Our men retreated.
     PRIVATE  CARR (Tugging at  his belt.) I'll wring the neck of any bugger
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 spear
points. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko  the terrible,  in  bearskin cap
with hackle  plume  and  accoutrements, with  epaulette,  gilt chevrons  and
sabretache,  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!
Mahal shalal hashbaz.
     PRIVATE CARR I'll do him in.
     PRIVATE  COMPTON  (Waves  the crowd  back.)  Fair play,  here.  Make  a
bleeding butcher's shop of the bugger.
     (Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the king.)
     CISSY CAFFREY They're going to fight. For me!
     CUNTY KATE The brave and the fair.
     BIDDY THE CLAP Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the best.
     CUNTY  KATE (Blushing deeply.) Nay,  Madam. The gules doublet and merry
Saint George for me!
     STEPHEN  The  harlot's  cry  from  street  to street  Shall  weave  old
Ireland's windingsheet.
     PRIVATE CARR (Loosening his belt, shouts.) I'll  wring the neck of  any
fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.
     BLOOM  (Shakes  Cissy Caffrey's shoulders.) Speak, you! Are  you struck
dumb? You are the link between nations and generations. Speak, woman, sacred
lifegiver.
     CISSY CAFFREY (Alarmed seizes Private Carr's sleeve.) Amn't I with you?
Amn't I your girl? Cissy's your girl. (She cries.) Police!
     STEPHEN (Ecstatically, to Cissy Caffrey.)
     White thy fambles, red thy gan
     And thy quarrons dainty is.
     VOICES Police!
     DISTANT VOICES Dublin's burning! Dublin's burning! On fire, on fire!
     (Brimstone  fires spring up. Dense clouds roll past. Heavy Gatling guns
boom.  Pandemonium.  Troops  deploy.  Gallop  of  hoofs.  Artillery.  Hoarse
commands. Bells  clang.  Backers  shout.  Drunkards  bawl.  Whores  screech.
Foghorns hoot. Cries  of valour. Shrieks of dying. Pikes clash on cuirasses.
Thieves  rob the slain.  Birds of prey,  winging from  the sea, rising  from
marsh lands, swooping from  eyries,  hover  screaming, gannets,  connorants,
vultures, goshawks, climbing woodcocks, peregrines, merlin, blackgrouse, sea
eagles,  gulls,  albatrosses, barnacle  geese. The midnight sun is darkened.
The  earth trembles. The dead  of Dublin from  Prospect and  Mount Jerome in
white  sheepskin overcoats  and black goat-fell  cloaks  arise and appear to
many. A  chasm opens with a noiseless yawn. Tom Rochford, winner in athletes
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  dragon's  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   liar  O'Johnny,  lord  Edward  Fitzgerald  against   lord   Gerald
Fitzedward,  The  O'Donoghue of the Glens against The Glens of The Donoghue.
On an eminence,  the  centre of the earth,  rises  the  field altar of Saint
Barbara. Black candles rise  from  its  gospel and epistle horns. >From  the
high  barbicans 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 long petticoat and reversed chasuble,  his two left feet  back
to the front, celebrates camp mash. The Reverend Mr Hugh C. Haines  love MA.
in a plain cassock and mortar board, his head and collar back to the  front,
holds over the celebrants 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
petticoats, 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  rot,
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 mange and Green factions
sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.)
     PRIVATE  CARR (With ferocious articulation.) I'll do him in, so help me
fucking  Christ!  I'll wring  the bastard fucker's  bleeding blasted fucking
windpipe!
     OLD GUMMY GRANNY (Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's hand.) Remove him,
acushla. At 8.35 a.m. you will be in heaven and  Ireland will be  free. (She
prays.) O good God, take him!
     BLOOM (Runs to Lynch.) Can't you get him away?
     LYNCH He likes  dialectic, the  universal language. Kitty! (To  Bloom.)
Get him away, you. He won't listen to me. (He drags Kitty away.)
     STEPHEN (Points.) Exit Judas. Et laqueo se suspendit.
     BLOOM (Runs  to  Stephen.) Come along with me now before worse happens.
Here's your stick.
     STEPHEN Stick, no. Reason. This feast of pure reason.
     CISSY  CAFFREY  (Pulling  Private  Carr.)  Come  on,  you're boosed. He
insulted me but  I  forgive him.  (Shouting  in  his ear.) I forgive him for
insulting me.
     BLOOM (Over Stephen's shoulder.) Yes, go. You see he's incapable.
     PRIVATE CARR (Breaks loose.) I'll insult him.
     (He rushes towards Stephen, fists 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 uteute.
     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!
     (The retriever, nosing on the fringe of the crowd, barks noisily.)
     What call  had the redcoat to  strike the  gentleman  and  he under the
influence? Let them go and fight the Boers!
     THE BAWD Listen to who's talking! Hasn't the soldier a right to go with
his girl? He gave him the coward's blow.
     (They grab at each other's hair, claw at each other and spit.)
     THE RETRIEVER (Barking.) Wow wow wow.
     BLOOM (Shoves them back, loudly.) Get back, stand back!
     PRIVATE COMPTON (Tugging his comrade.) Here  bugger off, Harry. There'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 have you in the lockup.
     PRIVATE CARR (Staggering as he is  pulled  away.) God fuck old Bennett!
He's a whitearsed bugger. I don't give a shit for him.
     FIRST WATCH (Taking out his notebook.) What's his name?
     BLOOM (Peering over the crowd.) I just see a car there. If you  give me
a hand a second, sergeant.
     FIRST WATCH Name and address.
     (Corny  Kelleher  weepers  round  his  hat, a death wreath in his hand,
appears among the bystanders.)
     BLOOM (Quickly.) O, the very man! (He whispers.) Simon Dedalus'  son. A
bit sprung. Get those policemen to move those loafers back.
     SECOND WATCH Night, Mr Kelleher.
     CORNY KELLEHER (To  the watch, with drawling eye.) That's all  right. I
know him. Won a bit on the races. Gold cup. Throwaway.  (He  laughs.) Twenty
to one. Do you follow me?
     FIRST  WATCH (Turns  to the crowd.) Here, what  are you all  gaping at?
Move on out of that.
     (The crowd disperses slowly, muttering, down the lane.)
     CORNY  KELLEHER  Leave it to  me, sergeant. That'll  be  all right. (He
laughs,  shaking  his  head.)  We were often  as bad ourselves, ay or worse.
What? Eh, what?
     FIRST WATCH (Laughs.) I suppose so.
     CORNY  KELLEHER (Nudges  the second watch.) Come and wipe your name off
the slate.  (He  lilts,  wagging  his  head.)  With  my  tooraloom tooraloom
tooraloom tooraloom. What, eh, do you follow me?
     SECOND WATCH (Genially.) Ah, sure we were too.
     CORNY KELLEHER (Winking.) Boys will be boys. I've a car round there.
     SECOND WATCH All right, Mr Kelleher. Good night.
     CORNY KELLEHER I'll see to that.
     BLOOM  (Shakes hands  with  both of the watch in  turn.) Thank you very
much gentlemen, thank  you. (He  mumbles confidentially.)  We don't want any
scandal, you understand. Father is  a well known, 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 had  to
report it at the station.
     BLOOM (Nods rapidly.) Naturally. Quite right. Only your bounden duty.
     SECOND WATCH It's our duty.
     CORNY KELLEHER Good night, men.
     THE WATCH  (Saluting together.)  Night,  gentlemen. (They move off with
slow heavy tread.)
     BLOOM (Blows.) Providential you came on the scene. You have a car?.
     CORNY KELLEHER  (Laughs, pointing his thumb over his right shoulder  to
the car brought  up  against  the scaffolding.)  Two  commercials that  were
standing fizz in Jammet's. Like princes, faith. One of them lost two quid on
the race. Drowning his grief and were on for a go with the jolly girls. So I
landed them up on Behan's car and down to nighttown.
     BLOOM I was just going home by Gardiner street when I happened to...
     CORNY  KELLEHER (Laughs.) Sure they wanted me to join in with the mots.
No, by God, says I. Not for old stagers like myself and yourself. (He laughs
again and leers with  lacklustre eye.) Thanks be to  God we have it  in  the
house what, eh, do you follow me? Hah! hah! hah!
     BLOOM  (Tries to laugh.)  He, he, he! Yes.  Matter of fact I  was  just
visiting an old friend of mine there, Virag, you don't know him (poor fellow
he's laid up for  the past week) and we had a liquor together and I was just
making my way home...
     (The horse neighs.)
     THE HORSE Hohohohohohoh! Hohohohome!
     CORNY KELLEHER Sure it was Behan, our jarvey  there, that told me after
we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got
off to see. (He laughs.) Sober hearsedrivers a specialty. Will  I give him a
lift home? Where does he hang out? Somewhere in Cabra, what?
     BLOOM No, in Sandycove, I believe, from what he let drop.
     (Stephen, prone, breathes to the  stars. Corny Kelleher asquint, drawls
at the horse. Bloom in gloom, looms down.)
     CORNY KELLEHER  (Scratches his  nape.)  Sandycove!  (He bends  down and
calls to  Stephen.)  Eh! (He calls again.)  Eh!  He's covered with  shavings
anyhow. Take care they didn't lift anything off him.
     BLOOM No, no, no. I have his money and his hat here and stick.
     CORNY KELLEHER  Ah well, he'll get over it. No bones broken. Well, I'll
shove  along. (He  laughs.)  I've a  rendezvous  in the morning. Burying the
dead. Safe home!
     THE HORSE (Neighs.) Hohohohohome.
     BLOOM Good night. I'll just wait and take him along in a few...
     (Corny Kelleher returns  to the  outside car  and mounts it.  The horse
harness jingles.)
     CORNY KELLEHER (From the car, standing.) Night.
     BLOOM Night.
     (The jarvey chucks the reins and raises his whip encouragingly. The car
and horse back slowly, awkwardly and  turn. Corny Kelleher on  the  sideseat
sways  his head to and  fro  in sign of  mirth at Blooms 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
tooralooloolooloo lay.  Bloom,  holding in  his hand Stephens  hat festooned
with shavings and ashplant, stands irresolute.  Then  he bends  to  him  and
shakes him by the shoulder.)
     BLOOM  Eh! Ho! (There is no answer he bends  again.) Mr Dedalus! (There
is no answer.) The  name  if you  call.  Somnambulist.  (He bends again and,
hesitating, brings his mouth  near the face of the prostrate form.) Stephen!
(There is no answer. He calls again.) Stephen!
     STEPHEN (Groans.) Who? Black  panther  vampire. (He sighs and stretches
himself  then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.) Who... drive... Fergus
now. And pierce... wood's woven shade?...
     (He turns on his left side, sighing, doubling himself together.)
     BLOOM Poetry.  Well educated.  Pity.  (He  bends again  and undoes  the
buttons  of Stephen's waistcoat.) To breathe.  (He brushes the wood shavings
from Stephen's clothes with light hands  and fingers.) One  pound seven. Not
hurt anyhow. (He listens.) What!
     (Murmurs.)
     ... shadows... the woods
     ... white breast... dim...
     (He  stretches  out  his arms,  sighs again and  curls his body.  Bloom
holding  his hat  and ashplant stands erect. A dog  barks in  the  distance.
Bloom  tightens  and  loosens  his  grip  on the  ashplant. He looks down on
Stephen's face and form.)
     BLOOM (Communes with the night.) Face reminds me of his poor mother. In
the shady wood. The deep white breast. Ferguson, I  think I caught. A  girl.
Some girl. Best thing could happen him... (He murmurs.)... swear that I will
always hail, ever conceal,  never reveal,  any part or parts, art or arts...
(He murmurs.)  in the  rough sands of the sea. a cabletow's  length from the
shore... where the tide ebbs ... and flows...
     (Silent, thoughtful, alert, he stands on guard, his fingers at his lips
in the  attitude of secret  master. Against the dark  wall a  figure appears
slowly,  a fairy boy of eleven, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed  in an Eton
suit  with  glass  shoes and a little bronze  helmet, holding a book  in his
hand. He reads from right to left inaudibly, smiling, kissing the page.)
     BLOOM (Wonderstruck, calls inaudibly.) Rudy!
     RUDY (Gazes unseeing  into Bloom's eyes  and goes on  reading, kissing,
smiling. He has a  delicate mauveface. On  his suit he has diamond  and ruby
buttons.  In  his free left hand  he holds a  slim ivory cane with  a violet
howknot. A white lambkin peeps out of his waistcoat pocket.)



    Ulysses 15: Circe


     The  Mabbot  street  entrance of nighttown,  before which  stretches an
uncobbled   transiding   set   with   skeleton   tracks,   red   and   green
will-o'-the-wisps and  danger  signals.  Rows  of  flimsy houses with gaping
doors.  Rare lamps with faint  rainbow fans.  Round Rabaiotti's  halted  ice
gondola stunted  men and women squabble. They grab  wafers between which are
wedged  lumps  of  coal  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 deaf mute  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 Kithoguel Salute.
     THE IDIOT (Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles.) Grhahute!
     THE CHILDREN Where's the great light?
     THE IDIOT (Gobbing.) Ghaghahest.
     (They release him.  He  jerks on. A pygmy woman swings  on a rope slung
between  the  railings,  counting.  A  form sprawled  against a  dustbin and
muffled  by  its arm and hat  moves,  groans,  grinding growling teeth,  and
snores again. On  a  step a gnome totting  among  a rubbish tip crouches  to
shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A crone standing by with a smoky oil lamp
rams the 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
papershuttlecock, crawls sidling  after her in  spurts,  clutches her skirt,
scrambles up. A drunken  navvy ups with both hands the railings of  an area,
lurching heavily. At a corner two night watch in shoulder capes, their hands
upon  their staffholsters, loom tall.  A plate  crashes;  a woman screams; a
child wails. Oaths of a man roar, mutter, cease. Figures wander, lurk,  peer
from warrens. In  a room lit by a candle stuck  in a bottleneck a slut combs
out the tatts  from the hair of a scrofulous child. Cissy  Caffrey's  voice,
still young, sings shrill from a lane.)
     CISSY CAFFREY
     I gave it to Molly
     Because she was jolly,
     The leg of the duck
     The leg of the duck.
     (Private Cart 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 Cart and Private Compton turn and counterretort,  their tunics
bloodbright  in  a lampglow,  black  sockets of  caps on  their blond copper
polls. Stephen  Dedalus  and  Lynch pass through  the  crowd  close  to  the
redcoats.)
     PRIVATE COMPTON (Jerks his finger.) Way for the parson.
     PRIVATE CARR (Turns and calls.) What ho, parson!
     CISSY CAFFREY (Her voice soaring higher.)
     She has it, she got it,
     Wherever she put it
     The leg of the duck.
     (Stephen, flourishing the  ashplant  in his left hand, chants  with joy
the introit for paschal time. Lynch, his jockey cap 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 aliqantulum) Et omnes ad quos pervenit acqua 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 say the one: I seen you up Faithful place
with your squarepusher, the greaser off the railway, in  his cometobed  hat.
Did you, says I. That's not for you to say, says I. You never seen me in the
mantrap with a married highlander,  says I. The likes  of her! Stag that one
is. Stubborn as a mule!  And her  walking with  two fellows  the  one  time,
Kildbride the enginedriver and lancecorporal Oliphant.
     STEPHEN (Triumphaliter.) Salvi facti i 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 scar's it with a kick.)
     LYNCH So that?
     STEPHEN  (Looks behind.) So that  gesture, not music, not odours, 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 Mecklenburg 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 and 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 juventutem meam.
     (Stephen thrusts the ashplant on him and slowly holds  out  his  hands,
his head going back till both  hands are a span from his breast, down turned
in planes intersecting, the fingers about to part, the left being higher.)
     LYNCH  Which  is  the  jug  of  bread?  It  skills  not.  That  or  the
customhouse. Illustrate thou. Here take your crutch and walk.
     (They pass.  Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a gaslamp and, clasping, climbs
in  spasms. From the top spur he slides down. Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb.
The navvy  lurches against the lamp. The twins scuttle off in the dark.  The
navvy, swaying,  presses a forefinger against a wing of his nose and  ejects
from the farther nostril  a long liquid jet of snot. Shouldering the lamp he
staggers away through the crowd with his flaring cresset.
     Snakes  of  river fog creep slowly.  From  drains,  clefts,  cesspools,
middens arise on all sides stagnant  fumes. A glow leaps in the south beyond
the seaward  reaches  of the river. The navvy staggering forward cleaves the
crowd and lurches towards  the tramsiding. On  the farther  side  under  the
railway bridge Bloom appears flushed, panting, cramming  bread and chocolate
into  a side pocket. From Gillens hairdressers window a  composite  portrait
shows  him gallant Nelson's image. A  concave mirror at the side presents to
him  lovelorn longlost  lugubru  Booloohoom.  Grave Gladstone sees him level
Bloom for Bloom. He passes, struck by  the stare of truculent Wellington but
in the con vex mirror grin  unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops
of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
     At  Antonio  Babaiotti's  door Bloom  halts,  sweated under  the bright
arclamps. He disappears. In a moment he reappears and hurries on.)
     BLOOM Fish and taters. N. g. Ah!
     (He  disappears   into   Olhousen's,  the  pork  butcher'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 rib and groans.)
     BLOOM Stitch in my side. Why did I run?
     (He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly  towards the lampset
siding. The glow leaps again.)
     BLOOM What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.
     (He stands at Cormack's corner watching.)
     BLOOM Aurora  borealis or a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade,  of course.
South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar's bush. We're safe.
(He hums cheerfully.) London's burning,  London's burning! On fire, on fire!
(He  catches  sight  of the navvy lurching through the crowd at the  farther
side of Talbot street.) I'll miss him. Run. Quick. Better cross here.
     (He darts to cross the road. Urchins shout.)
     THE  URCHINS  Mind  out,  mister!  (Two  cyclists,  with  lighted paper
lanterns aswing, swim by him, grazing him, their bells rattling.)
     THE BELLS Haltyaltyaltyall.
     BLOOM (Halts erect stung by a spasm.) Ow.
     (He looks round, darts  forward  suddenly.  Through rising fog a dragon
sandstrewer, travelling at  caution, slews  heavily down  upon him, its huge
red headlight winking, its trolley  hissing on the wire.  The motorman bangs
his footgong.)
     THE GONG Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.
     (The brake cracks violently. Bloom,  raising  a policeman's whitegloved
hand,  blunders stifflegged, out of  the track. The motorman thrown forward,
pugnosed, on the guidewheel, yells as he slides past over chains and keys.)
     THE MOTORMAN Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hattrick?
     BLOOM (Bloom trickleaps to the curbstone and halts again. He  brushes a
mudflake from his cheek with a parcelled hand.) No thoroughfare. Close shave
that but cured  the stitch. Must take up  Sandow's exercises  again.  On the
hands down.  Insure against street accident too. The Providential. (He feels
his trouser  pocket.)  Poor mamma's panacea.  Heel easily catch in tracks 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'Beirnes  wall,  a
visage unknown, injected with dark mercury. From under a wideleaved sombrero
the figure regards him with evil eye.)
     BLOOM Buenos noches, seяorita Blanca, que calle es esta?
     THE FIGURE (Impassive, raises a signal arm.) Password. Sraid Mabbot.
     BLOOM  Haha. Merci.  Esperanto. Slan leath. (He mutters.) Gaelic league
spy, sent by that fireeater.
     (He steps forward.  A  sackshouldered ragman  bars  his path.  He steps
left, ragsackman left.)
     BLOOM I beg. (He swerves, sidles, stepsaside, slips past and on.)
     BLOOM Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a fingerpost 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, pursepocket,
sweets of sin, potato soap.)
     BLOOM Beware of pickpockets.  Old thieves'  dodge. Collide. Then snatch
your purse.
     (The  retriever  approaches sniffling, 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 smoking cap  with magenta tassels.  Horned spectacles
hang  down at the  wings of the nose. Yellow poison streaks are on the drawn
face.)
     RUDOLPH  Second halfcrown  waste money  today. I told you  not  go with
drunken goy ever. So. You catch no money.
     BLOOM (Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back and,  crestfallen,
feels warm and cold feetmeat) Ja, ich weiss, papachi.
     RUDOLPH What you making down this place? Have you no soul? (With feeble
vulture talons  he  feels the  silent face  of  Bloom) Are  you  not my  son
Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? Are you not  my dear son Leopold  who left
the house of his father and left the god of his fathers Abraham and Jacob?
     BLOOM (With precaution.)  I suppose  so, father. Mosenthal. All  that's
left of him.
     RUDOLPH  (Severely.) One night they bring you  home drunk  as dog after
spend your good money. What you call them running chaps?
     BLOOM  (In  youth's  smart  blue  Oxford  suit  with  white  vestslips,
narrowshouldered,  in  brown Alpine  hat,  wearing  gent's  sterling  silver
waterbury keyless watch and double curb  Albert with seal attached, one side
of him coated with stiffening mud.) Harriers, father. Only that once.
     RUDOLPH Once! Mud head to foot. Cut your hand open. Lockjaw.  They make
you kaput, Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps.
     BLOOM  (Weakly.)  They challenged  me to  a  sprint.  It  was muddy.  I
slipped.
     RUDOLPH  (With contempt)  Ooim nachez. Nice  spectacles for  your  poor
mother!
     BLOOM Mamma!
     ELLEN BLOOM (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, crinoline and bustle,
widow Twankey's blouse with  muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, grey mittens
and  cameo brooch,  her  hairplaited  in a  crisping  net,  appears over the
staircase  banisters,  a slanted candlestick  in  her hand and cries out  in
shrill  alarm.) O blessed Redeemer, what have they done  to him! My smelling
salts! (She hauls up a  reef of  skirt and ransacks the pouch of her striped
blay petticoat. A phial, an Agnus  Dei, a shrivelled  potato and a celluloid
doll fall out.) Sacred Heart of Mary, where were you at all, at all?
     (Bloom, mumbling, his  eyes downcast, begins to  bestow his  parcels in
his filled pockets but desists, muttering.)
     A VOICE (Sharply.) Poldy!
     BLOOM Who? (He ducks and wards off a blow clumsily.) At your service.
     (He  looks  up.  Beside  her  mirage of datepalms  a  handsome woman in
Turkish  costume  stands  before him.  Opulent  curves fill out her  scarlet
trousers and jacket slashed with  gold. A wide yells cummerbund girdles her.
A white yashmak violet in  the night, covers her face, leaving free only her
lace 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  excuses,  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! Feminimum.
     (The  camel, lifting a  foreleg, plucks from a tree a lace mango fruit,
offers it to his mistress, blinking, in his cloven hoof then droops his head
and, grunting, with uplifted neck,  fumbles  to kneel. Bloom stoops his back
for leapfrog.)
     BLOOM I can give you... I mean as your business menagerer Mrs Marion...
if you...
     MARION So  you  notice some  change? (Her hands passing slowly over her
trinketed  stomacher. A  slow friendly mockery in her eyes.) O Poldy, Poldy,
you are a poor old stick in the mud! Go and see life. See the wide world.
     BLOOM  I  was just  going back for that lotion  whitewax,  orangeflower
water. Shop closes  early on Thursday.  But the first thing in  the morning.
(He pats divers pockets.) This moving kidney. Ah!
     (He points  to the south,  then  to the east. A cake of new clean lemon
soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.)
     THE SOAP
     We're a capital couple are Bloom and I;
     He brightens the earth, I polish the sky.
     (The freckled face of  Sweny, the druggist, appeals  in the disc of the
soapsun.)
     SWENY Three and a penny, please.
     BLOOM Yes. For my wife, Mrs Marion. Special recipe.
     MARION (Softly.) Poldy!
     BLOOM Yes, ma'am?
     MARION Ti trema un poco il cuore?
     (In disdain she  saunters  away, plump  as  a  pampered pouter  pigeon,
humming the duet from Don Giovanni)
     BLOOM Are you sure about that Voglio? I mean the pronunciati...
     (He follows, followed  by the sniffing terrier. The elderly bawd seizes
his sleeve, the bristles of her chinmole glittering.)
     THE BAWD Ten shillings a maidenhead.  Fresh  thing  was never  touched.
Fifteen. There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk.
     (She points. In the  gap of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled Bridie
Kelly stands.)
     BRIDIE Hatch street. Any good in your mind?
     (With a squeak she  flaps her bat shawl and runs. A burly rough pursues
with booted strides. He stumbles on the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom.
Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker.)
     THE BAWD (Her  wolfeyes shining.) He's getting  his pleasure. You won't
get  a virgin in the flash houses. Ten shillings. Don't  be all night before
the polis in plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is a bitch.
     (Leering  Gerty MacDowell limps forward. She  draws from behind ogling,
and shows coyly her bloodied clout.)
     GERTY With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. (She murmurs.) You did
that. I hate you.
     BLOOM I? When? You're dreaming. I never saw you.
     THE BAWD Leave the gentleman  alone, you cheat. Writing  the  gentleman
false letters. Streetwalking and soliciting. Better for your mother take the
strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you.
     GERTY (To Bloom.)  When you saw all  the  secrets of my  bottom drawer.
(She  paws his sleeve, slobbering.) Dirty married man! I  love you for doing
that to me.
     (She slides  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 me? Don't
give  me away. Walls have hears. How  do  you do? It's ages since I.  You're
looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable weather we are having this  time
of  year. Black  refracts heat. Short  cut  home here. Interesting  quarter.
Rescue of fallen women Magdalen asylum. I am the secretary...
     MRS  BREEN (Holds up  a  finger.) Now  don't tell  a  big  fib!  I know
somebody won't like that. O just wait till I see Molly! (Slily.) Account for
yourself this very minute or woe betide you!
     BLOOM (Looks behind.) She often said she'd like to visit. Slumming. The
exotic, you  see. Negro servants too  in  livery  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  lace  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.)
     There's someone in the house with Dina
     There's someone in the house, I know,
     There's someone in the house with Dina
     Playing on the old banjo.
     (They  whisk  black  masks  from  raw  babby  faces:  then,  chuckling,
chortling, trumming, twanging they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.)
     BLOOM (With a sour  tenderish smile.) A little frivol, shall we, if you
are so inclined? Would  you like  me  perhaps  to  embrace  you  just  for a
fraction of a second?
     MRS BREEN (Screams gaily.) O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself!
     BLOOM For old sake'sake. I  only meant a square party, a mixed marriage
mingling of our different little conjugials.  You  know I  had a soft corner
for you. (Gloomily.) 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the dear gazelle.
     MRS  BREEN  Glory Alice, you do look a holy show!  Killing simply. (She
puts out her hand inquisitively.) What are you hiding behind your back? Tell
us, there's a dear.
     BLOOM (Seizes  her wrist  with his free hand.)  Josie Powell that  was,
prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember, harking back in
a  retrospective  arrangement,  Old   Christmas  night   Georgina  Simpson's
housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin
blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this snuff box?
     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 watered-silk 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 tea pot 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 thumbs 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.) Lю ci darem la mano.
     MRS  BREEN  (In a onepiece  eveningfrock 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!  (Dennis Breen, whitetallhatted, with  Wisdom  Hely's  sandwich
board, shuffles  past them in cadet  slippers,  his  dull beard thrust  out,
muttering  to right and left. Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the pall  of the
ace of spaces, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter.)
     ALF BERGAN (Points jeering at the sandwich boards.) U.p.: Up.
     MRS BREEN (To Bloom.) High jinks below  stairs. (She gives him the glad
eye.) Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well? You wanted to.
     BLOOM (Shocked.) Molly's best friend! Could you?
     MRS BREEN  (Her  pulpy tongue between her lips, offers  a pigeon kiss.)
Hnhn. The answer is a lemon. Have you a little present for me there?
     BLOOM  (Off  handedly.)  Kosher.  A snack for  supper. The home without
potted  meat is  incomplete. I  was  at Leah. Mrs Bandman Palmer.  Trenchant
exponent  of  Shakespeare.  Unfortunately threw away the programme. Rattling
good place round there for pig's 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 ins it  and  shows it
full of polonies, kippered, herrings, Findon haddies and tightpacked pills.)
     RICHIE Best value in Dub.
     (Bald Pat,  bothered  beetle,  stands  on  the curbstone,  folding  his
napkin, waiting to wait.)
     PAT  (Advances with a tilted  dish of spillspilling  gravy.) Steak  and
kidney. Bottle of lager. Hee hee hee. Wait till I wait.
     RICHIE Goodgod. Inev erate inall...
     (With hanging head he marches doggedly forward. The navvy, lurching by,
gores him with his flaming pronghorn.)
     RICHIE (With a cry of pain, his hand to his back) Ah! Bright's! Lights!
     BLOOM  (Points to the navvy.) A  spy.  Don't  attract attention. I hate
stupid crowds. I am not on pleasure bent. I am in a grave predicament.
     MRS BREEN  Humbugging and delutbering as  per usual with your  cock and
bull story.
     BLOOM I  want to tell you a little secret  about how I came to be here.
But you must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a most particular reason.
     MRS BREEN (All agog.) O, not for worlds.
     BLOOM Let's walk on. Shall us?
     MRS BREEN Let's.
     (The  bawd makes an unheeded sign.  Bloom walks on with Mrs Breen.  The
terrier follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail.)
     THE BAWD Jewman's melt!
     BLOOM (In an oatmeal  sporting suit, a  sprig of woodbine in the lapel,
tony buff shirt,  shepherd's  plaid  Saint Andrew's  cross  scarftie,  white
spats,  fawn  dustcoat  on  his arm,  tawny  red  brogues,  fieldglasses  in
bandolier and a grey billycock hat.) Do you remember a long long time, years
and years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called  her, was  weaned when
we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it?
     MRS BREEN (In smart Saxe  tailormade,  white  velours  hat  and  spider
veil.) Leopardstown.
     BLOOM I mean, Leopardstown. And  Molly won seven  shillings on  a three
year  old named Nevertell  and  coming home  along  by  Foxrock  in that old
fiveseater shanderadan of a waggonette you were in  your heyday then and you
had on that new  hat  of white  velours with a surround  of molefur that Mrs
Hayes advised you to buy because  it was marked down to nineteen and eleven,
a  bit of wire and  an old rag of velveteen,  and I'll lay you what you like
she did it on purpose...
     MRS BREEN She did, of course, the cat! Don't tell me! Nice adviser!
     BLOOM Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the other ducky
little tammy toque with the bird of paradise wing in it  that  I admired  on
you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was  a pity to
kill it, you cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of
a fullstop.
     MRS BREEN (Squeezes his arm, simpers.) Naughty cruel I was.
     BLOOM  (Low, secretly, ever  more  rapidly.)  And  Molly  was eating  a
sandwich  of spiced  beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's  lunch basket.  Frankly,
though she had her advisers  or admirers, I never cared  much for her style.
She was .
     MRS BREEN Too.
     BLOOM Yes.  And Molly was laughing because  Rogers  and Maggot O'Reilly
were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the
tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her
name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked  me if I ever heard
or read or knew or came across .
     MRS BREEN (Eagerly.) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
     (She  fades  from  his side. Followed by the  whining  dog  he walks on
towards hellsgates. In an  archway a  standing woman, bent forward, her feet
apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of loiterers listen to
a tale  which their  broken snouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour. An
armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in maimed sodden playfight.)
     THE GAFFER (Crouches, his voice twisted in his snout.)  And when Cairns
came down from the scaffolding  in Beaver Street what was  he after doing it
into only into the bucket of  porter that was there waiting  on the shavings
for Derwan's plasterers.
     THE LOITERERS (Guffaw with cleft palates.) O jays!
     (Their paintspeckled hats  wag. Spattered with size and lime  of  their
lodges they frisk limblessly about him.)
     BLOOM  Coincidence too.  They think it funny. Anything but  that. Broad
daylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman.
     THE LOITERERS Jays, that's a good  one. Glauber salts. O jays, into the
men's porter.
     (Bloom  passes. Cheap  whores, singly,  coupled, shawled,  dishevelled,
call from lanes, doors, corners.)
     THE WHORES Are  you going far, queer fellow? How's your middle leg? Got
a match on you? Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.
     (He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. >From
a  bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a  battered brazen trunk.  In
the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy and the two redcoats.)
     THE NAVVY (Belching.) Where's the bloody house?
     THE  SHEBEENKEEPER  Purdon  street.  Shilling  a   bottle   of   stout.
Respectable woman.
     THE NAVVY (Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them.) Come
on, you British army!
     PRIVATE CARR (Behind his back.) He aint half balmy.
     PRIVATE COMPTON (LAughs.) What ho!
     PRIVATE CARR (To the  navvy.) Portobello barracks canteen.  You ask for
Carr. Just Carr.
     THE NAVVY (Shouts.)
     We are the boys. Of Wexford.
     PRIVATE COMPTON Say! What price the sergeantmajor?
     PRIVATE CARR Bennett? He's my pal. I love old Bennett.
     THENAVVY (Shouts.)
     The galling chain.
     And free our native land.
     (He staggers forward, dragging  them with him. Bloom stops,  at  fault.
The dog approaches, his tongue outlolling, panting.)
     BLOOM  Wildgoose  chase this. Disorderly houses. Lord knows  where they
are  gone. Drunks cover distance double quick. Nice mixup. Scene at Westland
row. Then  jump in  first class with third  ticket. Then too far. Train with
engine behind. Might have taken me to Malahide or  a siding for the night or
collision. Second drink  does  it. Once is a  dose. What am  I following him
for? Still, he's  the best  of that lot. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy
Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have  met. Kismet. He'll lose that
cash. Relieving office here. Good  biz for  cheapjacks,  organs. What do  ye
lack?  Soon  got,  soon  gone.  Might  have  lost  my  life  too  with  that
mangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut only  for  presence of  mind.  Can't
always  save  you, though. If I  had  passed Truelock's  window that day two
minutes  later would have been  shot. Absence of body. Still if  bullet only
went  through my  coat  get damages for shock, five hundred pounds. What was
he? Kildare street club toff. God help his gamekeeper.
     (He gazes ahead  reading on the wall a  scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream
and a phallic design.)
     Odd! Molly  drawing  on  the frosted  carriagepane at Kingstown. What's
that  like?  (Gaudy  dollwomen  loll  in  the  lighted  doorways, in  window
embrasures, smoking birdseye  cigarettes.  The odour  of the sicksweet  weed
floats towards him in slow round ovalling wreaths.)
     THE WREATHS Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin.
     BLOOM My spine's a bit limp. Go or turn?  And this food? Eat it and get
all pigsticky. Absurd  I  am. Waste of money. One  and eightpence too  much.
(The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand, wagging his
tail.) Strange  how they take to me. Even that brute today. Better  speak to
him first. Like women they like rencontres.  Stinks  like a  polecat. Chacun
son goшt. He might be mad.  Fido. Uncertain in his  movements.  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  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 a hand on Blooms shoulder.)
     FIRST WATCH Caught in the act. Commit no nuisance.
     BLOOM (Stammers.) I am doing good to others.
     (A covey of gulls, storm petrels, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with
Banbury cakes in their beaks.)
     THE GULLS Kaw kave kankury kake.
     BLOOM The friend of man. Trained by kindness.
     (He points.  Bob Doran,  toppling from a high bars tool, sways over the
munching spaniel.)
     BOB DORAN Towser. Give us the paw. Give the paw.
     (The bulldog growls,  his  scruff standing,  a gobbet  of pigs  knuckle
between  his  molars through which  rabid scrumspittle  dribbles.  Bob Doran
falls silently into an area.)
     SECOND WATCH Prevention of cruelty to animals.
     BLOOM (Enthusiastically.) A  noble work! I  scolded  that tramdriver on
Harold's cross bridge for illusing the poor horse with his harness scab. Bad
French I  got for my pains. Of course  it was frosty and  the last tram. All
tales of circus life are highly demoralising.
     (Signor Maffei, passion pale, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs
in his shirtfront, steps forward,  holding a  circus paper hoop,  a  curling
carriagewhip and a revolver with which he covers the going 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 pully will bring your lion to heel, no
matter  how  fractious,  even Leo ferox there, the Libyan maneater. A redhot
crowbar  and  some liniment rubbing  on  the burning part  produced Fritz of
Amsterdam,  the thinking hyena. (He glares.) I possess  the Indian sign. The
glint  of  my  eye does  it with  these breastsparklers.  (With a bewitching
smile.) I now introduce Mademoiselle Ruby, the pride of the ring.
     FIRST WATCH Come. Name and address.
     BLOOM I have forgotten for the  moment. Ah, yes! (He takes off his high
grade hat, saluting.) Dr Bloom,  Leopold, dental surgeon.  You have heard of
von Bloom Pasha. Umpteen mil lions. 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. Un lawfully watching
and besetting.
     SECOND WATCH An alibi. You are cautioned.
     BLOOM (Produces from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower.) This is
the  flower in question. It  was given me  by  a man  I don't know his name.
(Plausibly.) You know that old joke, rose of Castille. 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 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!
Leopold! Lionel, thou lost one! Clear my name.
     FIRST WATCH (Sternly.) Come to the station.
     BLOOM (Scared, hats himself steps back, then, plucking at his heart and
lifting his right forearm on the  square, he gives  the sign and dueguard of
fellowcraft.) No,  no, worshipful master, light of  love. Mistaken identity.
The  Lyons mail. Lesurques and  Dubosc.  You remember the  Childs fratricide
case. We medical men. By striking  him  dead with a hatchet. I am wrongfully
accused. Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned.
     MARTHA  (Sobbing behind her  veil.) Breach of  promise. My real name is
Peggy  Griffin. He wrote to me that  he was miserable. I'll tell my brother,
the Bective rugger fullback, on you, heartless flirt.
     BLOOM  (Behind his  hand.) She's  drunk. The  woman is  inebriated. (He
murmurs vaguely the past of Ephraim.) Shitbroleeth.
     SECOND WATCH (Tears  in his eyes, to Bloom.) You ought to be thoroughly
well ashamed of yourself.
     BLOOM Gentleman 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, who do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of
Britain's fighting men who helped to win our  battles.  Got his majority for
the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift.
     FIRST WATCH Regiment.
     BLOOM (Turns to  the gallery.) The royal Dublins, boys, the salt of the
earth,  known the world  over. I  think I see  some old comrades  in arms up
there among you. The R. D. F. With our own Metropolitan police, guardians of
our homes, the pluckiest lads and  the finest body  of men, as  physique, in
the service of our sovereign.
     A VOICE Turncoat! Up the Boers! Who booed Joe Chamberlain?
     BLOOM (His hand on the shoulder of the first watch.) My old dad too was
a J.P. I'm as staunch a Britisher as you are, sir. I fought with the colours
for king and country in the absentminded war under General Gough in the park
and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was mentioned in dispatches.
I did  all  a white  man  could.  (With quiet feeling.) Jim Bludso. Hold her
nozzle again the bank.
     FIRST WATCH Profession or trade.
     BLOOM Well, I  follow a literary occupation. Author-journalist. In fact
we are just bringing out a  collection  of prize stories  of  which I am the
inventor,  something that is an entirely new departure. I am connected  with
the British and Irish press. If you ring up...
     (Myles Crawford strides out jerkily,  a quill  between  his  teeth. His
scarlet  beak blazes within the aureole of his straw hat. He  dangles a hank
of  Spanish  onions  in  one hand and holds with  the other hand a telephone
receiver nozzle to his ear.)
     MYLES  CRAWFORD  (His  cock's  wattles  wagging.)  Hello,  seventyseven
eightfour.  Hello. Freeman's  Urinal and  Weekly Arse wiper  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  cames a  lace portfolio  labelled
Matcham's Masterstrokes.)
     BEAUFOY (Drawls.) No, you aren't, not by a  long shot if I  know it.  I
don't  see  it,  that's  all.  No  born  gentleman,  no  one with  the  most
rudimentary  promptings  of  a  gentleman would stoop  to such  particularly
loathsome conduct.  One  of  those,  my  lord.  A  plagiarist. A soapy sneak
masquerading  as a  literateur.  It's  perfectly obvious that with  the most
inherent  baseness  he  has  cribbed  some of my  bestselling  books, 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.)  That bit about  the laughing
witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may... ?
     BEAUFOY  (His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on  the  court.)  You
funny ass,  you! You're too beastly awfully  weird for words!  I don't think
you  need over  excessively  disincommodate  yourself  in  that  regard.  My
literary agent  Mr J. B. Pinker  is in attendance. I  presume,  my lord,  we
shall receive the usual witnesses'  fees, shan't we? We are considerably out
of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw  of  Rheims, who has
not even been to a university.
     BLOOM (Indistinctly.) University of life. Bad art.
     BEAUFOY (Shouts.) It's a damnably foul lie showing the moral rottenness
of the man!  (He extends his portfolio.) We have  here damning evidence, the
corpus delicti,  my lord, a specimen  of my  maturer  work disfigured by the
hallmark of the beast.
     A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY
     Moses, Moses, king of the jews,
     Wiped his arse in the Daily News.
     BLOOM (Bravely.) Overdrawn.
     BEAUFOY You low cad!  You ought to  be  ducked  in  the horsepond,  you
rotter!  (To the  court.) Why,  look at the man's  private life!  Leading  a
quadruple existence!  Street angel and house  devil. Not fit to be mentioned
in mixed society. The arch conspirator 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 mementoes, smart emerald  garters far above your station. Incautiously I
took your part when  you  were accused of pilfering. There's a medium in all
things. Play cricket.
     MARY DRISCOLL  (Excitedly.) As God is looking  down on me this night if
ever I laid a hand to them oysters!
     FIRST WATCH The offence complained of? Did something happen?
     MARY DRISCOLL He surprised me in the rere of the premises, your honour,
when the missus  was out shopping one  morning with a  request for  a safety
pin. He held me and I was discoloured  in  four places as  a  result. And he
interfered twice 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.)
     GEORGES 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 seven months' 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  British born bairns lisping prayers to the Sacred Infant,
youthful scholars grappling with  their  pensums, model young ladies playing
on the pianoforte or anon all with fervour reciting  the family rosary round
the crackling Yulelog while in the boreens and green lanes the colleens with
their swains  strolled what  times  the  strains of  the organtoned melodeon
Britannia  metalbound  with  four  acting  stops  and  twelvefold bellows, a
sacrifice, greatest bargain ever... )
     (Renewed  laughter.  He mumbles incoherently.  Reporters complain  that
they cannot hear.)
     LONGHAND  AND  SHORTHAND  (Without looking  up  from their  notebooks.)
Loosen his boots.
     PROFESSOR MACHUGH (From the presstable, coughs and calls.) Cough it up,
man. Get it out in bits.
     (The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and the bucket.  A lace bucket.
Bloom  himself  Bowel trouble. In Beaver street. Gripe, yes.  Quite  bad.  A
plasterers 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 sticking-plaster
across his nose, talks inaudibly.)
     J. J.  O'MOLLOY (In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking with a
voice  of  pained  protest.) This  is no place  for indecent  levity at  the
expense  of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. We are not in a beargarden
nor at an Oxford  rag  nor is this a  travesty of justice.  My client is  an
infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch  as a  stowaway  and is
now trying to turn an honest penny. The trumped up misdemeanour was due to a
momentary  aberration   of  heredity,  brought  on  by  hallucination,  such
familiarities as the alleged guilty occurrence being  quite permitted  in my
client's native place, the land of the Pharaoh. Prima facie, I put it to you
that  there was no attempt at  carnally  knowing. Intimacy did not occur and
the offence complained of by Driscoll,  that her  virtue was solicited,  was
not repeated. I would deal inespecial with atavism. There have been cases of
shipwreck and somnambulism in my client's family. If the accused could speak
he  could a tale unfold one of the strangest that  have  ever been  narrated
between the covers of  a book. He himself, my lord, is a physical wreck from
cobbler's weak  chest. His  submission is that he is of Mongolian extraction
and irresponsible for his actions. Not all there, in fact.
     BLOOM  (Barefoot,  pigeonbreasted,   in  lascar's  vest  and  trousers,
apologetic  toes  turned in, opens  his tiny mole's eyes and looks about him
dazedly, passing  a slow  hand across his forehead. Then he hitches his belt
sailor  fashion  and  with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the  court,
pointing  one thumb heavenward.)  Him  makee  velly  muchee fine night.  (He
begins to lilt simply.)
     Li li poo lil chile,
     Blingee pigfoot evly night.
     Payee two shilly...
     (He is howled down.)
     J.  J. O'MOLLOY (Hotly to the populace.) This is  a lonehand  fight. By
Hades, I  will not  have  any client  of mine  gagged  and badgered  in this
fashion  by a  pack  of  curs  and  laughing  hyenas.  The  Mosaic  code has
superseded the law of the jungle. I say it and I say it emphatically without
wishing  for  one moment to  defeat  the ends  of  justice, accused  was not
accessory  before the act and  prosecutrix  has not been  tampered with. The
young person was treated by defendant as  if she were his very own daughter.
(Bloom takes  J. J. O'Molloy's hand and raises it to his lips.) I shall call
rebutting  evidence to prove up to the hilt that the hidden hand is again at
its old game. When in doubt persecute Bloom. My client, an innately  bashful
man, would  be the last man  in the world to do anything ungentlemanly which
injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong
turning when some dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own
sweet will on her. He  wants to go straight. I regard him as the whitest man
I know.  He is down on his luck at present  owing to  the  mortgaging of his
extensive property at Agendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which
will  now be  shown. (To Bloom.)  I suggest  that  you will do the  handsome
thing.
     BLOOM A penny in the pound.
     (The mirage of the  lake  of  Kinnereth with blurred cattle cropping in
silver haze is projected on the wall. Moses  Dlugacz, ferreteyed albino,  in
blue  dungarees,  stands up in the gallery, holding in  each hand an  orange
citron and a pork kidney.)
     DLUGACZ (Hoarsely.) Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W. 13.
     (J. J. O'Molloy steps on to  a  low  plinth and  holds the lapel of his
coat with solemnity. His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with sunken
eyes, the blotches of  phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John F.  Taylor. He
applies his handkerchief to  his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of
rosepink blood.)
     J.  J. O'MOLLOY (Almost voicelessly.)  Excuse me, I am suffering from a
severe chill, have recently come from a sickbed. A few wellchosen words. (He
assumes the avine head,  foxy moustache and proboscidal eloquence of Seymour
Bushe.) When the angel's book comes to be opened  if aught that  the pensive
bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and  of soultransfiguring deserves
to live I  say  accord  the prisoner at  the bar the  sacred benefit  of the
doubt. (A paper with something written on it is handed into court.)
     BLOOM (In  court  dress.)  Can  give  best references.  Messrs  Callan,
Coleman.  Mr Wisdom Hely  J. P. My  old chief  Joe  Cuffe. Mr  V. B. Dillon,
ex-lord mayor of Dublin. I have moved in the charmed circle of the highest .
Queens of  Dublin Society. (Carelessly.) I was just chatting  this afternoon
at the viceregal lodge to my old pals, sir  Robert and lady Ball, astronomer
royal, at the levee. Sir Bob, I said...
     MRS  YELVERTON BARRY  (In lowcorsaged opal  balldress  and  elbowlength
ivory  gloves,  wearing  a sabletrimmed brick  quilted  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  coneymantle, wrapped up  to the nose,
steps out of her brougham and  scans  through tortoiseshell  quizzingglasses
which  she  takes from inside her huge  opossum muff.) Also  to me.  Yes,  I
believe it is the same  objectionable person.  Because he closed my carriage
door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during  the  cold snap  of
February ninetythree when even the grid of the  wastepipe and ballstop in my
bath cistern  were frozen. Subsequently  he enclosed  a bloom  of  edelweiss
culled on the  heights, as he said, in my  honour.  I had it examined  by  a
botanical expert and  elicited the information  that it was a blossom of the
homegrown potato plant purloined from a forcingcase of the model farm.
     MRS YELVERTON BARRY Shame on him!
     (A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins sues 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 Balmer while in  the same breath he expressed himself as envious of
his  earflaps and fleecy sheepskins  and of  his  fortunate proximity to  my
person,  when standing behind my  chair wearing my  livery and  the armorial
bearings of the Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable,  a buck's head couped
or. He lauded almost extravagantly my nether extremities, my swelling calves
in silk hose drawn up to the  limit, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden
treasures in priceless lace  which,  he said, he could conjure up. He  urged
me, stating that he felt it  his  mission in life to urge  me, to defile the
marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity.
     THE  HONOURABLE MRS  MERVYN  TALBOYS  (In  amazon  costume,  hard  hat,
jackboots  cockspurred,  vermilion waistcoat, fawn musketeer  gauntlets with
bra idea 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
Phnix park at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland. My eyes,
I  know,  shone  divinely  as  I  watched  Captain Slogger  Dennehy  of  the
Inniskillings  win the  final  chukkar on  his  darling  cob  Centaur.  This
plebeian  Don Juan observed  me from behind a hackney car  and  sent  me  in
double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris
boulevards,  insulting  to  any  lady.  I  have  it  still.  It represents a
partially nude  senorita, frail and lovely (his wife as he solemnly  assured
me,  taken  by  him  from nature),  practising  illicit  intercourse with  a
muscular  torero, evidently a  blackguard. He urged  me to do  likewise,  to
misbehave, to sin with  officers of the garrison. He implored me to soil his
letter in an unspeakable  manner, to chastise  him as he richly deserves, to
bestride and ride him, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping.
     MRS BELLINGHAM Me too.
     MRS YELVERTON BARRY Me too.
     (Several  highly  respectable  Dublin ladies hold up  improper  letters
received from Bloom.)
     THE HONOURABLE  MRS  MERVYN TALBOYS  (Stamps  her  jingling spurs  in a
sudden paroxysm  of sudden fury.) I will, by the God  above me. I'll scourge
the pigeonlivered cur as long as I can stand over him. I'll flay him alive.
     BLOOM  (His  eyes  closing,  quails expectantly.)  Here? (He  squirms.)
Again! (He pants cringing.) I love the danger.
     THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS  Very much  so! I'll make it hot  for
you. I'll make you dance Jack Latten for that.
     MRS  BELLINGHAM Tan his breech well, the upstart!  Write  the stars and
stripes on it!
     MRS YELVERTON  BARRY  Disgraceful! There's no excuse for him! A married
man!
     BLOOM All these people. I meant only the spanking idea. A warm tingling
glow without effusion. Refined birching to stimulate the circulation.
     THE HONOURABLE MRS  MERVYN TALBOYS  (Laughs derisively.) O, did you, my
fine fellow? Well, by the  living  God, you'll get the surprise of your life
now, believe me,  the most  unmerciful hiding a man ever  bargained for. You
have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury.
     MRS  BELLINGHAM (Shakes  her  muff and  quizzing-glasses vindictively.)
Make  him smart,  Hanna dear. Give him ginger. Thrash the mongrel within  an
inch of his life. The cat-o' nine-tails. Geld him. Vivisect him.
     BLOOM (Shuddering,  shrinking,  joins  his hands with hangdog  mien.) O
cold! O shivery!  It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let
me off this once. (He offers the other cheek.)
     MRS  YELVERTON  BARRY  (Severely.)  Don't  do so  on any  account,  Mrs
Talboys! He should be soundly trounced!
     THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS (Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently.)
I'll do no such thing. Pig dog 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 hunting  crop  savagely in the air.) Take down his trousers without loss
of time. Come here, sir! Quick! Ready?
     BLOOM (Trembling, beginning to obey.) The weather has been so warm.
     (Davy Stephens, ringleted, passes with a bevy of barefoot newsboys.)
     DAVY STEPHENS Messenger of the Sacred  Heart and Evening Telegraph with
Saint Patrick's Day  Supplement. Containing  the  new addresses  of all  the
cuckolds in Dublin.
     (The  very reverend Canon O'Hanlon  in cloth of gold  cope elevates and
exposes a marble timepiece.  Before him  Father Conroy and the reverend John
Hughes S.J. bend low.)
     THE TIMEPIECE (Unportalling.)
     Cuckoo
     Cuckoo
     Cuckoo
     (The brass quoits of a bed are heard to jingle.)
     THE QUOITS Jigjag, Jigajiga. Jigjag.
     (A panel of  fog rolls  back rapidly, revealing  rapidly in the jurybox
the  faces  of  Martin  Cunningham,  foreman  silkhatted, Jack  Power  Simon
Dedalus,  Tom Kernan,  Ned  Lambert,  John  Henry  Menton,  Myles  Crawford,
Lenehan,  Paddy  Leonard  Nosey Flynn,  M'Coy and the featureless face of  a
Nameless One.)
     THE NAMELESS ONE Bareback riding.  Weight  for  age. Gob,  he organised
her.
     THE JURORS (All their heads turned to his voice.) Really?
     THE NAMELESS ONE (Snarls.) Arse over tip. Hundred shillings to five.
     THE JURORS  (All their heads lowered in  assent.) Most of us thought as
much.
     FIRST WATCH He is a marked man. Another  girl's plait cut. Wanted: Jack
the Ripper. A thousand pounds reward.
     SECOND WATCH (Awed, whispers.) And in black. A mormon. Anarchist.
     THE CRIER (Loudly.) Whereas  Leopold  Bloom  of no  fixed  abode  is  a
well-known  dynamitard,  forger,  bigamist, bawd  and  cuckold  ad a  public
nuisance to the citizens of Dublin and whereas at this commission of assizes
the most honourable.
     (His Honour sir Frederick Falkiner recorder of Dublin, in judicial garb
of  grey stone  rises from the bench, stonebearded.  He bears in his arms an
umbrella sceptre. From his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns.)
     THE  RECORDER I  will  put an  end to this  white slave traffic and rid
Dublin of this odious pest. Scandalous! (He dons the black  cap.) Let him be
taken, Mr Subsheriff, from the  dock where  he  now  stands and  detained in
custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty's pleasure and there be hanged
by the neck until  he is dead  and therein fail not at your peril or may the
Lord  have-mercy  on your soul.  Remove him. (A black skullcap descends upon
his head.)
     (The  subsheriff  long  John Fanning appears, smoking  a pungent  Henry
Clay.)
     LONG  JOHN  FANNING (Scowls  and  calls  with rich rolling  utterance.)
Who'll hang Judas Iscariot?
     (H.  Rumbold,  master  barber in  a bloodcoloured jerk  in 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
grapping 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  chimpanzees.  (Breathlessly.) Pelvic
basin. Her artless blush  unmanned me. (Overcome  with  emotion.) I left the
precincts. (He  turns  to a  figure in  the crowd, appealing.)  Hynes, may I
speak to you? You know  me. That three shillings you can keep. If you want a
little more .
     HYNES (Coldly.) You are a perfect stranger.
     SECOND  WATCH (Points to  the  corner.)  The bomb is  here. FIRST WATCH
Infernal machine  with a  time  fuse. BLOOM  No, no. Pig's feet.  I was at a
funeral. FIRST WATCH (Draws his truncheon.) Liar!
     (The  beagle lifts his snout, showing the grey scorbutic face  of Paddy
Dignam. He has  gnawed all. He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath.  He grows
to human  size and shape. His dachshund coat becomes a brown mortuary habit.
His green eyeflashes bloodshot. Half of one ear all the nose and both thumbs
are ghouleaten.)
     PADDY DIGNAM (In a hollow voice.) It is true. It was my funeral. Doctor
Finucane  pronounced  life  extinct  when I  succumbed to the  disease  from
natural causes.
     (He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously.)
     BLOOM (In triumph.) You hear?
     PADDY DIGNAM Bloom, I am Paddy Dignam's spirit. List, list, O list!
     BLOOM The voice is the voice of Esau.
     SECOND WATCH (Blesses himself.) How is that possible?
     FIRST WATCH It is not in the penny catechism.
     PADDY DIGNAM By metempsychosis. Spooks.
     A VOICE O rocks.
     PADDY DIGNAM (Earnestly.) Once I was in the  employ of Mr J. H. Menton,
solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk. Now
I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied. Hard lines. The poor wife
was  awfully cut up. Dow  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,
toad  bellied,  wrynecked,  in  a surplice  and  bandanna  nightcap, holding
sleepily a staff of twisted poppies.)
     FATHER  COFFEY (Yawns, then chants with a hoarse croak.) Namine. Jacobs
Vobiscuits. Amen.
     (Foghorns   stormily   through  his  megaphone.)  Dignam,  Patrick  T.,
deceased.
     PADDY DIGNAM (With pricked up ears, winces.) Overtones.
     (He wriggles forward, places an ear to the ground.) My masters' 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
tailstiffpointed, his ears cocked.)
     PADDY DIGNAM Pray for the repose of his soul.
     (He worms down through a coal hole, 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 two-columned 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. He  stands before a lighted  house, listening.  The
kisses,  winging  from  their bowers,  fly about  him, twittering, warbling,
cooing.)
     THE KISSES (Warbling.) Leo!  (Twittering.) Icky licky micky  sticky for
Leo! (Cooing.) Coo  coocoo!  Yummyumm  Wom worn!  (Warbling.)  Big  comebig!
Pirouette! Leopopold! (Twittering.) Leeolee! (Warbling.) O Leo!
     (They  rustle,  flutter upon his  garments, alight, bright giddyflecks,
silvery sequins.)
     BLOOM A man's touch. Sad music. Church music. Perhaps here.
     (Zoe Higgins, a  young whore  in  a  sapphire slip, closed  with  three
bronze buckles, a  slim black velvet fillet  round  her throat, nods,  trips
down the steps and accosts him.)
     ZOE Are you looking for someone? He's inside with his friend.
     BLOOM Is this Mrs Mack's?
     ZOE No,  eightyone.  Mrs Cohen's. You might go farther  and fare worse.
Mother Slipperslapper.  (Familiarly.) She's on the job herself tonight  with
the vet, her tipster, that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in
Oxford. Working overtime but her luck's turned today. (Suspiciously.) You're
not his father, are you?
     BLOOM Not I!
     ZOE You both in black. Has little mousey any tickles tonight?
     (His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach. A hand slides over his
left thigh.)
     ZOE How's the nuts?
     BLOOM Off side. Curiously they are on the right. Heavier I suppose. One
in a million my tailor, Mesias, says.
     ZOE (In sudden alarm.) You've a hard chancre.
     BLOOM Not likely.
     ZOE I feel it.
     (Her hand slides  into  his left trouser  pocket  and brings out a hard
black shrivelled potato. She regards it and Bloom with dumb moist lips.)
     BLOOM A talisman. Heirloom.
     ZOE For Zoe? For keeps? For being so nice, eh?
     (She  puts  the  potato  greedily into a  pocket,  then links his  arm,
cuddling him with  supple warmth. He smiles uneasily.  Slowly, note by note,
oriental music is played. He gazes in the tawny crystal of  her eyes, ringed
with kohol. His smile softens.)
     ZOE You'll know me the next time.
     BLOOM (Forlornly.) I never loved a dear gazelle but it was sure to.
     (Gazelles are leaping, feeding  on the mountains. Near are lakes. Round
their shores  file  shadows  black  of cedargroves.  Aroma rises,  a  strong
hairgrowth of resin. It  burns, the orient, a sky of sapphire, cleft  by the
bronze flight of eagles. Under  it  lies  the womancity, nude, white, still,
cool, in luxury. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Mammoth roses murmur
of  scarlet  winegrapes. A  wine  of shame,  lust, blood  exudes,  strangely
murmuring.)
     ZOE  (Murmuring singsong  with the  music,  her odalisk lips lusciously
smeared  with  salve  of  swinefat and rosewater.)  Schorach  ani  wenowach,
benoith Hierushaloim.
     BLOOM (Fascinated.) I thought you were of good stock by your accent.
     ZOE And you know what thought did?
     (She bites his ear gently with  little goldstopped teeth sending on him
a cloying breath of stale garlic. The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre
of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones.)
     BLOOM (Draws  back,  mechanically caressing her right  bub with  a flat
awkward hand.) Are you a Dublin girl?
     ZOE  (Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her coil.) No bloody
fear. I'm English. Have you a swaggerroot?
     BLOOM (As  before.)  Rarely smoke,  dear. Cigar now and  then. Childish
device. (Lewdly.) The  mouth can be  better engaged than  with a cylinder of
rank weed.
     ZOE Go on. Make a stump speech out of it.
     BLOOM (In  workman's corduroy overalls, black gansy  with red  floating
tie and  apache  cap.)  Mankind is incorrigible. Sir Walter  Raleigh 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 buccaneering Vanderdeckens  in their phantom
ship of finance...
     AN ELECTOR Three times three for our future chief magistrate!
     (The aurora borealis of the torchlight procession leaps.)
     THE TORCH BEARERS 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  lace white silk  scarf) That alder man 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,  bug-bears,  manufactured monsters for  mutual  murder, hideous
hobgoblins  produced by a horde  of capitalistic lusts upon  our prostituted
labour.  The poor man  starves while they are grassing their  royal mountain
stags  or  shooting peasants and  phartridges in their purblind pomp of pelf
and power. But their reign is rover for rever and ever and ev...
     (Prolonged applause.  Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring
up. A  streamer  bearing the  legends Cead  Mille  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 Kings  Own Scottish  Boraerers,  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,
the lord mayor of Cork, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo
and Watedord, twentyeight Irish representative peers,  sirdars, grandees and
maharajahs  bearing  the  cloth  of estate,  the  Dublin  Metropolitan  Fire
Brigade,  the chapter of the saints of finance in their plutocratic order of
precedence, the bishop  of  Down  and  Connor His  Eminence Michael cardinal
Logue  archbishop of Armagh, primate of  all  Ireland,  His  Grace, the most
reverend Dr William  Alexander archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland,
the  chief rabbi, the  presbyterian  moderator,  the  heads  of the baptist,
anabaptist, methodist and Moravian chapels and the honorary secretary of the
society of friends. her them march the guilds and trades and trainbands with
flying  colours:  coopen,  bird fanciers, millwrights, newspaper canvassers,
law  scriveners,  masseurs,  vintners,  trussmakers,  chimney  sweeps,  lard
refiners, tabinet and poplin weavers, farriers, Italian warehousemen, church
decorators,  bootjack manufacturers,  undertaken, silk  mercers, lapidaries,
salesmasters, corkcutters, assessors of  fire  losses,  dyers and  cleaners,
export  bottlers, fellmongers, ticketwriters, heraldic seal engravers, horse
repository   hands,  bullion   broken,  cricket   and   archery  outfitters,
riddlemakers,  egg  and  potato  factors,   hosiers  and  glovers,  plumbing
contractors. After them march gentlemen of the bed chamber Black Rod, Deputy
Garter Gold Stick, the master of hone, 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.
Beefeaten reply, winding clarions of welcome. Under an arch of triumph Bloom
appears bareheaded, in a crimson velvet  mantle trimmed with ermine, bearing
Saint Edward's staff  the  orb and sceptre with the dove, the curtana. He is
seated  on  a  milkwhite   hone  with  long  flowing  crimson  tail,  richly
caparisoned, with golden heads tall. Wild excitement. The ladies from  their
balconies throw  down rosepetals. The air is perfumed with essences. The men
cheer. Bloom's boys run amid  the  bystanders with branches of  hawthorn and
wrenbushes.)
     BLOOM'S BOYS
     The wren, the wren,
     The king of all birds,
     Saint Stephen's his day,
     Was caught in the furze.
     A BLACKSMITH  (Murmurs.) For the Honour of  God! And is  that Bloom? He
scarcely looks thirtyone.
     A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER That's the  famous Bloom now, the world's greatest
reformer. Hats off!
     (All uncover their heads. Women whisper eagerly.)
     A MILLIONAIRESS (Richly.) Isn't he simply wonderful?
     A NOBLEWOMAN (Nobly.) All that man has seen!
     A FEMINIST (Masculinely.) And done!
     A BELLHANGER A classic face! He has the forehead of a thinker.
     (Bloom's weather. A sunburst appears in the northwest.)
     THE BISHOP  OF  DOWN AND CONNOR I here present your un  doubted 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 hair oil over Bloom's
head.) Gaudium magnum annuntio  vobis. Habemus carneficem. Leopold, Patrick,
Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed!
     (Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold and  puts on  a ruby  ring. He
ascends and stands on  the stone of destiny. The representative peers put on
at the same  time their twentyeight crowns. Joybells ring  in Christ church,
Saint Patrick's,  George's  and gay Malahide. Mirus bazaar  fireworks go  up
from  all  sides  with symbolical  phallopyrotechnic designs. The  peers  do
homage, one by one, approaching and genuflecting.)
     THE  PEERS I  do become your liege  man  of  life  and  limb to earthly
worship.
     (Bloom  holds  up  his  right hand  on  which  sparkles  the Koh-i-Noor
diamond. His  palfrey  neighs. Immediate silence. Wireless  intercontinental
and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.)
     BLOOM My subjects! We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula Felix
hereditary  Grand Vizier and announce that we  have this day  repudiated our
former spouse and have bestowed our royal hand upon the princess Selene, the
splendour of night.
     (The former morganatic spouse  of Bloom is hastily removed in the Black
Maria. The  princess  Selene,  in moon blue robes, a  silver crescent on her
head,  descends  from  a  Sedan chair  borne by  two giants. An outburst  of
cheering.)
     JOHN HOWARD  PARNELL  (Raises  the royal standard.)  Illustrious Bloom!
Successor to my famous brother!
     BLOOM  (Embraces John Howard  Parnell.)  We  thank you from our  heart,
John,  for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the promised land of  our
common ancestors.
     (The freedom of the city is presented to him embodied in a charter. The
keys of Dublin, crossed on a crimson cushion, are given to him. He shows all
that he is wearing green socks.)
     TOM KERNAN You deserve it, your honour.
     BLOOM On this day  twenty years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at
Ladysmith. Our  howitzers  and camel  swivel guns played  on  his lines with
telling  effect.  Half  a league onward! They charge! All is lost now! Do we
yield? No! We drive them headlong! Lo! We charge! Deploying to the left  our
light  horse swept across  the heights of Plevna and, uttering their warcry,
Bonafide Sabaoth, sabred the Saracen gunners to a man.
     THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS Hear! Hear!
     JOHN WYSE NOLAN There's the man that got away James Stephens.
     A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY Bravo!
     AN OLD RESIDENT You're a  credit to  your country, sir, that's what you
are.
     AN APPLEWOMAN He's a man like Ireland wants.
     BLOOM  My  beloved subjects, a new era is about to dawn. I, Bloom, tell
you verily it is even now at hand. Yea, on the word of a Bloom, ye shall ere
long  enter into the golden city which is to be, the  new Bloomusalem in the
Nova Hibernia of the future.
     (Thirtytwo workmen wearing  rosettes, from all the counties of Ireland,
under  the guidance of Derwan the builder  construct the new Bloomusalem. It
is  a colossal edifice, with crystal roof built in the shape of a huge  pork
kidney, containing forty  thousand  rooms.  In the course  of its  extension
several  buildings  and monuments  are  demolished. Government  offices  are
temporarily transferred to  railway sheds.  Numerous houses are razed to the
ground. The  inhabitants are  lodged in barrels and boxes, all marked in red
with  the  letters: L. B. Several paupers fall from a ladder.  A part of the
walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses.)
     THE SIGHTSEERS (Dying) Morituri te salutant. (They die.)
     (A man in a brown  macintosh springs up through  a trap-door. He points
an elongated finger at Bloom.)
     THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH Don't you believe a  word he Says. That man is
Leopold M'Intosh, the notorious fireraiser. His real name is Higgins.
     BLOOM Shoot him! Dog of a christian! So much for M'Intosh!
     (A cannonshot.  The  man  in the  macintosh  disappears. Bloom with his
sceptre strikes  down  poppies. The instantaneous  deaths  of  many powerful
enemies, graziers,  members of  parliament,  members of standing committees,
are  reported.  Bloom's  bodyguard  distribute  Maundy money,  commemoration
medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges,  expensive Henry  Clay cigars,
free cowbones for soup,  rubber preservatives, in sealed envelopes tied with
gold thread, butter scotch, pineapple  rock, billets doux  in  the  form  of
cocked  hats, readymade suits, porringers of  toad  in the  hole, bottles of
Jeyes'  Fluid,  purchase  stamps,  40  days'  indulgences,  spurious  coins,
dairyfed  pork  sausages, theatre passes, season  tickets  available for all
tram lines, coupons of the royal  and privileged  Hungarian  lottery,  penny
dinner counters, cheap  reprints of  the World's Twelve Worst Books:  Froggy
and  Fritz  (politic),  Care of  the Baby  (infantilic),  So  Meals  for 7/6
(culinic),  Was Jesus a Sun  Myth?  (historic),  Expel  that  Pain  (medic),
Infant's Compendium of  the Universe (cosmic), Let's All  Chortle (hilaric),
Canvasser's  Vade  Mecum  (journalic),  love-letters   of  Mother  Assistant
(erotic),  Who's  Who  in  Space  (astric),  Songs  that  Reached Our  Heart
(melodic),  Pennywise's  Way  to  Wealth (parsimonic).  A  general  rush and
scramble.  Women press forward to touch the hem  of Bloom's  robe.  The lady
Gwendolen Dubedat bursts through the throng, leaps  on  his horse and kisses
him on both cheeks amid great acclamation. A magnesium flashlight photograph
is taken. Babes and sucklings are held up.)
     THE WOMEN Little father! Little father!
     THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS
     Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home,
     Cakes in his pocket for Leo alone.
     (Bloom, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the stomach.)
     BABY BOARDMAN (Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his mouth.) Hajajaja.
     BLOOM (Shaking  hands with  a  blind stripling.) My  more than Brother!
(Placing his arms round  the shoulders of an old  couple.) Dear old friends!
(He plays pussy fourcorners  with  ragged boys and girls.) Peep! Bopeep! (He
wheels twins in a perambulator.) Ticktacktwo  wouldyousetashoe? (He performs
juggler's tricks, draws red, orange, yellow, green,  blue, indigo and violet
silk  handkerchiefs  from  his  mouth.)  Roygbiv.  32  feet per second.  (He
consoles  a  widow.)  Absence makes the heart  grow younger. (He dances  the
Highland  fling with grotesque antics.) Leg it,  ye  devils! (He  kisses the
bedsores  of  a palsied  veteran.)  Honourable  wounds!  (He trips up a  fat
policeman.)  U.p.: up. U.p.:  up.  (He  whispers in  the ear of  a  blushing
waitress  and laughs kindly.) Ah, naughty, naughty!  (He  eats a raw  turnip
offered him  by  Maurice Butterly,  farmer.) Fine! Splendid! (He refuses  to
accept three  shillings  offered  him by  Joseph Hynes, journalist.) My dear
fellow, not  at  all! (He  gives  his coat to a beggar.) Please  accept. (He
takes  part in a stomach race with elderly male  and female cripples.)  Come
on, boys! Wriggle it, girls!
     THE  CITIZEN (Choked with emotion,  brushes aside a tear in his emerald
muffler.) May the good God bless him!
     (The rams' horns sound for silence. The standard of Zion is hoisted.)
     BLOOM  (Uncloaks  impressively, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper  and
reads solemnly.) Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah Tephilim Kosher Yom Kippur
Hanukah  Ros  chaschana Beni  Brith Bar  Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah
Talith.
     (An official translation is read by Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk.)
     JIMMY  HENRY  The Court of  Conscience is  now  open. His Most Catholic
Majesty will now administer open air justice. Free medical and legal advice,
solution of doubles and other problems. All cordially invited. Given at this
our loyal city of Dublin in the year I of the Paradisiacal Era.
     PADDY LEONARD What am I to do about my rates and taxes?
     BLOOM Pay them, my friend.
     PADDY LEONARD Thank you.
     NOSEY FLYNN Can I raise a mortgage on my fire insurance?
     BLOOM (Obdurately.) Sirs,  take notice that by the law of torts you are
bound over  in your  own  recognisances for six  months  in the  sum of five
pounds.
     J.J. O'MOLLY 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. mix. vom., 4 minims.
     Extr. taraxel. lig., 30 minims.
     Aq. dis. ter in die.
     CHRIS CALLINAN  What  is the  parallax  of  the  subsolar  ecliptic  of
Aldebaran?
     BLOOM Pleased to hear from you, Chris. K. 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 eight day licence for my new premises.  You remember
me, sir Leo, when you  were in number  seven.  I'm sending around a dozen of
stout for the missus.
     BLOOM (Coldly.)  You have the advantage of  me.  Lady  Bloom accepts no
presents.
     CROFTON This is indeed a festivity.
     BLOOM (Solemnly.) You call it a festivity. I call it a sacrament.
     ALEXANDER KEYES When will we have our own house of keys?
     BLOOM  I stand  for the  reform of municipal morals and the  plain  ten
commandments. New  worlds for old. Union  of all, jew,  moslem and  gentile.
Three acres  and  a cow for all  children of nature.  Saloon  motor hearses.
Compulsory  manual  labour for all.  All parks open to  the public  day  and
night. Electric dishscrubbers. Tuberculosis, lunacy, war and mendicancy must
now  cease. General  amnesty, weekly carnival, with masked  licence, bonuses
for  all,  esperanto  the  universal  brotherhood.  No  more  patriotism  of
barspongers  and dropsical  impostors. Free money,  free love and a free lay
church in a free lay state.
     O'MADDEN BURKE Free fox in a free henroost.
     DAVY BYRNE (Yawning.) Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach!
     BLOOM Mixed races and mixed marriage.
     LENEHAN What about mixed bathing?
     (Bloom explains to those near him  his schemes for social regeneration.
All  agree  with  him. The keeper  of  the  Kildare  Street  Museum appears,
dragging  a  lorry  on  which  are  the  shaking  statues of  several  naked
goddesses, Venus Callipyge, Venus Pandemos Venus Metempsychosis, and plaster
figures, also naked,  representing  the new  nine  muses, Commerce, Operatic
Music,  Amor  Publicity,  Manufacture,  liberty  of Speech,  Plural  Voting,
Gastronomy,   Private  Hygiene,  Seaside  Concert  Entertainments,  Painless
Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People.)
     FATHER  FARLEY He  is an episcopalian, an  agnostic, an any  thingarian
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 tooralcom tooraloom.
     HOPPY HOLOHAN Good old Bloom! There's nobody like him after all.
     PADDY LEONARD Stage Irishman!
     BLOOM  What railway opera  is like a tramline in Gibraltar? The Rows of
Casteele. (Laughter.)
     LENEHAN Plagiarist! Down with Bloom!
     THE VEILED SIBYL (Enthusiastically.) I'm a  Bloomite and I glory in it.
I believe in him in spite of all. I'd give my life for him, the funniest man
on earth.
     BLOOM (Winks at the bystanders.) I bet she's a bonny lassie.
     THEODORE PUREFOY  (In fishing  cap 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  gas  ovens,  hanging themselves in
stylish garters, leaping from windows of different storeys.)
     ALEXANDER J. DOWIE (Violently.) Fellowchristians and antiBloomites, the
man  called Bloom  is from the roots of hell, a disgrace to christian men. A
fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat of Mendes gave
precocious signs of  infantile debauchery recalling the cities of the plain,
with a  dissolute granddam. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy, is the
white  bull mentioned in the Apocalypse. A worshipper of the  Scarlet Woman,
intrigue  is  the  very breath  of his nostrils.  The  stake faggots and the
caldron of boiling oil are for him. Caliban!
     THE MOB Lynch him! Roast him! He's as bad as Parnell was. Mr Fox!
     (Mother Grogan throws her boot at Bloom. Several shopkeepers from upper
and  lower Dorset  street throw  objects  of little or  no commercial value,
hambones, condensed  milk  tins,  unsaleable cabbage,  stale bread,  sheeps'
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 motoroggles on his brow.) Dr Bloom
is  bisexually abnormal. He has  recently escaped from  Dr Eustace's private
asylum  for  demented gentlemen. Born out of bedlock hereditary  epilepsy is
present, the  consequence of unbridled  lust.  Traces  of elephantiasis have
been discovered  among  his ascendants. There are marked symptoms of chronic
exhibitionism. Ambidexterity is  also latent.  He  is prematurely bald  from
selfabuse, perversely idealistic in  consequence,  a reformed rake, and  has
metal teeth. In consequence of a family complex he has  temporarily lost his
memory and I believe him to be more sinned against than sinning. I have made
a pervaginal  examination and, after  application  of the acid  test to 5427
anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be virgo intacta.
     (Bloom holds his high grade hat over his genital organs.)
     DR  MADDEN  Hypsospadia  is  also  marked.  In the  interest of  coming
generations I suggest that the parts affected should be preserved in spirits
of wine in the national teratological museum.
     DR  CROTTHERS I  have  examined the  patient's urine. It is albuminoid.
Salivation is insufficient, the patellar reflex intermittent.
     DR PUNCH COSTELLO The fetor judaicus is most perceptible.
     DR  DIXON  (Reads  a bill of  health.) Professor  Bloom is  a  finished
example of the new womanly man. His moral nature is simple and lovable. Many
have found him  a dear man,  a dear person. He is a rather quaint fellow  on
the whole, coy though not feeble-minded in the medical sense. He has written
a really beautiful letter, a poem in itself, to the  court missionary of the
Reformed  Priests' Protection  Society  which clears  up everything.  He  is
practically a total  abstainer  and I can  affirm that he sleeps on  a straw
litter and eats the most Spartan  food, cold dried grocer's peas. He wears a
hairshirt 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, bank  cheques,
banknotes, jewels, treasury bonds,  maturing  bills  of  exchange,  I.O.U.s,
wedding rings' watch-chains, 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  are  handsome,  with   valuable  metallic   faces,   wellmade,
respectably  dressed  and  wellconducted,  speaking  five  modern  languages
fluently and interested in various  arts  and  sciences.  Each  has his name
printed  in   legible  letters  on  his  shirtfront:  Nasodoro,  Goldfinger,
Chrysostomos,  Maindorиe, Silversmile,  Silberselber  Vifargent,  Panargros.
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, vice chairmen 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.
     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 the ledge by
his  eyelids, eats twelve  dozen oysters  (shells  included), heals  several
sufferers  from  kings  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,
Rossuth,  Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold  Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe,
Sherlock  Holmes,  Pasteur,  turns each  foot  simultaneously  in  different
directions, bids  the tide  turn  back, eclipses the sun  by  extending  his
little finger.)
     BRINI,  PAPAL NUNCIO  (In papal zouave's  uniform,  steel  cuirasses as
breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large profane moustaches and
brown paper  mitre.)  Leopoldi autem generatio. Moses  begat Noah  and  Noah
begat Eunuch and Eunuch begat O'Halloran and O'Halloran begat Guggenheim and
Guggenheim begat Agendath and Agendath  begat  Netaim  and  Netaim  begat Le
Hirsch and Le Hirsch begat Jesurum and Jesurum begat MacKay and MacKay begat
Ostrolopsky and Ostrolopsky begat Smerdoz  and Smerdoz begat Weiss and Weiss
begat  Schwarz and  Schwarz begat Adrianopoli and Adrianopoli began 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. A CRAB  (In  bush
ranger'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  front to nates, three  tears
falling from his left eye.) Spare my past.
     THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS (In bodycoats, kneebreeches,  with Donnybrook
fair shillelaghs.) Sjambok him!
     (Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in the pillory with crossed arms,
his feet protruding. He whistles Don Giovanni, a cenar teco. Artane orphans,
joining hands,  caper round him. Girls of the Prison Gate  Mission,  joining
hands, caper round in the opposite direction.)
     THE ARTANE ORPHANS
     You big, you bog, you dirty dog!
     You think the ladies love you!
     THE PRISON GATE GIRLS
     If you see kay
     Tell him he may
     See you in tea
     Tell him from me.
     HORNBLOWER (In ephod and huntingcap, announces.) And he shall carry the
sins of the people to  Azazel, the spirit which is in the wilderness, and to
Lilith, the nighthag. And they shall stone him and defile him, yea, all from
Agendath Netaim and from Mizraim, the land of Ham.
     (All  the people cast  soft pantomime stones at  Bloom.  Many  bonafide
travellers and ownerless dogs come near him  and defile  him. Mastiansky and
Citron approach in gaberdines, wearing long earlocks. They  wag their beards
at Bloom.)
     MASTIANSKY AND  CITRON Belial!  Laemlein of  Istria! the false Messiah!
Abulafia!
     (George S. 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, black bearded Iscariot, bad  shepherd, bearing on his
shoulders the drowned corpse of his son, approaches the pillory.)
     REUBEN J. (Whispers hoarsely.) The squeak  is out. A split  is gone for
the flatties. Nip the first rattler.
     THE FIRE BRIGADE Pflaap!
     BROTHER BUZZ (Invests Bloom  in  a  yellow  habit  with  embroidery  of
painted flames and high pointed hat. He  places a bag of gunpowder round his
neck  and  hands  him over  to  the  civil power, saying.) Forgive  him  his
trespasses.
     (Lieutenant Myers of the Dublin  Fire  Brigade  by general request sets
fire to Bloom. Lamentations.)
     THE CITIZEN Thank heaven!
     BLOOM (In  a  seamless  garment marked  I. H.  S. stands  upright  amid
phoenix flames.) Weep not for me, O daughters of Erin.
     (He  exhibits  to Dublin reporters traces of burning. The daughters  of
Erin, in black  garments with lace prayerbooks  and long lighted  candles in
their hands, kneel down and pray.)
     THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN Kidney of Bloom, pray for us. Flower of the Bath,
pray for us. Mentor of Menton, pray for us. Canvasser  for the Freeman, pray
for  us. Charitable Mason, pray for us. Wandering Soap, pray for  us. Sweets
of Sin, pray  for  us.  Music  without  Words, pray  for us. Reprover of the
Citizen,  pray for  us. Friend of all Frillies,  pray  for  us. Midwife Most
Merciful, pray for us. Potato Preservative  against  Plague  and Pestilence,
pray for us.
     (A choir of six hundred  voices, conducted by Mr Vincent O'Brien, sings
the Alleluia chorus, accompanied on the organ by Joseph Glynn. Bloom becomes
mute, shrunken, carbonised.)
     ZOE Talk away till you're black in the face.
     BLOOM  (In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in  the band, dusty brogues, an
emigrant's red handkerchief  bundle  in his hand, leading a black bogoak pig
by  a sugaun, with a smile  in  his eye.)  Let me be going now, woman of the
house, for by all the goats in Connemara  I'm after  having  the  father and
mother  of  a bating. (With a tear in  his  eye.) All insanity.  Patriotism,
sorrow for  the dead, music, future of  the race. To be or not to be. Life's
dream is  o'er. End it peacefully.  They  can  live  on. (He  gazes far away
mournfully.) I  am ruined. A few pastilles of aconite. The blinds  drawn.  A
letter. Then lie back to rest. (He breathes softly.)  No more. I have lived.
Fare. Farewell.
     ZOE  (Stiffly, her  finger  in her neckfillet.) Honest?  Till the  next
time. (She sneers.) Suppose you got up the wrong side of the bed or came too
quick with your best girl. O, I can read your thoughts.
     BLOOM (Bitterly.) Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and bottle.
     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  play  the  organs.  I'm
Yorkshire born. (She holds his hand which is feeling for her nipple.) I say,
Tommy  Tittlemouse.  Stop  that  and begin worse. Have  you cash for a short
time? Ten shillings?
     BLOOM (Smiles, nods slowly.) More, houri, more.
     ZOE And more's mother? (She pats him offhandedly with velvet paws.) Are
you  coming into  the  musicroom to see our new  pianola? Come and I'll peel
off.
     BLOOM   (Feeling   his  occiput   dubiously   with   the   unparalleled
embarrassment  of a  harassed pedlar gauging  the  symmetry  of  her  peeled
pears.)  Somebody would  be  dreadfully  jealous if she  knew. The greeneyed
monster. (Earnestly.) You know how difficult it is. I needn't tell you.
     ZOE (Flattered.) What  the eye can't  see the  heart can't  grieve for.
(She pats him.) Come.
     BLOOM Laughing witch! The hand that rocks the cradle.
     ZOE Babby!
     BLOOM (In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with a  caul  of dark hair,
fixes big eyes on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles with a chubby
finger,  his moist  tongue  tolling  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  pass  touch of secret monitor,
luring him to doom.) Hot hands cold gizzard.
     (He hesitates  amid scents, music, temptations.  She leads  him towards
the steps, drawing him by the odour of her  armpits, the vice of her painted
eyes, the rustle of her slip  in whose sinuous folds  lurks the lion reek of
all the male brutes that have possessed her.)
     THE MALE BRUTES (Exhaling sulphur of rut and  dung and ramping in their
loosebox, faintly roaring, their drugged heads swaying to and fro.) Good!
     (Zoe and  Bloom reach the doorway where  two sister whores are  seated.
They examine him curiously from under their pencilled brows and smile to his
hasty bow. He trips awkwardly.)
     ZOE (Her lucky hand instantly saving him.) Hoopsa! Don't fall upstairs.
     BLOOM  The  just  man  falls seven  times.  (He  stands  aside  at  the
threshold.) After you is good manners.
     ZOE Ladies first, gentlemen after.
     (She  crosses the threshold.  He hesitates.  She turns and, holding out
her hands, draws him over. He hops. On the an tiered 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 thrown open. A man
in purple shirt  and grey  trousers, brownsocked,  passes with an apes 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 tapes-tried with a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. In the
grate is  spread a screen of peacock  feathers.  Lynch squats crosslegged on
the  hearth  rug of matted hair, his  cap back to the front.  With a wand he
beats  time slowly. Kitty  Ricketts, a  bony  pallid whore in  navy costume,
doeskin gloves rolled back from a coral wristlet, a chain purse in her hand,
sits  perched  on  the edge  of the  table swinging her leg and  glancing at
herself in  the gilt mirror over the mantelpiece. A tag  of her corset  lace
hangs slightly below her jacket. Lynch indicates mockingly the couple at the
piano.)
     KITTY (Coughs behind her hand.) She's a bit  imbecilic. (She signs with
a  waggling forefinger.)  Blemblem.  (Lynch  lifts  up her  skirt and  white
petticoat with  the wand. She  settles them down quickly.) Respect yourself.
(She hiccups, then bends quickly her sailor hat  under which her hair glows,
red with henna.) O, excuse!
     ZOE More limelight, Charley. (She goes to  the chandelier and turns the
gas full cock.)
     KITTY (Peers at the gasjet.) What ails it tonight?
     LYNCH (Deeply.) Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.
     ZOE Clap on the back for Zoe.
     (The wand in Lynch's hand flashes: a brass poker. Stephen stands at the
pianola  on which sprawl his hat and ashplant.  With two fingers  he repeats
once more the series of empty fifths. Florry Talbot, a blond feeble goosefat
whore in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry,  lolls spreadeagle in
the sofa  corner,  her limp forearm pendent over the bolster,  listening.  A
heavy stye droops over her sleepy eyelid.)
     KITTY (Hiccups again with a kick of her horsed foot.) O, excuse!
     ZOE (Promptly.) Your boy's thinking of you. Tie a knot on your shift.
     (Kitty  Ricketts bends her  head. Her boa  uncoils, slides, glides over
her  shoulder, back,  arm,  chair  to  the ground. Lynch  lifts  the  curled
caterpillar  on his wand.  She  snakes her  neck, nestling. Stephen  glances
behind at the squatted figure with its cap back to the front.)
     STEPHEN As a matter of fact it is of no  importance  whether  Benedetto
Marcello found it or made it. The rite is the poet's  rest. It may be an old
hymn to  Demeter or also illustrate Cla  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 his almightiness. Mais, nom  de  nom,  that  is
another pair  of trousers. Jetez la gourme.  Faut que jeunesse se passe. (He
stops,  points at Lynch's cap, smiles, laughs.) Which side is your knowledge
bump?
     THE CAP (With  saturnine spleen.) Bah!  It  is  because it is.  Woman's
reason. Jewgreek is greekjew.  Extremes  meet. Death  is the highest form of
life. Bah!
     STEPHEN You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes.
How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty? Whetstone!
     THE CAP Bah!
     STEPHEN Here's another for  you. (He frowns.) The reason is because the
fundamental and the dominant are separated by the greatest possible interval
which .
     THE CAP Which? Finish. You can't.
     STEPHEN  (With  on  effort.) Interval  which. Is  the greatest possible
ellipse. Consistent with. The ultimate return. The octave. Which.
     THE CAP Which? (Outside the gramophone begins to blare The Holy City.)
     STEPHEN  (Abruptly.)  What  went  forth  to the  ends of  the  world to
traverse  not  itself. God, the sun,  Shakespeare,  a  commercial traveller,
having itself traversed in reality itself, becomes that self. Wait a moment.
Wait  a second. Damn that fellow's noise in the street. Self which it itself
was ineluctably preconditioned to become. Ecco!
     LYNCH  (With  a  mocking whinny  of laughter grins  at  Bloom  and  Zoe
Higgins.) What a learned speech, eh?
     ZOE  (Briskly.)  God  help your  head,  he  knows  more  than you  have
forgotten.
     (With obese stupidity Florry Talbot regards Stephen.)
     FLORRY They say the last day is coming this summer.
     KITTY No!
     ZOE (Explodes in laughter.) Great unjust God!
     FLORRY (Offended.) Well, it was in the papers about Anti christ. O,  my
foot's tickling.
     (Ragged  barefoot  newsboys,  jogging  a   wagtail   kite,  patterpast,
yelling.)
     THE  NEWSBOYS Stop press edition. Result of the rockinghorse races. Sea
serpent in the royal canal. Safe arrival of Antichrist.
     (Stephen turns and sees Bloom.)
     STEPHEN A time, times and half a time.
     (Reuben  J.  Antichrist,  wanderingjew,  a  clutching hand  open on his
spine, stumps  forward. Across his loins is  slung  a  pilgrims wallet  from
which  protrude  promissory  notes and  dishonoured  bills.  Aloft over  his
shoulder he bears a long boatpole from  the hook of which the sodden huddled
mass of his only son,  saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the slack of its
breeches. A hobgoblin in the image of  Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked,
hydrocephalic,  prognathic  with  receding  forehead  and Ally  Sloper nose,
tumbles in somersaults through the gathering darkness.)
     ALL What?
     THE  HOBGOBLIN  (His  jaws chattering, capers to  and fro, goggling his
eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping, with outstretched clutching arms, then all
at once thrusts  his lipless face through the fork of his thighs.) Il vient!
C'est moi!  L'homme qui rit! L'homme primigene!  (He  whirls round and round
with dervish  howls.)  Sieurs  et  dames,  faites  vos  jeux!  (He  crouches
juggling. Tiny roulette  planets  fly from his hands.) Les  jeux son! faits!
(The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks.) Rien n'va plus. (The
planets,  buoyant  balloons,  sail swollen up and away.  He springs off into
vacuum.)
     FLORRY (Sinking into  torpor, crosses herself secretly.) The end of the
world!
     (A  female  tepid  effluvium  leaks  out from her.  Nebulous  obscurity
occupies space. Through the drifting fog  without the gramophone blares over
coughs and feetshuffling.)
     THE GRAMOPHONE Jerusalem! Open your gates and sing Hosanna...
     (A rocket rushes  up  the sky and bursts. A  white star  falls from it,
proclaiming  the  consummation of all things  and second  coming of  Elijah.
Along an infinite invisible tight-rope  taut from zenith to nadir the End of
the World, a two headed octopus in gillies kilts, busby and tartan filibegs,
whirls through the murk, head  over  heels,  in the fob of the Three Lugs of
Man.)
     THE END OF THE WORLD (With a Scotch accent.) Wha'll dance the keel row,
the keel row, the keel row?
     (Over the passing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, harsh
as a corncrakes,  jars on  high.  Perspiring in  a loose  lawn surplice with
funnel sleeves he is seen, vergefaced 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, Dave Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do  your coughing with  your mouths shut.
Say, I  am operating all  this  trunk line. Boys, do  it now.  God's time is
12.25.  Tell mother  you'll  be there. Rush your order and you play  a slick
ace. Join on right here! Book through to eternity junction, the nonstop run.
Just one  word more. Are you a  god or a doggone  clod? If the second advent
came  to Coney  Island  are  we  ready?  Florry Christ, Stephen  Christ, Zoe
Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty  Christ,  Lynch Christ, it's  up to you to sense
that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? No. Be on the side of
the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the higher self. You
can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Are you all in this
vibration?  I say you  are. You once nobble  that, congregation,  and a buck
joyride to heaven becomes a back number. You  got me? It's a lifebrightener,
sure. The hottest stuff  ever was. It's the whole pie with jam in. It's just
the cutest snappiest line out. It  is  immense, supersumptuous. It restores.
It vibrates. I know and I am some vibrator. Joking apart and getting down to
bedrock, A. J. Christ Dowie and the harmonial philosophy, have you got that?
O.K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street.  Got me? That's it. You call me up
by sunphone any  old time. Bumboosers,  save your  stamps. (He  shouts.) Now
then  our glory song. All join heartily in the singing. Encore! (He  sings.)
Jeru...
     THE GRAMOPHONE (Drowning his voice.) Whorusalaminyour highhohhhh.
     (The disc rasps gratingly against the needle.)
     THE THREE' WHORES (Covering their ears, squawk.) Ahhkkk!
     ELIJAH (In rolledup  shirtsleeves, black in the face, shouts at the top
of his voice, his arms uplifted.)  Big  Brother  up there, Mr President, you
hear  what I done  just  been  saying to you. Certainly,  I sort of  believe
strong in  you, Mr  President. I certainly  am thinking now Miss Higgins and
Miss  Ricketts got  religion way  inside them. Certainly seems to me I don't
never see no wusser scared female  than the  way you been, Miss Florry, just
now  as I  done seed you. Mr President, you come long and  help me  save our
sisters dear.  (He winks  at his audience.)  Our  Mr President, he twig  the
whole lot and he ain't 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.  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 stars I was guilty with Whelan  when  he  slipped into the
bed.
     STEPHEN In the  beginning  was the word, in  the end  the world without
end. Blessed be the eight beatitudes.
     (The beatitudes, Dixon,  Madden, Crotthers, Costello, Lenehan,  Bannon,
Mulligan  and  Lynch  in  white  surgical  students'  gowns,  four  abreast,
goosestepping, tramp fast past in noisy marching.)
     THE  BEATITUDES (Incoherently.)  Beer beef  battledog  buybull  businum
barnum buggerum bishop.
     LYSTER   (In  quakergrey   kneebreeches  and  broadbrimmed   hat,  says
discreetly.)  He  is  our friend. I need  not mention  names. Seek  thou the
light.
     (He  corantos by. Best enters in hairdresser attire, shinily laundered,
his  locks in  curlpapers. He leads  John  Eglinton who wears  a  mandarin's
kimono of Nankeen yellow, lizard-lettered, 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.  (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  search  light  behind the coalscuttle,  ollave,
holyeyed,  the bearded  figure  of Mananaan MacLir broods, chin on knees. He
rises  slowly. A cold  seawind blows from his  druid mantle. 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.)
     MANANAAN 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! Dark hidden Father! (He smites with his
bicycle pump  the  crayfish in his left hand. On its co-operative  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 judas hand strangles the  light. The  green light wanes  to
mauve. The gasjet wails whistling.)
     THE GASJET Pooah! Pfuiiiiii!
     (Zoe runs to the chandelier and, crooking her leg, adjusts the mantle.)
     ZOE Who has a fag as I'm here?
     LYNCH (Tossing a cigarette on to the table.) Here.
     ZOE (Her head perched aside in mock pride.) Is that the way to hand the
pot to  a lady? (She stretches  up to  light the  cigarette over  the flame,
twirling it slowly, showing  the brown tufts of her  armpits. Lynch with his
poker lifts boldly a  side of her slip. Bare from her garters up  her  flesh
appears  under  the  sapphire a  nixie's  green.  She  puffs  calmly  at her
cigarette.) Can you see the beauty spot of my behind?
     LYNCH I'm not looking.
     ZOE (Makes sheep's eyes.) No? You wouldn't do a  less thing.  Would you
suck a lemon?
     (Squinting in  mock shame  she glances with sidelong meaning at  Bloom,
then  twists round  towards him, pulling her  slip free of the  poker.  Blue
fluid again flows over her flesh. Bloom stands, smiling desirously, twirling
his  thumbs. Kitty  Ricketts licks her middle  finger  with her spittle  and
gazing in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate,
chutes rapidly down through the chimneyflue and struts two steps to the left
on gawky  pink  stilts.  He is sausaged into  several  overcoats and wears a
brown macintosh  under which  he  holds a roll of parchment. In his left eye
flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. On
his head is perched an Egyptian pshent. Two quills project over his ears.)
     VIRAG (Heels together bows.)  My name is  Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely.
(He  coughs thoughtfully, drily.) Promiscuous nakedness is much in  evidence
hereabouts, eh? Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not
wearing  those  rather  intimate  garments  of  which you are  a  particular
devotee. The injection mark on the thigh I hope you perceived? Good.
     BLOOM Granpapachi. But...
     VIRAG Number  two  on  the  other  hand, she of  the  cherry rouge  and
coiffeuse  white,  whose  hair  owes  not a  little to  our tribal elixir of
gopherwood, is in walking costume  and tightly staysed by her sit, I  should
opine. Backbone in front, so to say. Correct me but I always understood that
the act  so performed  by skittish humans with glimpses of lingerie appealed
to you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity. In a word. Hippogriff. Am I
right?
     BLOOM She is rather lean.
     VIRAG  (Not unpleasantly.) Absolutely! Well observed and  those pannier
pockets of  the  skirt  and slightly pegtop  effect are  devised to  suggest
bunchiness of hip. A new  purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has
been mulcted. Meretricious finery to deceive  the eye. Observe the attention
to details of dustspecks. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today.
Parallax! (With a nervous twitch of  his  head.) Did you  hear my  brain  go
snap? Pollysyllabax!
     BLOOM (An elbow resting in a hand, a forefinger against his cheek.) She
seems sad.
     VIRAG  (Cynically, his weasel teeth  bared yellow, draws down his  left
eye with a finger and barks hoarsely.) Hoax! Beware of the flapper and bogus
mournful. Lily of  the alley. All possess bachelor's  button  discovered  by
Rualdus Colombus. Tumble her. Columble her. Chameleon. (More genially.) Well
then, permit me to draw your attention to item number three. There is plenty
of her visible to the naked  eye. Observe the mass  of  oxygenated vegetable
matter on her  skull. What ho,  she bumps!  The ugly  duckling of the party,
longcasted and deep in keel.
     BLOOM (Regretfully.) When you come out without your gun.
     VIRAG We  can  do you  all brands,  mild, medium and  strong. Pay  your
money, take your choice. How happy could you be with either...
     BLOOM With?...
     VIRAG (His  tongue upcurling.) Lyum!  Look. Her beam  is broad.  She is
coated with quite a considerable layer of fat. Obviously mammal in weight of
bosom you remark that she has in front well to the fore two protuberances of
very  respectable  dimensions,  inclined to fall  in  the noonday soupplate,
while on her rere lower down are two additional protuberances, suggestive of
potent rectum and tumescent for  palpation which leave nothing to be desired
save compactness. Such fleshy parts are the product of careful nurture. When
coopfattened their livers reach an elephantine size.  Pellets  of  new bread
with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down  by potions of green  tea endow
them during their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal
blubber.  That suits your book, eh? Fleshhotpots  of Egypt to  hanker after.
Wallow in it. Lycopodium. (His  throat  twitches.)  Slapbang! There  he goes
again.
     BLOOM The stye I dislike.
     VIRAG  (Arches  his  eyebrows.)  Contact  with a  goldring,  they  say.
Argumentum  ad feminam, as we  said in old Rome and ancient  Greece  in  the
consulship  of Diplodocus and Ichthyo saurus. For  the rest Eve's  sovereign
remedy. Not for sale.  Hire only.  Huguenot. (He  twitches.) It  is a  funny
sound.
     (He coughs encouragingly.) But possibly  it  is only a  wart. I presume
you  shall  have remembered  what  I  will  have  taught  you on  that head?
Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg.
     BLOOM  (Reflecting.)  Wheatenmeal with lycopodium  and  syllabax.  This
searching ordeal.  It  has  been an  unusually fatiguing day,  a chapter  of
accidents. Wait. I mean, wartsblood spreads warts, you said .
     VIRAG  (Severely,  his  nose  hardhumped, his side  eye  winking.) Stop
twirling your thumbs  and have a  good old  thunk.  See, you have forgotten.
Exercise your mnemotechnic. La causa х santa. Tara. Tara. (Aside.)  He  will
surely remember.
     BLOOM  Rosemary also  did I  understand  you to say or will  power 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 1882  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 gusseted
knickers,  closed?  Or, put  we  the case,  those complicated  combinations,
camiknickers? (He crows derisively.) Keekeereekee!
     (Bloom surveys uncertainly the three whores,  then gazes at the  veiled
mauve light, hearing the everflying moth.)
     BLOOM I wanted then to have  now concluded. Nightdress was never. Hence
this. But tomorrow is a new day will be. Past was is today. What now is will
then tomorrow as now was be past yester.
     VIRAG  (Prompts into  his  ear  in a pig's whisper.) Insects of the day
spend their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the smell of the
inferiorly pulchritudinous female possessing  extendified pudendal verve  in
dorsal region.  Pretty  Poll! (His yellow parrotbeak  gabbles nasally.) They
had a  proverb in the Carpathians  in  or about the year five thousand  five
hundred and fifty of our era. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend
Bruin  more than half  a dozen barrels  of first choice malt vinegar. Bear's
buzz bothers bees. But of this apart. At another time we may resume. We were
very pleased, we others. (He  coughs  and,  bending his brow, rubs  his nose
thoughtfully with a scooping hand.) You shall find that these night  insects
follow the light. An illusion  for remember their  complex unadjustable eye.
For  all these  knotty points see the seventeenth book of my Fundamentals of
Sexology or  the Love Passion which Doctor L. B. says is the  book sensation
of  the  year.  Some,  to  example,  there  are again  whose  movements  are
automatic.  Perceive.  That  is  his  appropriate  sun.  Nightbird  nightsun
nighttown. Chase me, Charley! 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 head  with cackling  raillery.) Jocular. With
my eyeglass in my ocular.
     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 contradict. Not a  historical fact.  Obvious analogy to my idea.
Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk. Wind their way through miles  of
omnivorous  forest to sucksucculent her breast dry. Like those bubblyjocular
Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantuliasis.
     VIRAG (His mouth  projected  in  hard wrinkles, eyes stonily  forlornly
closed,  psalms  in  outlandish monotone.)  That the cows  with  their those
distended udders that they have been the 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 wing-  shoulders, peers
at the moth out of blear bulged eyes, points a homing claw and cries.) Who's
Ger Ger?  Who's dear 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.) Luss puss puss puss! (He sighs, draws
back and stares sideways  down with dropping underjaw.) Well, well.  He doth
rest anon.
     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 sliding 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  Jacobs 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 pendent dewlap to the piano.)
     STEPHEN (To himself.)  Play with your eyes shut. Imitate pa. Filling my
belly  with husks  of  swine. Too  much of this.  I will arise and go to my.
Expect this is the. Steve,  thou art in a parlous way.  Must visit old Deasy
or telegraph.  Our  interview  of  this  morning  has  left  on  me  a  deep
impression. Though our ages. Will write fully tomorrow. I'm partially drunk,
by the way. (He  touches the keys again.) Minor  chord  comes now.  Yes. Not
much however.
     (Almidano Artifoni  holds  out  a  batonroll  of  music  with  vigorous
moustachework.)
     ARTIFONI Ci rifletta. Lei rovina tutto.
     FLORRY Sing us something. Love's old sweet song.
     STEPHEN No voice. I am a  most finished artist. Lynch,  did I  show you
the letter about the lute?
     FLORRY (Smirking.) The bird that can sing and won't sing.
     (The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip  Sober two Oxford dons with
lawnmowers, appear in the window  embrasure.  Both  are masked with  Matthew
Arnold's face.)
     PHILIP  SOBER Take a fool's  advice. All is not well.  Work it out with
the  buttend of a  pencil, like a good  young idiot. Three pounds twelve you
got, two notes, one  sovereign,  two crowns,  if youth but knew. Mooney's en
ville,  Mooney's  sur mer,  the  Moira, Larchet's, Holles  street  hospital,
Burke's. Eh? I am watching you.
     PHILIP  DRUNK (Impatiently.) Ah, bosh, man. Go to hell!  I paid my way.
If I  could only  find out about octaves.  Reduplication of personality. Who
was it told me his name?
     (His lawnmower begins to  purr.) Aha,  yes. Zoe mou  sas  agapo. Have a
notion  I was  here  before.  When  was  it  not Atkinson  his  card  I have
somewhere?  Mac somebody.  Unmack  I have  it.  He  told  me about, hold on,
Swinburne, was it, no?
     FLORRY And the song?
     STEPHEN Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.
     FLORRY Are you out of Maynooth? You're like someone I knew once.
     STEPHEN Out of it now. (To himself.) Clever.
     PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER (Their lawnmowers purring with a rigadoon
of  grasshalms.) Clever ever. Out of it. Out  of it.  By the by have you the
book,  the thing, the  ashplant? Yes, there it,  yes. Cleverever outofitnow.
Keep in condition. Do like us.
     ZOE  There  was  a  priest down here two  nights ago to  do  his bit of
business with his coat buttoned up. You needn't try  to hide, I says to him.
I know you've a Roman collar.
     VIRAG Perfectly logical from his standpoint. Fall of man. (Harshly, his
pupils  waxing.) To hell with the pope! Nothing new  under the sun. I am the
Virag who  disclosed  the sex secrets of monks and maidens.  Why I left  the
Church of Rome. Read the  Priest, the  Woman and  the Confessional. Penrose.
Flipperty Jippert.  (He wriggles.) Woman, undoing with sweet pudor  her belt
of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man's  lingam. Short time after man
presents  woman with  pieces of  jungle  meat. Woman  shows  joy and  covers
herself with featherskins. Man loves her  yoni fiercely with big lingam, the
stiff one.  (He cries.)  Coactus volui. Then giddy  woman  will  run  about.
Strong  man  grasps woman's wrist. Woman  squeals, bites, spucks.  Man,  now
fierce angry, strikes  woman's fat yadgana. (He chases his tail.)  Piffpaff!
Popo! (He stops, sneezes.) Pchp! (He worries his butt.) Prrrrrht!
     LYNCH I hope  you  gave  the  good father  a penance. Nine  glorias for
shooting a bishop.
     ZOE  (Spouts walrus  smoke through  her nostrils.)  He  couldn't  get a
connection. Only, you know, sensation. A dry rush.
     BLOOM Poor man!
     ZOE (Lightly.) Only for what happened him.
     BLOOM How?
     VIRAG (A diabolic  rictus  of black  luminosity contracting his visage,
cranes  his  scraggy  neck  forward.  He lifts a mooncalf nozzle and howls.)
Verfluchte Goim! He had a father, forty fathers. He  never existed. Pig God!
He had  two left feet. He was Judas  Iacchias, 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'иtait le sacrи 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 whores
shoulders. Lynch puts on her hat. She whips it off.)
     LYNCH  (Laughs.)  And  to  such  delights  has  Metchnikoff  inoculated
anthropoid apes.
     FLORRY (Nods.) Locomotor ataxy.
     ZOE (Gaily.) O, my dictionary.
     LYNCH Three wise virgins.
     VIRAG (Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his bony epileptic
lips.)  She sold  lovephiltres, whitewax, orange  flower. Panther, the Roman
centurion, polluted  her  with his genitories. (He sticks  out a  flickering
phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his hand on his fork.) Messiah! He burst her
tympanum. (With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his  hips in  the  cynical
spasm.) Hik! Hek! Hak! Hok! Huk! Kok! Kuk!
     (Ben   Jumbo   Dollard,    rubicund,   musclebound,    hairynostrilled,
hugebearded,  cabbageeared,  shaggychested,  shockmaned,  fatpapped,  stands
forth, his loins  and  genitals  tightened  into  a  pair of  black  bathing
bagslops.)
     BEN POLLARD  (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 MacChree!
     A VOICE Hold that fellow with the bad breeches.
     BEN DOLLARD (Smites his thigh in abundant laughter.) Hold him now.
     HENRY (Caressing  on  his breast a severed female head, murmurs.) Thine
heart, mine love. (He plucks his lutestrings.) When first I saw.
     VIRAG  (Sloughing his skins, his multitudinous plumage moulting.) Rats!
(He yawns; showing  a coalblack throat and closes his jaws by an upward push
of  his  parchment roll.)  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 cows lick to his hair. Steered by  his rapier,  he glides to the
door his wild had slung behind him. Virag reaches  the door in  two ungainly
stilthops,  his  tail  cocked, and  deftly  claps  sideways  on  the  wall a
pusyellow flybill, butting it with his head.)
     THE FLYBILL K. 11. post no bills. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks.
     HENRY All is lost now.
     (Virag unscrews his head in a trice and holds it under his arm.)
     VIRAG'S HEAD Quack!
     (Exeunt severally.)
     STEPHEN  (Over  his  shoulder  to Zoe.)  You would  have  preferred the
fighting  parson who founded the protestant  error. But beware  Antisthenes,
the  dog  sage, and  the last  end  of Anus Heresiarchus.  The agony  in the
closet.
     LYNCH All one and the same God to her.
     STEPHEN (Devoutly.) And Sovereign Lord of all things.
     FLORRY (To Stephen.) I'm sure you are 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  lace wave  gestures and  proclaims  with
bloated pomp.)
     THE CARDINAL
     Conservio lies captured.
     He lies in the lowest dungeon
     With manacles and chains around his limbs
     Weighing upwards of three tons.
     (He looks at all for  a  moment,  his right eye closed tight, his  left
cheek  puffed out.  Then,  unable to repress his merriment, he rocks to  and
fro, ads akimbo, and sings with broad rollicking humour.) O, the poor little
fellow Hi-hi-hi-hi-his 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 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 train bearers. The
dwarf  acolytes,  giggling, peeping, nudging, ogling, Easterkissing,  zigzag
behind him. His voice is heard mellow from afar, merciful, male, melodious.)
Shall carry my heart to thee,  Shall carry my heart to thee, And the  breath
of the balmy night Shall carry my heart to thee.
     (The trick doorhandle turns.)
     THE DOORHANDLE Theeee.
     ZOE The devil is in that door.
     (A male form passes down the creaking staircase and is heard taking the
waterproof  and  hat from the rack. Bloom starts forward involuntarily  and,
half closing the door as he passes, takes the chocolate from  his pocket and
offers it nervously to Zoe.)
     ZOE (Sniffs his hair briskly.) Hum. Thank your mother for the  rabbits.
I'm very fond of what I like.
     BLOOM (Hearing  a male voice in talk  with the  whores on the doorstep,
pricks his ears.) If it were he? After? Or because not? Or the double event?
     ZOE  (Tears open the silverfoil.) Fingers  was made before  forks. (She
breaks off and nibbles  a piece, gives a  piece to  Kitty  Ricketts and then
turns kittenishly to Lynch.) No objection to French lozenges?  (He nods. She
taunts him.) Have it now or  wait till you get it? (He opens  his mouth, his
head  cocked. She whirls  the  prize  in  left circle. His head follows. She
whirls it back in right circle. He eyes her.) Catch.
     (She  tosses  a piece.  With an adroit snap  he catches it and bites it
through with a crack.)
     KITTY (Chewing.) The engineer I was with at the bazaar does have lovely
ones. Full  of  the best liqueurs. And the  viceroy was there with his lady.
The gas we had on the Toft's hobbyhorses. I'm giddy still.
     BLOOM  (In  Svengali's fur overcoat,  with folded arms  and  Napoleonic
forelock,  frowns  in  ventriloquial exorcism  with  piercing  eagle  glance
towards the door. Then,  rigid,  with left foot  advanced, he makes  a swift
pass with  impelling fingers and gives the sign of past master, drawing  his
right  arm downwards from his  left shoulder.)  Go, go,  go, I conjure  you,
whoever you are.
     (A male cough and  tread  are  heard passing through the  mist outside.
Blooms 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 is heard on the stairs.)
     BLOOM  (Takes the chocolate.)  Aphrodisiac?  But  I thought it. Vanilla
calms  or? Mnemo.  Confused  light  confuses  memory. Red  influences lupus.
Colours affect women's characters, any they have. This  black  makes me sad.
Eat and be merry for tomorrow. (He eats.) Influence taste too, mauve. But it
is  so long since I. Seems new. Aphro. That priest.  Must  come. Better late
than never. Try truffles at Andrews.
     (The door opens.  Bella  Cohen, a massive whoremistress enters.  She is
dressed in a threequarter  ivory gown, fringed  round the hem with tasselled
selvedge, and cools herself flirting a black  horn fan like  Minnie Hauck in
Carmen. On her left hand are  wedding and  keeper rings. Her eyes are deeply
carboned. She has a sprouting  moustache. Her olive face is heavy,  slightly
sweated  and fullnosed,  with orangetainted nostrils.  She  has lace pendant
beryl eardrops.)
     BELLA My word! I'm all of a mucksweat.
     (She  glances  around her  at the couples. Then her eyes  rest on Bloom
with hard  insistence. Her lace fan  winnows  wind  towards her heated face,
neck 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  eardrop.)  Have  you
forgotten me?
     BLOOM Yes. No.
     THE FAN (Folded akimbo  against her  waist.) Is me her was  you dreamed
before? Was then she him you us since knew? Am all them and the same now we?
(Bella approaches, gently tapping with the fan.)
     BLOOM  (Wincing.) Powerful  being. In  my eyes read that slumber  which
women love.
     THE FAN (Tapping.) We have met. You are mine. It is fate.
     BLOOM  (Cowed.)  Exuberant   female.  Enormously   I   desiderate  your
domination. I am  exhausted, abandoned, no more young. I stand, so to speak,
with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before the too late
box of the general postoffice of human life. The  door and window open at  a
right angle  cause a draught  of thirtytwo feet per second  according to the
law of falling bodies.  I have felt this instant a twinge  of sciatica in my
left glutear muscle. It runs in our family. Poor dear papa, a widower, was a
regular barometer from it. He believed in animal heat. A skin of tabby lined
his winter waistcoat. Near the end, remembering king David and the Sunamite,
he shared his bed  with Athos, faithful after death. A dog's spittle, as you
probably... (He winces.) Ah!
     RICHIE GOULDING (Bagweighted, passes the door.) Mocking is catch.  Best
value in Dub. Fit for a prince's liver and kidney.
     THE FAN (Tapping.) All things end. Be mine. Now.
     BLOOM (Undecided.) All now?  I should not have parted with my talisman.
Rain, exposure at dewfall on the sea rocks, 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 Kellet'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  ageing, bends over  her hoof and with  gentle fingers draws out
and in her laces.)
     BLOOM (Murmurs  lovingly.)  To  be a shoefitter  in  Mansfield's was my
love's young  dream,  the darling  joys of sweet buttonhooking,  to  lace up
crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so incredibly
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. Nook 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 mid-brow. His  eyes grow
dull, darker and pouched, his nose thickens.)
     BLOOM (Mumbles.) Awaiting your further orders, we remain, gentlemen.
     BELLO (With  a hard  basilisk  stare, in a  baritone  voice.)  Hound of
dishonour!
     BLOOM (Infatuated.) Empress!
     BELLO (His heavy cheekchops sagging.) Adorer of the adulterous rump!
     BLOOM (Plaintively.) Hugeness!
     BELLO Dungdevourer!
     BLOOM (With sinews semiflexed.) Magnificence.
     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.) Truffles!
     (With  a  piercing  epileptic cry  she sinks on  all  fours,  grunting,
snuffling, rooting  at his  feet,  then lies,  shamming dead  with eyes shut
tight,  trembling  eyelids,  bowed upon the ground  in the attitude  of most
excellent master.)
     BELLO (With  bobbed  hair  purple  gills, fat moustache rings round his
shaven mouth, in mountaineer's  puttees, green  silverbuttoned  coat,  sport
skirt and alpine  hat with  moor cock's feather, his hands stuck deep in his
breeches  pockets,  places his heel on her  neck  and grinds it in.) Feel my
entire  weight. Bow, bondslave,  before the throne of your despot's glorious
heels, so glistening in their proud erectness.
     BLOOM (Enthralled, bleats.) I promise never to disobey.
     BELLO (Laughs loudly.) Holy smoke! You little know what's in store  for
you.  I'm  the tartar to settle your little  lot and break you  in! I'll bet
Kentucky  cocktails all round I shame  it  out of you, old son.  Cheek me, I
dare  you.  If  you do tremble  in  anticipation of  heel  discipline  to be
inflicted in gym costume.
     (Bloom creeps under the sofa and peers out through the fringe.
     ZOE (Widening her slip to screen her.) She's not here.
     BLOOM (Closing her eyes.) She's not here.
     FLORRY (Hiding her with her gown.) She didn't mean it, Mr Bello. She'll
be good, sir.
     KITTY Don't be too hard on her, Mr Bello. Sure you won't, ma'amsir.
     BELLO (Coaxingly.) Come, ducky  dear. I want  a word with you, darling,
just to administer correction. Just a little  heart to heart  talk,  sweety.
(Bloom puts out her timid head.) There's a good girly now.  (Bello grabs her
hair violently and drags  her forward.) I only want to correct  you for your
own good on a soft safe spot. How's  that tender behind?  O, ever so gently,
pet. Begin to get ready.
     BLOOM (Fainting.) Don't tear my.
     BELLO (Savagely.) The nosering,  the pliers, the bastinado, the hanging
hook, the knout I'll  make  you kiss while the flutes  play like  the Nubian
slave of old. You're in for it this time. I'll make you remember  me for the
balance  of  your  natural  life.  (His  forehead  veins  swollen,  his face
congested.) I  shall sit on your ottoman saddleback  every  morning after my
thumping good  breakfast of Matterson's  fat  ham  rashers 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 squeaks, 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, flour-smeared, a  rollingpin  stuck
with raw pastry in her bare red arm and hand, appears at the door.)
     MRS KEOCH (Ferociously.) Can I help? (They hold and pinion Bloom.)
     BELLO  (Squats,  with  a  grunt,  on  Bloom's  upturned  face,  puffing
cigar-smoke, nursing a fat leg.)  I see Keating Clay is  elected chairman of
the Richmond Asylum and bytheby Guinness's preference  shares are at sixteen
three quarters. Curse me for  a fool that  I didn't  buy that lot Craig  and
Gardner  told me  about. Just my infernal luck, curse it. And that Goddamned
outsider Throwaway  at  twenty to  one. (He  quenches  his cigar angrily  on
Bloom's ear.) Where's that Goddamned cursed ashtray?
     BLOOM (Goaded, buttocksmothered.) O! O! Monsters! Cruel one!
     BELLO  Ask  for that  every  ten minutes. Beg, pray for it as you never
prayed  before.  (He thrusts out  a figged fist and foul cigar.) Here,  kiss
that. Both. Kiss. (He throws a leg  astride  and,  pressing with  horseman's
knees, calls  in a hard voice.) Gee up! A cockhorse  to Banbury  cross. I'll
ride him for the Eclipse stakes. (He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's
testicles roughly,  shouting.)  Ho! off  we  pop! I'll nurse  you  in proper
fashion. (He horserides cockhorse, leaping in the saddle.) The  lady  goes a
pace a pace and the coachman  goes  a  trot a trot and the gentleman goes  a
gallop a gallop a gallop a gallop.
     FLORRY  (Pulls at Bello.) Let me on him now.  You  had enough. I  asked
before you.
     ZOE  (Pulling  at Florry.) Me. Me. Are you  not finished with  him yet,
suckeress?
     BLOOM (Stifling.) Can't.
     BELLO Well,  I'm not. Wait. (He holds in  his  breath.) Curse it. Here.
This  bung's about  burst. (He uncorks himself behind:  then, contorting his
features,  farts loudly.)  Take  that! (He  recorks himself)  Yes, by Jingo,
sixteen three quarters.
     BLOOM (A sweat breaking out over him.) Not man. (He sniffs.) Woman.
     BELLO (Stands up.)  No  more blow hot and cold. What you longed for has
come to pass. Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a thing under
the yoke. Now for  your punishment  frock. You will shed your male garments,
you understand, Ruby Cohen?  and don the shot silk luxuriously rustling over
head and shoulders and quickly too.
     BLOOM  (Shrinks.)  Silk,  mistress  said!  O crinkly!  scrapy!  Must  I
tip-touch it with my nails?
     BELLO (Points to his whores.) As they are  now, so will you be, wigged,
singed,   perfumesprayed,  ricepowdered,  with  smoothshaven  armpits.  Tape
measurements will  be  taken  next your skin. You  will  be laced with cruel
force  into vicelike corsets of soft dove  coutille, with whalebone busk, to
the  diamond trimmed 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 chafing  soubrette  with dauby cheeks, mustard  hair and lace
male  hands and nose, leering mouth.) I tried  her things  on  only once,  a
small prank, in Holles street. When we were hardup 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 close-drawn  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 trunk
leg  naughties all  split up the  stitches at her last  rape that Mrs Miriam
Dandrade sold you from the Shelbourne Hotel, eh?
     BLOOM Miriam, Black. Demimondaine.
     BELLO  (Guffaws.) Christ Almighty, it's too tickling,  this! You were a
nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgate hairs and lay swooning
in  the thing  across the  bed  as Mrs  Dandrade,  about  to be  violated by
Lieutenant Smythe Smythe,  Mr Philip Augustus  Blockwell, M.P., Signor  Laci
Daremo, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the liftboy, Henry Fleury of Gordon
Bennett  fame, Sheridan, the quadroon Cr&Aelig;sus, the varsity wetbob eight
from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess
of Manorhamilton. (He guffaws again.) Christ, wouldn't it make a Siamese cat
laugh?
     BLOOM (Her  hands and features working.) It was Gerald  converted me to
be a true corsetlover when I was female impersonator in the High School play
Vice  Versa.  It was dear Gerald.  He got that kink, fascinated by  sister's
stays. Now dearest Gerald uses pinky greasepaint and gilds his eyelids. Cult
of the beautiful.
     BELLO (With wicked glee.) Beautiful! Give  us a breather! When you took
your  seat  with  womanish  care,  lifting  your  billowy flounces,  on  the
smoothworn throne.
     BLOOM Science. To compare the various joys we each  enjoy. (Earnestly.)
And really it's better the position... because often I used to wet.
     BELLO (Sternly.) No insubordination. The sawdust is there in the corner
for you. I gave you strict instructions, didn't I? Do it standing, sir! I'll
teach you to behave like a jinkleman!  If I catch a trace on  your swaddles.
Aha! By the  ass of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet.  The sins of your
past are rising against you. Many. Hundreds.
     THE SINS OF THE PAST (In a medley of voices.) He went through a form of
clandestine marriage  with at  least  one woman in the shadow  of  the Black
Church. Unspeakable messages he telephoned  mentally  to  Miss  Dunn  at  an
address in d'Olier Street while  he  presented  himself  indecently  to  the
instrument  in  the  callbox. By word  and  deed  he  encouraged a nocturnal
strumpet  to  deposit  fecal  and  other  matter  in an unsanitary  outhouse
attached to empty premises. In five  public conveniences he wrote  pencilled
messages offering his nuptial partner  to all  strongmembered males.  And by
the  offensively smelling vitriol works did he not pass night after night by
loving courting couples to see if and what and how much he could see? Did he
not  lie in  bed, the  gross  boar,  gloating  over  a nauseous  fragment of
wellused toilet  paper presented  to him  by a nasty  harlot,  stimulated by
gingerbread and a postal order?
     BELLO  (Whistles loudly.)  Say!  What was the most  revolting piece  of
obscenity  in  all your career of crime? Go the whole hog. Puke  it  out. Be
candid for once.
     (Mute  inhuman  faces throng  forward, leering,  vanishing,  gibbering,
Eooloohoom. Poldy Hock, Bootlaces a  penny,  cassidy's hag, blind stripling,
Larry Rhinoceros, the girl, the woman, the whore, the other the... )
     BLOOM Don't ask me. Our  mutual faith. Pleasants street. I only thought
the half of the... I swear on my sacred oath...
     BELLO (Peremptorily.)  Answer. Repugnant  wretch! I  insist on knowing.
Tell me something to amuse me, smut or a bloody good-ghoststory or a line of
poetry, quick, quick,  quick! Where? How? What  time? With how  many? I give
you just three seconds. One! Two! Thr... !
     BLOOM (Docile, gurgles.) I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant...
     BELLO (Imperiously.) O get out, you skunk! Hold your tongue! Speak when
you're spoken to.
     BLOOM (Bows.) Master! Mistress! Mantamer!
     (He lifts his arms. His bangle bracelets fall.)
     BELLO  (Satirically.)  By  day  you  will  souse  and bat our  smelling
underclothes, also when we ladies are unwell, and swab out our latrines with
dress pinned up and a dishclout  tied to  your tail. Won't that be nice? (He
places a ruby ring on her finger.) And there now! With this ring I thee own.
Say, thank you, mistress.
     BLOOM Thank you, mistress.
     BELLO You will make the beds, get my  tub ready, empty the pisspots  in
the different rooms, including old Mrs Keogh's the cook's, a  sandy one. Ay,
and rinse the seven of  them well, mind,  or lap it up like champagne. Drink
me piping hot. Hop!  you  will  dance attendance or I'll lecture you on your
misdeeds, Miss Ruby,  and spank  your bare bot  right  well, miss, with  the
hairbrush.  You'll  be  taught  the  error  of  your  ways.  At  night  your
wellcreamed  braceleted hands  will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered
with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. For such favours knights
of old laid down their lives. (He  chuckles.) My boys will be no end charmed
to  see you  so ladylike, the  colonel, above  all. When they come here  the
night before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. First,
I'll have a go at you myself. A man I know on the turf named Charles Alberta
Marsh (I was  in  bed with him just  now  and another  gentleman  out of the
Hanaper and  Petty Bag office) is on the lookout for a maid of all work at a
short  knock. Swell the  bust.  Smile.  Droop  shoulders. What  offers?  (He
points.) For that lot trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket  in mouth.
(He bares his arm and plunges it elbowdeep  in  Bloom's vulva.) There's fine
depth for you! What,  boys? That give you a hardon? (He shoves his  arm in a
bidder's face.) Here, wet the deck and wipe it round!
     A BIDDER A florin!
     (Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell.)
     A VOICE One and eightpence too much.
     THE LACQUEY Barang!
     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 stock getter, 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 Con  Bloom's croup.) So! Warranted  Cohen! What
advance on two bob, gentlemen?
     A DARKVISAGED MAN (In disguised accent.) Hoondert punt sterlink.
     VOICES (Subdued.) For the Caliph Haroun Al Raschid.
     BELLO  (Gaily.) Right. Let them all  come.  The  scanty, daringly short
skirt, riding up at the knee to show a peep of white pantalette, is a potent
weapon  and transparent  stockings, emeraldgartered, with the  long straight
seam trailing up beyond the knee, appeal  to  the better  instincts  of  the
blasи man about  town. Learn  the smooth mincing walk on four  inch Louis XV
heels, the  Grecian bend with  provoking croup, the thighs  fluescent, knees
modestly  kissing. Bring  all your  power 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 suetfolds of
Bloom's haunches.)  Up! Up! Manx cat! What have we here?  Where's your curly
teapot gone to or  who  docked it on you, cockyolly? Sing, birdy, sing. It's
as limp as a boy of six's doing his  pooly  behind a  cart. Buy a bucket  or
sell your pump. (Loudly.) Can you do a man's job?
     BLOOM Eccles Street.
     BELLO (Sarcastically.) I  wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world but
there's  a man of brawn  in possession  there. The tables are turned, my gay
young fellow! He is  something  like  a fullgrown outdoor man. Well for you,
you muff, if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts all over it.
He  shot his  bolt, I can tell  you! Foot to foot, knee  to  knee, belly  to
belly,  bubs to breast! He's no eunuch. A shock of red hair he has  sticking
out  of him behind like  a furzebush!  Wait for nine  months,  my lad!  Holy
ginger,  it's kicking and coughing up and  down  in her guts  already!  That
makes  you  wild,  don't  it?  Touches  the spot? (He  spits  in  contempt.)
Spittoon!
     BLOOM I was indecently treated, I... inform the police. Hundred pounds.
Unmentionable. I.
     BELLO  Would if  you  could, lame  duck. A  downpour we  want, not your
drizzle.
     BLOOM To drive me mad! Moll! I forgot! Forgive! Moll!... We... Still...
     BELLO (Ruthlessly.)  No, Leopold Bloom, all is changed by  woman's will
since  you  slept  horizontal in Sleepy  Hollow your night of twenty  years.
Return and see.
     (Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the wold.)
     SLEEPY HOLLOW Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!
     BLOOM  (In tattered  moccasins with  a  rusty fowlingpiece, tip toeing,
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  bluescab 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 writing table where we never wrote,
Aunt Hegarty's armchair,  our classic reprints of old masters. A man and his
men friends are living there in clover. The Cuckoos' Rest! Why not? How many
women had you, say? Following  them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them
by your smothered grunts.  What,  you male prostitute? Blameless  dames with
parcels of groceries. Turn about. Sauce for the goose, my gander, O.
     BLOOM They... I
     BELLO (Cuttingly.)  Their heelmarks will  stamp  the Brusselette carpet
you bought at Wren's auction. In their horseplay with Moll the romp  to find
the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue you carried
home in the  rain  for art for art's sake. They will violate  the secrets of
your  bottom drawer. Pages will be  torn from  your handbook of astronomy to
make them  pipespills. And they will spit in your ten shilling  brass fender
from Hampton Leedom's.
     BLOOM Ten and six. The act of low scoundrels. Let me go. I will return.
I will prove...
     A VOICE Swear!
     (Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, a bowie knife between his
teeth.)
     BELLO As a  paying guest or  a kept man?  Too late. You have  made your
secondbest bed and others  must lie in it. Your epitaph is  written. You are
down and out and don't you forget it, old bean.
     BLOOM Justice! All Ireland versus one! Has nobody... ?
     (He bites his thumb.)
     BELLO  Die and be damned  to  you if you have any  sense  of decency or
grace about you. I can give you a rare old wine that'll send you skipping to
hell and  back. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have. If you have none
see you damn well get it, steal it,  rob it! We'll bury you in our shrubbery
jakes  where you'll be dead and  dirty with old Cuck  Cohen, my stepnephew I
married, the bloody old gouty  procurator  and sodomite  with a crick in his
neck,  and my other ten  or eleven husbands, what ever  the  buggers'  names
were,  suffocated  in  the one  cess pool.  (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 will power! 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,  0.  Mastiansky,  the Reverend  Leopold  Abramovitz, Chazen.  With
swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the recreant Bloom.)
     THE CIRCUMCISED (In a dark guttural chant as they  cast dead sea  fruit
upon him, no flowers.) Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.
     VOICES  (Sighing.)  So he's  gone. Ah,  yes. Yes,  indeed. Bloom? Never
heard of him. No? Queer kind of chap. There's the widow. That so? Ah, yes.
     (From  the  suttee pyre the flame of gum camphire ascends.  The pall of
incense smoke screens and disperses. Out of her oak frame a nymph with  hair
unbound, lightly  clad in teabrown art colours, 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, high  kickers, coster
picnic  makers, pugilists, popular  generals, immoral  panto  boys  in flesh
tights and the nifty shimmy dancers, La  Aurora and Karini, musical act, the
hit of the century. I was hidden in cheap pink paper that smelt of rock oil.
I  was surrounded  by the stale smut of clubmen,  stories to  disturb callow
youth,  ads  for transparencies,  truedup  dice  and  bustpads,  proprietary
articles  and why wear  a truss with  testimonial  from ruptured  gentleman.
Useful hints to the married.
     BLOOM  (Lifts a turtle head towards her lap.)  We  have met before.  On
another star.
     THE NYMPH (Sadly.)  Rubber goods. Neverrip. Brand as  sup  plied 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 my bed or
rather was pushed. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. For the rest there is
that  English  invention,  pamphlet  of  which  I  received  some days  ago,
incorrectly addressed. It claims to afford a noiseless inoffensive vent. (He
sighs.) 'Twas ever thus. Frailty, thy name is marriage.
     THE NYMPH (Her  fingers in  her  ears.) And words. They are not  in  my
dictionary.
     BLOOM You understood them?
     THE YEWS Ssh.
     THE NYMPH (Covers her face with her hand.) What have I not seen in that
chamber? What must my eyes look down on?
     BLOOM  (Apologetically.) I know. Soiled personal linen,  wrong side  up
with care. The quoits are loose. From Gibraltar by long sea, long ago.
     THE NYMPH (Bends her head.) Worse! Worse!
     BLOOM  (Reflects precautiously.) That antiquated commode. It wasn't her
weight. She scaled  just eleven stone nine.  She put  on nine  pounds  after
weaning. It was a crack  and  want of glue. Eh? And  that absurd orangekeyed
utensil which has only one handle.
     (The sound of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade.)
     THE WATERFALL
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.
     THE YEWS (Mingling  their boughs.)  Listen. Whisper. She is right,  our
sister. We grew by Poulaphouca waterfall. We gave shade on languorous summer
days.
     JOHN  WYSE  NOLAN  (In the  background, in  Irish National For  ester'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  (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 school cap 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, instincts of the herd,
and the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice.  Even  a pricelist of their
hosiery. And  then the heat. There were sunspots that summer. End of school.
And tipsycake. Halcyon days.
     (Halcyon  Days, high school boys in blue and white football jerseys and
shorts,  Master  Donald  Turnbull, Master  Abraham Chatterton,  Master  Owen
Goldberg, Master Jack  Meredith, Master Percy Apjohn, stand in a clearing of
the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)
     THE HALCYON DAYS Mackerel! Live us again. Hurray!
     (They cheer.)
     BLOOM  (Hobbledehoy,  warmgloved,  mammamufflered, stunned  with  spent
snowballs,  struggles to rise.)  Again! I feel sixteen! What  a lark!  Let's
ring  all  the  bells in Montague Street. (He cheers feebly.) Hurray for the
High School!
     THE ECHO Fool!
     THE YEWS  (Rustling.) She  is  right, our sister.  Whisper.  (Whispered
kisses are  heard in all the  wood.  Faces of  hamadryads peep out  from the
boles and  among the leaves  and break blossoming into  bloom.) Who profaned
our silent shade?
     THE NYMPH (Coyly through parting fingers.) There! In the open air?
     THE YEWS (Sweeping downward.) Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward.
     THE WATERFALL
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
     Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.
     THE NYMPH (With wide fingers.) O! Infamy!
     BLOOM  I was precocious. Youth. The fauns. 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  ill-closed 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 Me. Me see.
     BLOOM Simply satisfying  a  need. (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 curvants.)
     THE NANNYGOAT (Bleats.) Megegaggegg! Nannannanny!
     BLOOM  (Hatless,   flushed,  covered  with   burn  of  thistledown  and
gotrepine.) 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  rotatingly from the Lion's Head cliff  into the purple Waiting
waters.)
     THE DUMMYMUMMY Bbbbblllllbbblblodschbg?
     (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 NANNETI (Alone  on deck,  in dark alpaca, yellow  kitefaced,
his hand  in his waistcoat opening, declaims.)  When my  country  takes  her
place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then let my epitaph
be written. I have...
     BLOOM Done. Prff.
     THE  NYMPH (Loftily.)  We immortals, as  you saw today, have not such a
place and no hair there either. We are  stonecold and  pure. We eat electric
light. (She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger
in her mouth.) Spoke to me. Heard from behind. How then could you... ?
     BLOOM (Pacing the  heather abjectly.) O, I have  been  a  perfect  pig.
Enemas too I have administered. One third of a pint of quassia, to which add
a tablespoonful of rocksalt. Up the fundament. With Hamilton Long's syringe,
the ladies' friend.
     THE NYMPH In  my  presence.  The  powderpuff.  (She blushes and makes a
knee.) And the rest.
     BLOOM (Dejected.) Yes. Peccavi! I have paid homage on that living altar
where  the  back changes  name.  (With  sudden fervour.) For why should  the
dainty scented jewelled hand, the hand that rules... ?
     (Figures wind serpenting in slow woodland pattern around the treestems,
cooeeing.)
     THE VOICE OF KITTY (In the thicket.) Show us one of them cushions.
     THE VOICE OF FLORRY Here.
     (A grouse wings clumsily through the underwood.)
     THE VOICE OF LYNCH (In the thicket.) Whew! Piping hot!
     THE VOICE OF ZOE (From the thicket.) Came from a hot place.
     THE  VOICE  OF  VIRAG (A  birdchief bluestreaked  and  feathered in war
panoply  with  his  assegai,  striding  through a  crackling  canebrake over
beechmast and acorns.) Hot! Hot! Ware Sitting Bull!
     BLOOM It overpowers me. The warm impress of  her warm form. Even to sit
where  a  woman has sat,  especially  with divaricated  thighs, as though to
grant the last  favours, most especially with previously well uplifted white
sateen coatpans. So womanly full. It fills me full.
     THE WATERFALL
     Phillaphulla Poulaphouca
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.
     THE YEWS Ssh! Sister, speak!
     THE NYMPH (Eyeless, in nun's white habit,  coif and huge winged wimple,
softly, with remote eyes.)  Tranquilia 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 trousers button snaps.)
     THE BUTTON Bip!
     (Two sluts of the Coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly.)
     THE SLUTS
     O Leopold lost the pin of his drawers
     He didn't know what to do,
     To keep it up,
     To keep it up.
     BLOOM  (Coldly.) You  have broken  the  spell. The last straw. If there
were only  ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices?  Shy but
willing, like an ass pissing.
     THE  YEWS (Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating,  their skinny arms
ageing and swaying.) Deciduously!
     THE NYMPH 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 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 of nine lives!
Fair play, madam. No pruning knife. The fox and  the grapes, is  it? What do
we lack with your barbed wire? Crucifix not thick  enough? (He clutches  her
veil.) A holy abbot you want or Brophy, the lame gardener,  or the spoutless
statue of the watercarrier or good Mother Alphonsus, eh Reynard?
     THE  NYMPH  (With a cry,  flees  from him unveiled,  her  plaster  cast
cracking, a cloud of stench escaping from the cracks.) Poli... !
     BLOOM  (Calls  after  her.)  As  if you didn't  get  it on  the  double
yourselves. No jerks and multiple mucosities  all over you. I tried it. Your
strength our weakness.  What's  our stud fee? What will you pay on the nail?
You  fee men dancers  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.) But. Onions. Stale. Sulphur. Grease.
     (The figure of Bella Cohen stands before him.)
     BELLA You'll know me the next time.
     BLOOM (Composed, regards her.) Passиe. Mutton dressed as lamb.  Lone in
the tooth and superfluous hairs.  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 glass  eyes  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.)
Fohracht!
     BLOOM  (Contemptuously.) Clean  your nailless  middle finger first, the
cold spunk of your bully is dripping from your cockscomb. Take a handful  of
hay and wipe yourself.
     BELLA I know you, canvasser! Dead cod!
     BLOOM I saw him, kipkeeper! Pox and gleet vendor!
     BELLA (Turns  to the piano.) Which  of  you  was playing the dead march
from Saul?
     ZOE Me. Mind your cornflowers. (She darts to the piano and bangs chords
on it with  crossed  arms.) The cat's ramble through the slag.  (She glances
back.) Eh? Who's  making love to my sweeties? (She darts back to the table.)
What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own.
     (Kitty  disconcerted  coats her  teeth  with  the  silver  paper. Bloom
approaches Zoe.)
     BLOOM  (Gently.) Give  me back that potato, will  you?  Zoe Forfeits, a
fine thing and a superfine thing.
     BLOOM (With feeling.) It is nothing, but still a relic of poor mamma.
     ZOE
     Give a thing and take it back
     God'll ask you where is that
     You'll say you don't know
     God'll send you down below.
     BLOOM There is a memory attached to it. I should like to have it.
     STEPHEN To have or not to have, that is the question.
     ZOE  Here. (She hauls  up a reef of her slip, revealing  her bare thigh
and unrolls the potato from the top of her stocking.) Those that hides knows
where to find.
     BELLA  (Frowns.)  Here. This isn't  a musical peepshow.  And  don't you
smash that piano. Who's paying here?
     (She goes to the pianola. Stephen fumbles in his pocket and, taking out
a banknote by its corner, hands it to her.)
     STEPHEN (With exaggerated  politeness.) This silken purse I made out of
the  sow's  ear  of  the  public. Madam, excuse  me. If you  allow  me.  (He
indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom.) We are all in the same sweepstake, Kinch
and Lynch. Dans ce bordel oы tenons nostre иtat.
     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 Zoe, Florry and Kitty.) Do you want
three girls? It's ten shillings here.
     STEPHEN (Delightedly.) A hundred thousand apologies.  (He fumbles again
and  takes out and hands her two crowns.) Permit, brevi  manu, my  sight  is
somewhat troubled.
     (Bella goes  to the table  to count  the money  while Stephen talks  to
himself in monosyllables.  Zoe bounds  over to  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  gentle man paid down  like a gentleman...  drink...
it's long after eleven.
     STEPHEN (At  the pianola,  making a gesture of abhorrence.) No bottles!
What, eleven? A riddle.
     ZOE (Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the top
of her stocking.) Hard earned on the flat of my back.
     LYNCH (Lifting Kitty from the table.) Come!
     KITTY Wait. (She clutches the two crowns.)
     FLORRY And me?
     LYNCH Hoopla! (He  lifts her carries  her  and  bumps  her down on  the
sofa.)
     STEPHEN The fox crew, the cocks flew, The bells in heaven Were striking
eleven. 'Tis time for her poor soul To get out of heaven.
     BLOOM (Quietly  lays a half sovereign on  the table between  Bella  and
Florry.) So. Allow me. (He takes up the pound note.) Three times  ten. We're
square.
     BELLA  (Admiringly.) You're  such a slyboots, old cocky.  I could  kiss
you.
     ZOE (Points.) Hum? Deep as a drawwell. (Lynch bends Kitty back over the
sofa and kisses her. Bloom goes with the poundnote to Stephen.)
     BLOOM This is yours.
     STEPHEN How is that? Le distrait or absentminded  beggar.  (He  fumbles
again in his pocket and draws out a handful of coins. An object falls.) That
fell.
     BLOOM (Stooping, picks up and hands a box of matches.) This.
     STEPHEN Lucifer. Thanks.
     BLOOM (Quietly.)  You had better hand over that cash to me to take care
of. Why pay more?
     STEPHEN (Hands him all his coins.) Be just before you are generous.
     BLOOM I will but is it wise? (He counts.) One, seven, eleven, and five.
Six. Eleven. I don't answer for what you may have lost.
     STEPHEN  Why  striking  eleven?  Proparoxyton.  Moment  before the next
Lessing  says. Thirsty fox.  (He  laughs  loudly.) Burying  his grandmother.
Probably he killed her.
     BLOOM That is one pound six and eleven. One pound seven, say.
     STEPHEN Doesn't matter a rambling damn.
     BLOOM No, but...
     STEPHEN  (Comes  to  the table.) Cigarette,  please.  (Lynch  tosses  a
cigarette from the sofa to  the table.) And so  Georgina Johnson is dead and
married. (A cigarette appears on the  table.  Stephen looks at  it.) Wonder.
Parlour magic. Married.  Hm.  (He  strikes a match and proceeds to light the
cigarette with enigmatic melancholy.)
     LYNCH  (Watching him.) You would have a better chance of lighting it if
you held the match nearer.
     STEPHEN (Brings the match nearer his eye.) Lynx eye. Must get  glasses.
Broke them yesterday.  Sixteen years ago. Distance.  The  eye sees all flat.
(He draws the match away. It goes out.) Brain thinks. Near: far. Ineluctable
modality of the visible. (He frowns  mysteriously.) Hm.  Sphinx.  The  beast
that has two backs at midnight. Married.
     ZOE It was a commercial traveller married her  and took her  away  with
him.
     FLORRY (Nods.) Mr Lambe from London.
     STEPHEN Lamb of London, who takest away the sins of our world.
     LYNCH (Embracing Kitty on  the sofa,  chants deeply.) Dona nobis pacem.
(The cigarette slips from Stephens fingers. Bloom  picks it up and throws it
into 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 kaput.
     ZOE (Tragically.)  Hamlet,  I am  thy father's  gimlet! (She  takes his
hand.) Blue eyed 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. Pandy bat.
     (Twice loudly  a pandybat cracks, the coffin of the pianola flies open,
the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of Father Dolan springs up.)
     FATHER DOLAN Any boy want flogging? Broke his glasses? Lazy idle little
schemer. See it in your eye.
     (Mild, benign,  rectorial, reproving, the head of Don John Conmee rises
from the pianola coffin.)
     DON JOHN CONMEE Now, Father Dolan! Now. I'm sure that Stephen is a very
good little boy.
     ZOE (Examining Stephen's palm.) Woman's hand.
     STEPHEN (Murmurs.) Continue. Lie. Hold  me.  Caress. I never could read
His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on the haddock.
     ZOE What day were you born?
     STEPHEN Thursday. Today.
     ZOE Thursday's child has  far to go.  (She traces  lines  on his hand.)
Line of fate. Influential friends.
     FLORRY (Pointing.) Imagination.
     ZOE Mount of the moon.  You'll meet with  a... (She peers at  his hands
abruptly.) I won't tell you what's not good for you. Or do you want to know?
     BLOOM (Detaches her  fingers and offers his palm.) More harm than good.
Here. Read mine.
     BELLA Show. (She turns up Bloom's hand.) I thought so. Knobby knuckles,
for the women.
     ZOE  (Peering  at Bloom's  palm.) Gridiron. Travels beyond the  sea and
marry money.
     BLOOM Wrong.
     ZOE  (Quickly.)  O, I see. Short little finger. Henpecked husband. That
wrong?
     (Black  Liz,  a  huge  rooster  hatching  in a  chalked circle,  rises,
stretches her wings and clucks.)
     BLACK LIZ Gara. Klook. Klook. Klook.
     (She sidles from her newlaid egg and waddles off.)
     BLOOM (Points to his hand.) That  weal there  is an accident. Fell  and
cut it twenty-two years ago. I was sixteen.
     ZOE I see, says the blind man. Tell us news.
     STEPHEN See?  Moves to  one great goal.  I  am twenty two too.  Sixteen
years ago I twentytwo tumbled, twentytwo years ago he sixteen fell  off  his
hobbyhorse. (He winces.) Hurt my hand somewhere. Must see a dentist. Money?
     (Zoe  whispers  to  Florry. They  giggle.  Bloom releases his  hand and
writes idly on the table in backhand, pencilling slow curves.)
     FLORRY What?
     (A   hackneycar  number   three   hundred  and   twentyfour,   with   a
gallantbuttocked mare, driven by  James Barton, Harmony Avenue,  Donnybrook,
trots past. Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying  on the  sideseats. The
Ormond  boots  crouches behind on the axle. Sadly  over the crossblind Lydia
Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze.)
     THE BOOTS (Jogging, mocks them with  thumb and  wriggling wormfingers.)
Haw, haw, have you the horn?
     (Bronze by gold they whisper.)
     ZOE (To Florry.) Whisper.
     (They whisper again.)
     (Over  the  well  of the car Blazes Boylan leans, his boater  straw set
sideways, a red flower in his mouth. Lenehan, in a yachtsman's cap and white
shoes, officiously detaches a long hair from Blazes Boylan s 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 bumps  surely from the car  and  calls loudly for all to hear. )
Hello, Bloom! Mrs Bloom up yet?
     BLOOM (In  a flunkey's plum plush coat and kneebreeches, buff stockings
and powdered wig.) I'm afraid not, sir, the last articles...
     BOYLAN (Tosses him sixpence.) Here, to buy yourself  a gin  and splash.
(He hangs his hat smartly on a peg of Bloom's antlered  head.) Show me in. I
have a little private business with your wife. You understand?
     BLOOM Thank you, sir. Yes, sir, Madam Tweedy is in her bath, sir.
     MARION He ought to feel himself highly honoured. (She  plops  splashing
out of the water.) Raoul, darling, come and dry me. I'm in  my pelt. Only my
new hat and a carriage sponge.
     BOYLAN (A merry twinkle in his eye.) Topping!
     BELLA What? What is it?
     (Zoe whispers to her.)
     MARION  Let him  look, the pishogue!  Pimp!  And  scourge himself! I'll
write to a  powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the bearded woman, to raise
weals out  on  him  an  inch thick and make him  bring  me back a signed and
stamped receipt.
     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  an ointment  jar.) Vaseline, sir?
Orangeflower?... Lukewarm water?...
     KITTY (From the sofa.) Tell us, Florry. Tell us. What.
     (Florry  whispers  to  her.  Whispering  lovewords  murmur  lip-lapping
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 cock horse. 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!
Weeshwashtkissima, pooisthnapoohuck!
     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
hu.
     (Stephen and Bloom gaze in the mirror. The face of William Shakespeare,
beardless,  appears  there,  rigid  in  facial  paralysis,  crowned  by  the
reflection of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the hall.)
     SHAKESPEARE (In dignified  ventriloquy.)  'Tis the  loud laugh bespeaks
the vacant mind. (To Bloom.) Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest  invisible.
Gaze. (He crows with a black capon's laugh.) Iagogo! How my Oldfellow chokit
his Thursdaymomun. Iagogogo!
     BLOOM (Smiles yellowly at the 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 near the skin after his death...
     (Mrs  Dignam,  widow  woman,  her  snubnose  and  cheeks  flushed  with
deathtalk,  tears  and Tunny'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,  lace  eights.  She holds a Scottish
widow's insurance policy and lace marqueeumbrella under which her brood runs
with her,  Patsy hopping on one short  foot,  his  collar  loose, a  hank of
porksteaks dangling, Freddy whimpering, Susy with a crying cods 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  Shakespeares
beardless face. The marqueeumbrella sways drunkenly, the children run aside.
Under  the umbrella  appears  Mrs Cunningham  in Merry Widow hat and  kimono
gown. She glides sidling and bowing, twisting 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  grandoldgross  father  made the first
confessionbox. Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the
house of Lambert. And Noah was drunk with wine. And his ark was open.
     BELLA None of that here. Come to the wrong shop.
     LYNCH Let him alone. He's back from Paris.
     ZOE (Runs to Stephen and links him.) O go on! Give us some parleyvoo.
     (Stephen  claps hat  on head and leaps over to the  fireplace, where he
stands  with  shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread,  a painted smile on
his face.)
     LYNCH (Pommelling on the sofa.) Rmm Rmm Rmm Rrr rrrmmmmm.
     STEPHEN  (Gobbles,  with  marionette   jerks.  )   Thousand  places  of
entertainment to expenses your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and
other  things  perhaps  her  heart beerchops perfect fashionable  house very
eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful  dressed much about princesses  like
are dancing cancan and  walking there parisian clowneries  extra foolish for
bachelors foreigns the same  if  talking a poor english how much  smart they
are on things love and  sensations  voluptuous.  Misters very selects for is
pleasure must  to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary  candles and they
tears  silver which  occur  every  night.  Perfectly  shocking  terrific  of
religion's things mockery seen in  universal world. All  chic  womans  which
arrive  full  of modesty then  disrobe  and squeal loud to see  vampire  man
debauch nun very  fresh young with dessous troublants. (He clocks 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  cos  turned. 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  tompeeptoms virgins nudities very  lesbic the kiss five ten times.
Enter gentlemen to see in mirrors every positions trapezes all that  machine
there besides also if desire  act awfully bestial butcher's  boy pollutes in
warm veal liver or omelette on the belly piхce de Shakespeare.
     BELLA (Clapping  her  belly, sinks back  on  the  sofa with a shout  of
laughter.) An omelette on the... Ho! ho! ho! ho!... Omelette on the...
     STEPHEN  (Mincingly.)  I love  you, Sir darling. Speak  you  englishman
tongue  for  double  entente  cordiale.  O  yes, mon  loup. How  much  cost?
Waterloo. Watercloset. (He ceases suddenly and holds up a forefinger.)
     BELLA (Laughing.) Omelette...
     THE WHORES (Laughing.) Encore! Encore!
     STEPHEN Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon.
     ZOE Go abroad and love a foreign lady.
     LYNCH Across the world for a wife.
     FLORRY Dreams go by contraries.
     STEPHEN  (Extending his  arms.) It was  here.  Street  of  harlots.  In
Serpentine Avenue  Beelzebub  showed me her,  a fubsy widow. Where's the red
carpet spread?
     BLOOM (Approaching Stephen.) Look.
     STEPHEN  No, I  flew.  My foes  beneath  me. And ever shall  be.  World
without end. (He cries.) Pater! Free!
     BLOOM I say, look...
     STEPHEN Break my spirit, will he? O merde alors! (He cries, his vulture
talons sharpened.) Hola! Hillyho!
     (Simon Dedalus' voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready.)
     SIMON  That's all  right.  (He  swoops  uncertainly  through  the  air,
wheeling,  uttering cries of heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard wings.)
Ho, boy! Are you going  to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with those halfcastes.
Wouldn't let them  within the bawl of an ass. Head up! Keep our flag flying!
An eagle gules volant in a field argent displayed. Ulster king at arms!  hai
hoop!  (He makes  the beagle's call giving tongue.) Bulbul! Burblblbrurblbl!
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,  bright-eyed,  seeking  badger earth,  under the
leaves. The pack of staghounds follows,  nose  to the ground, sniffing their
quarry, beaglebaying,  burblbrblng 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,  salmongaffs,
lassos,  flockmasters with  stockwhips,  bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors
with  bullswords,  grey negroes  waving torches. The crowd bowls  of dicers,
crown and anchor players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse
bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.)
     THE CROWD
     Card of the races. Racing card!
     Ten to one the field!
     Tommy on the clay here!
     Tommy on the clay!
     Ten to one bar one.
     Ten to one bar one.
     Try your luck on spinning Jenny!
     Ten to one bar one!
     Sell the monkey, boys!
     Sell the monkey!
     I'll give ten to one!
     Ten to one bar one!
     (A dark horse, riderless,  bolts like  a phantom past  the winningpost,
his  mane  moonfoaming,  his eyeballs  stars. The  field follows, a bunch of
bucking mounts. Skeleton horses: Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the
Duke of Westminsters Shotover, Repulse, the Duke  of Beauforts' Ceylon, prix
de  Paris.  Dwarfs  ride  them, rusty armoured,  leaping,  leaping  in their
saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain, on a broken-winded isabelle nag, Cock of
the North, the favourite, honey cap, green  jacket, orange  sleeves, Garrett
Deasy up,  gripping the reins,  a  hockey  stick  at  the  ready.  His  nag,
stumbling on 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
postage  stamps,  brandishes his hockeystick, his  blue eyes flashing in the
prism of  the  chandelier as his mount lopes by  at a schooling gallop.) Per
vias rectas!
     (A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag, a torrent
of mutton  broth  with  dancing coins  of  carrots, barley, onions, turnips,
potatoes.)
     THE GREEN LODGES Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!
     (Private  Carr,  Private Compton  and  Cissy Caffrey  pass  beneath the
windows, singing in discord.)
     STEPHEN Hark! Our friend, noise in the street!
     ZOE (Holds up her hand.) Stop!
     PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON and CISSY CAFFREY
     Yet I've a sort a
     Yorkshire relish for...
     ZOE  That's me. (She  claps her hands.) Dance! Dance!  (She runs to the
pianola.) Who has twopence?
     BLOOM Who'll.
     LYNCH (Handing her coins.) Here.
     STEPHEN (Cracking  his fingers  impatiently.) Quick! Quick! Where's  my
augur's rod? (He runs to the piano and takes his ashplant, beating his  foot
in tripudium.)
     ZOE (Turns the drumhandle.) There.
     (She drops two pennies in the slot. Glow 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 piano stool and  lifts and beats handless  sticks  of
arms on the keyboard, nodding with damsels grace, his bowknot bobbing.)
     ZOE (Twirls around herself heeltapping.) Dance. Anybody here for there?
Who'll dance?
     (The  pianola, with changing lights, plays in waltz time the prelude to
My  Girl's a Yorkshire Girl. Stephen throws  his ashplant  on the  table and
seizes Zoe around the waist. Florry  and Bella  push the table  towards  the
fireplace. Stephen, aiming Zoe with exaggerated  grace, begins to waltz  her
around the  room. Her sleeve,  falling from  gracing  arms, reveals  a white
fleshflower  of  vaccination.  Bloom stands  aside.  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  go-et of cream
tulle, a green  lowcut waistcoat,  stock collar  with  white kerchief  tight
lavender trousers, patent pumps  and  canary gloves. In his buttonhole is  a
dahlia. He  twirls in reversed  directions  a clouded  cane,  then wedges it
tight  in  his  oxter. He places a hand  limply on his breastbone, bows  and
fondles his flower and buttons.)
     MAGINNI  The poetry of motion, art of callisthenics. No connection with
Madam  Legget   Byrne's  or   Levinstone's.  Fancy  dress   balls  arranged.
Deportment.  The  Katty  Lanner   steps.  So.  Watch  me!  My  terpsichorean
abilities. (He minuets forward three paces on tripping bee's  feet.) Tout le
monde an avant! Rиvиrence! Tout le monde en place!
     (The  prelude ceases. Professor  Goodwin, beating vague  arms,shrivels,
shrinks, his  live cape  falling  about the  stool. The air, in firmer waltz
time, pounds. Stephen and Zoe circle  freely. The lights change, glow, fade,
gold, rose, 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, slim, 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.)  Carrи!  Avant  deux! Breathe
evenly! Balance!
     (The morning and noon hours  waltz in their  places, turning, advancing
to each other, shaping their curves, bowing vis a vis. Cavaliers behind them
arch and suspend their arms, with hands descending to, touching, rising from
their shoulders.)
     HOURS You may touch my.
     CAVALIERS May I touch your?
     HOURS O, but lightly!
     CAVALIERS O, so lightly!
     THE PIANOLA My little shy little lass has a waist.
     (Zoe  and Stephen turn  boldly with looser swing.  The  twilight  hours
advance,  from  long  landshadows, dispersed,  lagging,  languideyed,  their
cheeks  delicate with cipria and  false faint bloom. They are in  grey gauze
with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the land breeze.)
     MAGINNI Avant! huit! Traversи! Salut! Cours de mains! Croisи!
     (The eight  hours 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 (Twisting, her hand to her brow.) O!
     MAGINNI Los tiroirs! Chaнne de dames! La corbeille! Dos ю dos!
     (Arabesquing  wearily,  they weave  a pattern  on  the  floor, weaving,
unweaving, curtseying, twisting, simply swirling.)
     ZOE I'm giddy.
     (She  frees herself droops on a chair, Stephen seizes Florry  and turns
with her.)
     MAGINNI Boulangхre! Los ronds! Los ponts! Chevaux de bois! Escargots!
     (Twining, receding,  with interchanging  hands,  the night hours  link,
each  with arching  arms, in a mosaic  of movements. Stephen and Florry turn
cumbrously.)
     MAGINNI  Dansez  avec vos  dames!  Changes de  dames!  Donnes le  petit
bouquet a votre dame! Remerciez!
     THE PIANOLA
     Best, best of all,
     Baraabum!
     KITTY (Jumps up.) O, they played that  on the hobbyhorses  at the Mirus
bazaar!
     (She  runs  to  Stephen. He leaves Florry brusquely and seizes Kitty. A
screaming bit  tern's harsh high whistle shrieks. Groangrousegurgling Toft's
cumbersome whirligig turns slowly the room right roundabout the room.)
     THE PIANOLA My girl's a Yorkshire girl.
     ZOE Yorkshire through and through. Come on all!
     (She seizes Florry and waltzes her.)
     STEPHEN Pas seul!
     (He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arm's, 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 horn  blower 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
scotlootshoot lumbering by. Baraabum!)
     TUTTI Encore! Bis! Bravo! Encore!
     SIMON Think of your mother's people!
     STEPHEN Dance of death.
     (Bang fresh barang  bang of lacquey's bell, horse, nag, steer piglings,
Conmee  on  Christass lame  crutch  and  leg  sailor  in  cockboat armfolded
ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe' through and through, Baraabum! On nags,
hogs, bellhorses, Gadarene swine,  Corny  in  coffin. Steel  shark stone one
handled  Nelson,  two  trickies  Frauenzimmer  plumstained from pram falling
bawling. Gum, he's  a champion. Fuseblue peer from barrel rev. evensong love
on hackney jaunt  Blazes  blind  coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no
fancy clothes. Then in last wiswitchback lumbering up and down bump mash tub
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 wall. He stops dead.)
     STEPHEN Ho!
     (Stephen's  mother, emaciated, rises stark  through the  floor in leper
grey with a wreath of faded orange blossoms and a torn bridal veil, her face
worn and noseless, green with grave mould.  Her hair is scant  and lank. She
fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and  opens her  toothless
mouth  uttering  a  silent word.  A choir  of virgins  and  confessors  sing
voicelessly.)
     THE CHOIR
     Liliata rutilantium te confessorum...
     Iubilantium te virginum...
     (From the top of a tower Buck Mulligan, in particoloured jester's dress
of puce and yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, stands gaping  at her,
a smoking buttered split scone in his hand.)
     BUCK MULLIGAN She's  beastly dead. The pity  of it! Mulligan meets  the
afflicted mother. (He upturns his eyes.) Mercurial Malachi.
     THE MOTHER  (With the  subtle smile of death's madness.) I was once the
beautiful May Goulding. I am dead.
     STEPHEN (Horrorstruck.) Lemur, who are you? What bogey  man's trick  is
this?
     BUCK  MULLIGAN (Shakes his curling  capbell.) The mockery  of it! Kinch
killed  her  dogsbody  bitchbody. She kicked  the  bucket.  (Tears of molten
butter fall from his  eyes  into  the scone.)  Our  great sweet  mother! Epi
oinopa ponton.
     THE MOTHER  (Comes  nearer, breathing  upon him  softly  her  breath of
wetted  ashes.) All must go through it, Stephen. More women than men  in the
world. You too. Time will come.
     STEPHEN (Choking with  fright, remorse and horror.)  They said 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 all  powerful. 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 brain work. Years and years I loved you,
O my son, my firstborn, when you lay in my womb.
     ZOE (Fanning herself with the grate fan.) I'm melting!
     FLORRY (Points to Stephen) Look! He's white.
     BLOOM (Goes to the window to open it more.) Giddy.
     THE MOTHER (With smouldering eyes.) Repent! O, the fire of hell!
     STEPHEN (Panting.) 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 fingers.) Beware! God's hand! (A
green  crab with  malignant red  eyes  sticks  deep its  grinning  claws  in
Stephen's heart.)
     STEPHEN (Strangled with rage.) Shite! (His features grow drawn and grey
and old.)
     BLOOM (At the window.) What?
     STEPHEN Ah non, par exemple! The  intellectual imagination! With me all
or not at all. Non serviam!
     FLORRY Give him some cold water. Wait. (She rushes out.)
     THE MOTHER  (Wrings  her hands slowly,  moaning desperately.) O  Sacred
Heart  of Jesus, have  mercy on him! Save him from  hell,  O  divine  Sacred
Heart!
     STEPHEN  No! No! No! Break my spirit all of you if you can!  I'll bring
you all to heel!
     THE MOTHER (In  the  agony of her deathrattle.)  Have mercy on Stephen,
Lord, for  my  sake!  Inexpressible was my  anguish when expiring with love,
grief and agony on Mount Calvary.
     STEPHEN Nothung!
     (He hits 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 flees from the room past the whores at the door.)
     BELLA (Screams.) After him!
     (The two whores rush to the halldoors. 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.) There. You
were with him. The lamp's broken.
     BLOOM (Rushes to the hall, rushes back.) What lamp, woman?
     A WHORE He tore his coat.
     BELLA (Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points.) Who's to pay for
that? Ten Shillings. You're a witness.
     BLOOM  (Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.) Me? Ten shillings? Haven't you
lifted enough off him? Didn't he...
     BELLA (Loudly.) Here, none of your tall  talk. This  isn't a brothel. A
ten shilling house.
     BLOOM (His hand under the lamp, pulls  the chain.  Pulling,  the gasjet
lights  up a crushed mauve purple shade. He  raises the ashplant.) Only  the
chimney's broken. Here is all he...
     BELLA (Shrinks back and screams.) Jesus! Don't!
     BLOOM  (Warding off a blow.) To show you how he hit the paper.  There's
not a 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 boat races
and paying nothing. Are you my commander here? 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 you incog?
     ZOE (In the doorway.) There's a row on.
     BLOOM  What?  Where? (He  throws a shilling on the  table and  shouts.)
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 uses on  her
whores. They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses. Corny Kelleher replies with
a ghostly  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  Baschid,  he flits  behind the  silent lechers  and  hastens  on by  the
railings  with fleet step  of a pard  strewing the  drag  behind  him,  torn
envelopes drenched in  aniseed. The ashplant marks  his  stride.  A  pack of
bloodhounds, led by  Hornblower of Trinity  brandishing a dogwhip in tallyho
cap  and  an old pair  of grey  trousers, follows  from far, picking  up the
scent,  nearer,  baying,  panting,  at fault, breaking away,  throwing their
tongues, biting  his heels, leaping at his tail.  He walks,  runs,  zigzags,
gallops,  lugs   laid   back.  He  is  pelted  with  gravel,  cabbagestumps,
biscuitboxes, eggs, potatoes,  dead  codfish, womans 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,
Whatdoyoucallhim,  Strangeface,  Fellowthatslike,   Sawhimbefore,  Chapwith,
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, man in the street,
other  man  in the street,  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 Generals, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with tweezers, Mrs
Bob   Doran,   Mrs   Kennefick,   Mrs   Wyse   Nolan,   John   Wyse   Nolan,
handsomemamedwomanrubbed againstwidebehindinClonskeatram,  the bookseller of
Sweets of Sin, Miss  Dubedatandshedidbedad,  Mesdames Gerald and  Stanislaus
Moran of Roebuck, the managing clerk of  Drimmies 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  (Helterskelterelterwelter) He's  Bloom!  Stop  Bloom!
Stopabloom! Stopperrobber! Hi! Hi! Stop him 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. The uninvited. By virtue of the fifth of George  and seventh  of
Edward. History to blame. Fabled by mothers of memory.
     PRIVATE CARR (To Cissy Caffrey.) Was he insulting you?
     STEPHEN  Addressed   her  in  vocative   feminine.   Probably   neuter.
Ungenitive.
     VOICES No, he didn't. The girl's telling lies.  He was  in Mrs Cohen's.
What's up? Soldiers and civilians.
     CISSY CAFFREY I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do
- you know and the young man ran 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 Kitty's and Lynch's heads.)  Hail,  Sisyphus.
(He points to himself and the others.) Poetic. Neopoetic.
     VOICES She's 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 (In Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels,  bareheaded,
flowingbearded.) Their's not to reason why.
     PRIVATE COMPTON Biff him, Harry.
     STEPHEN (To Private Compton. ) I don't know your name but you are quite
right. Doctor  Swift  says  one man in  armour  will  beat ten  men in their
shirts. Shirt is synechdoche. Part for the whole.
     CISSY CAFFREY (To the crowd.) No, I was with the private.
     STEPHEN (Amiably.) Why not? The bold soldier  boy. In  my opinion every
lady for example...
     PRIVATE CARR  (His cap awry, advancing  to  Stephen.) Say, how would it
be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw?
     STEPHEN  (Looks up  in the sky.) How?  Very  unpleasant.  Noble art  of
self-pretence. Personally,  I detest action. (He  waves his hand) Hand hurts
me slightly. Enfin, ce sont vos oignons.
     (To Cissy Caffrey.) Some trouble is on here. What is it, precisely?
     DOLLY  GRAY (From her balcony waves her handkerchief giving the sign of
the heroine  of Jericho.)  Rahab. Cook's son,  goodbye.  Safe home to Dolly.
Dream of the girl you left behind and she will dream of you.
     (The soldiers turn their swimming eyes.)
     BLOOM (Elbowing through the  crowd plucks Stephen's sleeve vigorously.)
Come now, professor, that carman is waiting.
     STEPHEN (Turns.) Eh? (He  disengages himself) Why should I not speak to
him or to any human  being  who walks upright upon this  oblate orange?  (He
points his finger.)  I'm not afraid of what I can talk to if I  see his eye.
Retaining the perpendicular.
     (He staggers a pace back.)
     BLOOM (Propping him.) Retain your own.
     STEPHEN  (Laughs emptily.) My  centre  of gravity is displaced. I  have
forgotten the trick.  Let us  sit down  somewhere and discuss.  Struggle for
life is the law  of  existence but modern 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  much marked refinement  of
phraseology.
     CUNTY  KATE  Indeed,  yes.  And  at  the  same time  with such apposite
trenchancy.
     PRIVATE CARR (Pulls himself free and comes forward.) What's that you're
saying about my king?
     (Edward  the Seventh appears in an  archway. He wears a white jersey on
which an image of the Sacred Heart is stitched,  with the insignia of Garter
and  Thistle, Golden  Fleece,  Elephant  of Denmark,  Skinners' and Probyns'
horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of
Massachusetts. He sucks a  red jujube. He is  robed as a grand elect perfect
and sublime mason with trowel and apron, marked made in Germany. In his left
hand he holds a  plasterers bucket on which is  printed: Dиfense 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 back.
     (He shakes hands with Private Carr, Private Compton, Stephen, Bloom and
Lynch. General applause. Edward the  Seventh lifts the  bucket graciously in
acknowledgement.)
     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 medicine. 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 don't want it to die. Damn death. Long
live life!
     EDWARD THE SEVENTH (Levitates over heaps of slain  in the garb and with
the halo of Joking Jesus, a white jujube in his phosphorescent face.)
     My methods are new and are causing surprise.
     To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes.
     STEPHEN Kings and unicorns! (He  falls back a pace.) Come somewhere and
we'll... What was that girl saying?...
     PRIVATE  COMPTON  Eh, Harry, give him a kick in the knackers. Stick one
into Jerry.
     BLOOM (To  the privates, softly.)  He  doesn't  know  what he's saying.
Taking a little more than is good for him. Absinthe, the greeneyed  monster.
I know him. He's a gentleman, a poet. It's all right.
     STEPHEN (Nods, smiling and laughing.)  Gentleman, patriot,  scholar and
judge of impostors.
     PRIVATE CARR I don't give a  bugger who he is. PRIVATE COMPTON We don't
give a bugger who he is.
     STEPHEN I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull.
     (Kevin Egan  of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and  peep-o'-day
boys hat signs to Stephen.)
     KEVIN EGAN H'lo. Bonjour! The vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes.
     (Patrice Egan  peeps  from behind, his  rabbit face  nibbling a  quince
leaf.)
     PATRICE Socialiste!
     DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY (In medieval hauberk, two
wild geese volant on his  helm, with noble  indignation points a mailed hand
against the privates.) Were  those  eykes to footboden, big grand  porcos of
johnyellows todos covered of gravy!
     BLOOM (To Stephen.) Come home. You'll get into trouble.
     STEPHEN (Swaying.) I don't avoid it. He provokes my intelligence.
     BIDDY  THE  CLAP One  immediately observes  that  he  is  of  patrician
lineage.
     THE VIRAGO Green above the red, says he. Wolfe Tone.
     THE BAWD The red's as good as the green, and  better. Up  the soldiers!
Up King Edward!
     A ROUGH (Laughs.) Ay! Hands up to De Wet.
     THE CITIZEN (With a huge emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls.)
     May the God above
     Send down a cove
     With teeth as sharp as razors
     To slit the throat
     Of the English dogs
     That hanged our Irish leaders.
     THE  CROPPY  BOY (The rope noose round  his neck, gripes in his issuing
bowels with both hands.)
     I bear no hate to a living thing,
     But love my country beyond the king.
     RUMBOLD,  DEMON  BARBER (Accompanied  by  two  blackmasked  assistants,
advances with a 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 the body of  Miss Barrow which  sent  Seddon to the
gallows.
     (He jerks the rope, the assistants  leap at  the  victims legs and drag
him downward, grunting: the croppy boys tongue protrudes violently.)
     THE CROPPY BOY Horhot ho hray ho rhother's hest.
     (He gives up the ghost. A violent erection of the hanged sends gouts of
sperm spouting  through  his  death  clothes 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 His Royal Highness. (He
plunges his head into the gaping belly of the hanged and  draws out his head
again clotted with  coiled  and smoking  entrails.) My  painful duty has now
been done. God save the king!
     EDWARD  THE SEVENTH (Dances slowly, solemnly,  rattling his  bucket and
sings with soft contentment.)
     On coronation day, on coronation day,
     O, Won't We have a merry time,
     Drinking whisky, beer and wine!
     PRIVATE CARR Here. What are you saying about my king?
     STEPHEN (Throws up his hands.)  O, this is too monotonous! Nothing.  He
wants my money and my life, though want must be his master, for some brutish
empire of his.  Money I haven't. (He searches his pockets vaguely.)  Gave it
to someone.
     PRIVATE CARR Who wants your bleeding money?
     STEPHEN (Tries to  move  off.) Will  some one tell me where I  am least
likely  to meet  these necessary evils?  гa se voit aussi ю 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,  grammer! Hamlet, revenge! The  old sow that
eats her farrow!
     OLD GUMMY  GRANNY (Rocking to and fro.) Ireland's  sweetheart, the king
of  Spain's daughter, alanna.  Strangers  in my house, bad manners to  them!
(She keens with banshee woe.) Ochone! Ochone! Silk of the kine! (She wails.)
You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand?
     STEPHEN How do I stand you? The  hat trick! Where's the third person of
the Blessed Trinity? Soggarth Aroon? The reverend Carrion Crow.
     CISSY CAFFREY (Shrill.) Stop them from fighting!
     A ROUGH Our men retreated.
     PRIVATE  CARR (Tugging  at his belt.) I'll wring the neck of any bugger
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 spear
points. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko  the  terrible,  in bearskin cap
with  hackle  plume  and accoutrements, with  epaulette,  gilt chevrons  and
sabretache,  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!
Mahal shalal hashbaz.
     PRIVATE CARR I'll do him in.
     PRIVATE  COMPTON (Waves  the  crowd back.)  Fair  play,  here.  Make  a
bleeding butcher's shop of the bugger.
     (Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the king.)
     CISSY CAFFREY They're going to fight. For me!
     CUNTY KATE The brave and the fair.
     BIDDY THE CLAP Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the best.
     CUNTY KATE (Blushing deeply.) Nay, Madam. The gules doublet  and  merry
Saint George for me!
     STEPHEN  The  harlot's  cry  from  street to  street  Shall  weave  old
Ireland's windingsheet.
     PRIVATE CARR (Loosening his belt, shouts.) I'll wring  the neck  of any
fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.
     BLOOM (Shakes Cissy  Caffrey's shoulders.)  Speak, you!  Are you struck
dumb? You are the link between nations and generations. Speak, woman, sacred
lifegiver.
     CISSY CAFFREY (Alarmed seizes Private Carr's sleeve.) Amn't I with you?
Amn't I your girl? Cissy's your girl. (She cries.) Police!
     STEPHEN (Ecstatically, to Cissy Caffrey.)
     White thy fambles, red thy gan
     And thy quarrons dainty is.
     VOICES Police!
     DISTANT VOICES Dublin's burning! Dublin's burning! On fire, on fire!
     (Brimstone  fires spring up. Dense clouds roll past. Heavy Gatling guns
boom.  Pandemonium.  Troops  deploy.  Gallop  of  hoofs.  Artillery.  Hoarse
commands.  Bells  clang.  Backers  shout. Drunkards  bawl.  Whores  screech.
Foghorns hoot. Cries of valour. Shrieks of  dying. Pikes clash on cuirasses.
Thieves  rob  the slain. Birds of  prey, winging from the  sea, rising  from
marsh lands, swooping  from  eyries,  hover screaming,  gannets, connorants,
vultures, goshawks, climbing woodcocks, peregrines, merlin, blackgrouse, sea
eagles, gulls, albatrosses,  barnacle geese. The midnight sun  is  darkened.
The earth  trembles. The  dead of Dublin from Prospect  and Mount Jerome  in
white sheepskin  overcoats  and black goat-fell  cloaks arise  and appear to
many. A chasm opens with a noiseless yawn. Tom Rochford, winner in  athletes
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 dragon's  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   liar  O'Johnny,   lord  Edward   Fitzgerald  against  lord  Gerald
Fitzedward, The O'Donoghue of  the Glens against The Glens of The  Donoghue.
On an eminence,  the centre of the earth, rises the  field  altar  of  Saint
Barbara. Black  candles  rise from its gospel  and  epistle horns. >From the
high barbicans  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 long petticoat and  reversed chasuble, his two left feet back
to  the front, celebrates camp mash. The Reverend Mr Hugh C. Haines love MA.
in a plain cassock and mortar board, his  head and collar back to the front,
holds over the celebrants 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
petticoats, 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 rot,
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 mange and Green factions
sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.)
     PRIVATE CARR (With ferocious  articulation.) I'll do him in, so help me
fucking Christ! I'll  wring the  bastard fucker's bleeding  blasted  fucking
windpipe!
     OLD GUMMY GRANNY (Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's hand.) Remove him,
acushla.  At 8.35 a.m. you will be in heaven  and Ireland will be free. (She
prays.) O good God, take him!
     BLOOM (Runs to Lynch.) Can't you get him away?
     LYNCH  He likes dialectic, the universal  language.  Kitty! (To Bloom.)
Get him away, you. He won't listen to me. (He drags Kitty away.)
     STEPHEN (Points.) Exit Judas. Et laqueo se suspendit.
     BLOOM (Runs to Stephen.)  Come along with me now before worse  happens.
Here's your stick.
     STEPHEN Stick, no. Reason. This feast of pure reason.
     CISSY  CAFFREY  (Pulling  Private  Carr.) Come  on,  you're boosed.  He
insulted  me but  I forgive  him. (Shouting in his ear.)  I forgive  him for
insulting me.
     BLOOM (Over Stephen's shoulder.) Yes, go. You see he's incapable.
     PRIVATE CARR (Breaks loose.) I'll insult him.
     (He rushes towards  Stephen, fists 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 uteute.
     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!
     (The retriever, nosing on the fringe of the crowd, barks noisily.)
     What  call had the  redcoat to strike the  gentleman  and he  under the
influence? Let them go and fight the Boers!
     THE BAWD Listen to who's talking! Hasn't the soldier a right to go with
his girl? He gave him the coward's blow.
     (They grab at each other's hair, claw at each other and spit.)
     THE RETRIEVER (Barking.) Wow wow wow.
     BLOOM (Shoves them back, loudly.) Get back, stand back!
     PRIVATE COMPTON (Tugging his comrade.)  Here bugger off, Harry. There'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 have you in the lockup.
     PRIVATE CARR (Staggering as he is  pulled away.) God fuck  old Bennett!
He's a whitearsed bugger. I don't give a shit for him.
     FIRST WATCH (Taking out his notebook.) What's his name?
     BLOOM (Peering over the crowd.) I just see a  car there. If you give me
a hand a second, sergeant.
     FIRST WATCH Name and address.
     (Corny  Kelleher weepers  round his  hat,  a death  wreath in his hand,
appears among the bystanders.)
     BLOOM (Quickly.) O, the very man!  (He whispers.) Simon Dedalus' son. A
bit sprung. Get those policemen to move those loafers back.
     SECOND WATCH Night, Mr Kelleher.
     CORNY KELLEHER  (To the watch, with  drawling eye.) That's all right. I
know him. Won a bit  on the races.  Gold cup. Throwaway. (He laughs.) Twenty
to one. Do you follow me?
     FIRST WATCH  (Turns to  the crowd.) Here,  what are you  all gaping at?
Move on out of that.
     (The crowd disperses slowly, muttering, down the lane.)
     CORNY KELLEHER Leave  it  to me,  sergeant. That'll be  all right.  (He
laughs, shaking  his head.) We  were often  as bad ourselves,  ay  or worse.
What? Eh, what?
     FIRST WATCH (Laughs.) I suppose so.
     CORNY KELLEHER  (Nudges the second watch.)  Come and wipe your name off
the  slate.  (He  lilts,  wagging  his head.)  With  my  tooraloom tooraloom
tooraloom tooraloom. What, eh, do you follow me?
     SECOND WATCH (Genially.) Ah, sure we were too.
     CORNY KELLEHER (Winking.) Boys will be boys. I've a car round there.
     SECOND WATCH All right, Mr Kelleher. Good night.
     CORNY KELLEHER I'll see to that.
     BLOOM (Shakes  hands  with  both of the watch in turn.) Thank  you very
much  gentlemen,  thank you. (He mumbles confidentially.) We don't  want any
scandal, you understand. Father  is a  well known, 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  had to
report it at the station.
     BLOOM (Nods rapidly.) Naturally. Quite right. Only your bounden duty.
     SECOND WATCH It's our duty.
     CORNY KELLEHER Good night, men.
     THE  WATCH (Saluting together.) Night,  gentlemen. (They  move off with
slow heavy tread.)
     BLOOM (Blows.) Providential you came on the scene. You have a car?.
     CORNY KELLEHER (Laughs, pointing  his thumb  over his right shoulder to
the car  brought up  against  the  scaffolding.)  Two  commercials that were
standing fizz in Jammet's. Like princes, faith. One of them lost two quid on
the race. Drowning his grief and were on for a go with the jolly girls. So I
landed them up on Behan's car and down to nighttown.
     BLOOM I was just going home by Gardiner street when I happened to...
     CORNY KELLEHER (Laughs.) Sure they wanted me to  join in with the mots.
No, by God, says I. Not for old stagers like myself and yourself. (He laughs
again and  leers  with lacklustre  eye.) Thanks be to God we  have it in the
house what, eh, do you follow me? Hah! hah! hah!
     BLOOM (Tries to  laugh.)  He,  he,  he! Yes. Matter of fact  I was just
visiting an old friend of mine there, Virag, you don't know him (poor fellow
he's laid up for the past week) and we  had a liquor together and I was just
making my way home...
     (The horse neighs.)
     THE HORSE Hohohohohohoh! Hohohohome!
     CORNY KELLEHER Sure it was Behan, our jarvey  there, that told me after
we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got
off to see. (He laughs.) Sober hearsedrivers a specialty.  Will I give him a
lift home? Where does he hang out? Somewhere in Cabra, what?
     BLOOM No, in Sandycove, I believe, from what he let drop.
     (Stephen, prone, breathes  to the stars. Corny Kelleher asquint, drawls
at the horse. Bloom in gloom, looms down.)
     CORNY KELLEHER  (Scratches  his nape.) Sandycove! (He  bends  down  and
calls  to Stephen.)  Eh! (He calls again.)  Eh! He's  covered with  shavings
anyhow. Take care they didn't lift anything off him.
     BLOOM No, no, no. I have his money and his hat here and stick.
     CORNY  KELLEHER Ah well, he'll get over it. No bones broken. Well, I'll
shove  along. (He  laughs.) I've  a rendezvous in  the morning. Burying  the
dead. Safe home!
     THE HORSE (Neighs.) Hohohohohome.
     BLOOM Good night. I'll just wait and take him along in a few...
     (Corny Kelleher  returns  to the outside car  and mounts it. The  horse
harness jingles.)
     CORNY KELLEHER (From the car, standing.) Night.
     BLOOM Night.
     (The jarvey chucks the reins and raises his whip encouragingly. The car
and horse  back slowly, awkwardly and  turn. Corny Kelleher on the  sideseat
sways his  head  to and  fro in  sign of mirth at Blooms 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
tooralooloolooloo lay. Bloom,  holding in his  hand  Stephens  hat festooned
with shavings and ashplant, stands  irresolute.  Then  he  bends  to him and
shakes him by the shoulder.)
     BLOOM Eh! Ho!  (There is no answer he bends again.)  Mr Dedalus! (There
is no  answer.) The name  if  you call. Somnambulist. (He  bends again  and,
hesitating, brings his mouth near the  face of the prostrate form.) Stephen!
(There is no answer. He calls again.) Stephen!
     STEPHEN  (Groans.) Who? Black panther vampire. (He sighs and  stretches
himself then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.) Who... drive...  Fergus
now. And pierce... wood's woven shade?...
     (He turns on his left side, sighing, doubling himself together.)
     BLOOM  Poetry. Well  educated.  Pity. (He bends  again  and  undoes the
buttons of Stephen's  waistcoat.) To breathe. (He  brushes the wood shavings
from  Stephen's clothes  with light hands and fingers.) One pound seven. Not
hurt anyhow. (He listens.) What!
     (Murmurs.)
     ... shadows... the woods
     ... white breast... dim...
     (He stretches out his arms,  sighs  again  and  curls  his body.  Bloom
holding  his hat and ashplant stands  erect. A  dog  barks  in the distance.
Bloom  tightens  and loosens his  grip  on  the ashplant.  He looks down  on
Stephen's face and form.)
     BLOOM (Communes with the night.) Face reminds me of his poor mother. In
the shady wood. The deep white breast. Ferguson, I think  I caught.  A girl.
Some girl. Best thing could happen him... (He murmurs.)... swear that I will
always hail, ever conceal, never reveal, any part or  parts,  art or arts...
(He  murmurs.) in the rough sands of  the sea. a cabletow's length  from the
shore... where the tide ebbs ... and flows...
     (Silent, thoughtful, alert, he stands on guard, his fingers at his lips
in the attitude  of secret master.  Against  the dark  wall a figure appears
slowly, a fairy boy of eleven, a changeling,  kidnapped,  dressed in an Eton
suit with  glass shoes and  a little  bronze helmet, holding a  book  in his
hand. He reads from right to left inaudibly, smiling, kissing the page.)
     BLOOM (Wonderstruck, calls inaudibly.) Rudy!
     RUDY (Gazes  unseeing into Bloom's eyes and goes  on  reading, kissing,
smiling. He  has a  delicate mauveface. On his  suit he has diamond and ruby
buttons. In  his free left hand he holds  a slim  ivory  cane with  a violet
howknot. A white lambkin peeps out of his waistcoat pocket.)



    Ulysses 16: Eumaeus


     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 pumps of Vartry water available
for their ablutions, let  alone drinking purposes, hit upon  an expedient by
suggesting, off the  reel, the propriety of the cabman's shelter, as  it was
called, hardly a stonesthrow  away  near Butt  Bridge, where they  might hit
upon some  drinkables in the shape of a milk  and soda or a mineral. But how
to  get  there  was  the  rub. For  the nonce  he was  rather nonplussed but
inasmuch as the duty plainly devolved upon him to take some measures  on the
subject he pondered suitable ways and  means during which Stephen repeatedly
yawned. So  far as he  could see he was rather pale  in the face  so that it
occurred to him  as highly advisable to get a conveyance of some description
which would answer in their then  condition, both of  them being  e.  d. ed,
particularly Stephen,  always assuming  that  there was  such a thing to  be
found.  Accordingly,  after a  few  such preliminaries,  as, in spite of his
having forgotten  to take up his rather soapsuddy handkerchief after it  had
done yeoman service in the shaving line, brushing, 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  commonsense 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 Mullet's and the Signal House,
which they shortly  reached, they  proceeded  perforce in  the direction  of
Amiens   street   railway  terminus,  Mr  Bloom  being  handicapped  by  the
circumstance that one  of the back buttons of his trousers had,  to vary the
timehonoured adage, gone the way of all buttons, though, entering thoroughly
into the spirit of the thing, he heroically made light of the mischance. So,
as neither  of  them were particularly pressed for time, as it happened, and
the temperature  refreshing since it cleared up  after the recent visitation
of Jupiter Pluvius, they dandered along past by  where the empty vehicle was
waiting  without  a  fare  or  a jarvey.  As it so happened  a Dublin United
Tramways  Company's sandstrewer  happening  to  be returning  the  elder man
recounted to his companion ю 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 back door of
the morgue  (a not very enticing  locality, not to say gruesome to a degree,
more  especially at  night), ultimately  gained  the Dock Tavern and in  due
course turned into Store street, famous for its C  division  police station.
Between this point and the high, at present unlit, warehouses  of  Beresford
Place  Stephen  thought  to think  of  Ibsen,  associated with Baird's,  the
stonecutter's,  in his mind somehow in  Talbot Place,  first  turning on the
right,  while the other, who  was  acting as his fidus Achates, inhaled with
internal  satisfaction the  smell of James  Rourke's  city  bakery, situated
quite close to where they were, the very palatable odour indeed of our daily
bread, of all commodities of  the public the primary and most indispensable.
Bread, the staff  of life, earn your  bread, O tell me where is fancy bread?
At Rourke's the baker's, it is said.
     En route, to his taciturn, and,  not to put too fine a point on it, not
yet perfectly sober companion, Mr  Bloom, who at all events, was in complete
possession of his  faculties, never  more so,  in  fact  disgustingly sober,
spoke  a word of caution re the dangers  of nighttown, women of ill fame and
swell  mobsmen,  which, barely permissible once in a while, though  not as a
habitual practice,  was  of  the nature  of  a  regular deathtrap  for young
fellows of his age particularly if they had acquired  drinking habits  under
the  influence of liquor  unless  you  knew  a  little  juijitsu  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 that,
but for that man in the gap turning up at the eleventh hour, the finis might
have been that he might  have  been a candidate for the  accident  ward, or,
failing that, the Bridewell and an appearance  in the court  next day before
Mr Tobias,  or, he being the solicitor, rather old Wall, he meant to say, or
Malony  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 nut over anything. You
frittered away your time, he  very sensibly  maintained, and health and also
character  besides  which the squandermania of the thing, fast  women of the
demimonde ran away  with a lot of #. s. d. into the bargain and the greatest
danger of all  was who you  got drunk with though, touching the  much  vexed
question of stimulants, he relished a glass of choice old wine  in season as
both nourishing and  blood-making 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 confrхres but one, a most glaring  piece of ratting on
the part of his brother medicos under all the circs.
     -- And  that one  was Judas, said  Stephen,  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 when a brazier of
coke burning in front of a sentrybox, or something like one, attracted their
rather  lagging footsteps. Stephen of his  own accord stopped for no special
reason to look at the heap of barren cobblestones and by the light emanating
from the brazier he could just make out the darker figure of the corporation
watchman inside the gloom of the sentrybox.  He began  to remember that this
had  happened, or had been mentioned  as having happened, before but it cost
him no small effort before he remembered that  he recognised in the sentry a
quondam  friend of his father's Gumley. To avoid a meeting be 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. Although 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 about  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
moments notice, your money or your life, leaving you there to point a moral,
gagged and garotted.
     Stephen,  that is  when the accosting  figure  came to close  quarters,
though he was  not in  any 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,  his  mother  or  aunt  or  some  relative  had  enjoyed  the
distinction of being in service in the washkitchen. This, therefore, was the
reason  why the  still  comparatively  young  though dissolute  man who  now
addressed Stephen was spoken of by some  with facetious proclivities as Lord
John Corley.
     Taking Stephen on  one side he had the customary doleful ditty to tell.
Not as much as a farthing to  purchase  a night's  lodgings. His friends had
all deserted him. Furthermore, he  had a  row with Lenehan and called him to
Stephen  a  mean  bloody  swab  with  a  sprinkling  of  other  uncalled-for
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 ill 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 the  next day, Stephen told him, in  a
boys' school  at Dalkey for a gentleman usher. Mr Garret  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. Got  stuck
twice in the junior at the Christian Brothers.
     -- I have no place to sleep myself, Stephen informed him.
     Corley, at the first go-off,  was inclined  to suspect it was something
to do with Stephen being fired out of his digs for bringing in a bloody tart
off the street. There was a dosshouse in  Marlborough street, Mrs Maloney's,
but it was  only a tanner touch and full of undesirables but M'Conachie told
him you got a decent enough do in the Brazen Head over in  Winetavern street
(which was  distantly suggestive to the person addressed of friar Bacon) for
a bob. He was starving too though he hadn't said a word about it.
     Though  this  sort of  thing went on every other night  or very near it
still  Stephen's  feelings got the better of  him in  a sense though he knew
that  Corley's brandnew  rigmarole, on  a par  with  the  others, was hardly
deserving of much credence. However, haud ignarus malorum miseris succurrere
disco, etcetera, as the Latin poet remarks, especially as luck would have it
he got paid his screw after every middle of the month on the sixteenth which
was the date of  the month as a  matter of  fact  though  a good bit  of the
wherewithal was  demolished. But the cream of the joke was nothing would get
it Out  of Corley's head that he was living in affluence and hadn't a  thing
to  do but  hand  out the  needful - whereas. He put his  hand  in a  pocket
anyhow, not with the idea of finding any food  there,  but thinking he might
lend him  anything up  to a bob or so  in lieu so that he might endeavour at
all  events and get sufficient  to eat. But the result  was in the  negative
for, to  his chagrin, he found his cash missing. A few  broken biscuits were
all the result  of his investigation. He tried his  hardest to recollect for
the moment whether he had lost,  as well he might have,  or left, because in
that  contingency it was not a  pleasant lookout,  very much the reverse, in
fact. He was altogether too fagged out to institute a thorough search though
he  tried to  recollect about biscuits he dimly remembered. Who  now exactly
gave them,  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 lent him one of
them.
     -- Thanks, Corley  answered. You're a gentleman. I'll pay you back some
time. Who's  that with you? I saw him a  few  times in the Bleeding Horse in
Camden street with Boylan the  billsticker. You might put in a good word for
us to get me taken on there. I'd carry a  sandwichboard only the girl in the
office told me they're full up for the next three weeks, man. God, you've to
book ahead, man, you'd think it was for the Carl Rosa.  I don't give a shite
anyway so long as I get a job even as a crossing sweeper.
     Subsequently,  being  not  quite  so   down  in  the  mouth  after  the
two-and-six he got, he informed Stephen  about a fellow by  the name of Bags
Comisky  that he  said Stephen knew well out of Fullam's, the shipchandler's
bookkeeper  there, that used to be often round in  Nagle's  back with O'Mara
and a  little chap with a stutter the  name of Tighe. Anyhow, he was  lagged
the  night before last and fined ten  bob for  a drunk  and  disorderly  and
refusing to go with the constable.
     Mr Bloom in the  meanwhile kept dodging about  in the vicinity  of  the
cobblestones near the brazier of coke in front of the corporation watchman's
sentrybox, who, evidently a  glutton for work, it  struck him, was having  a
quiet forty winks for all  intents and  purposes on  his own private account
while  Dublin slept. He threw an  odd eye  at the same time now and  then at
Stephen's anything but immaculately  attired interlocutor as  if he had seen
that  nobleman  somewhere or  other though where he was not in a position to
truthfully state  nor had he the  remotest idea  when.  Being  a levelheaded
individual  who  could  give  points  to  not  a  few  in  point  of  shrewd
observation,  he  also  remarked  on  his very  dilapidated hat  and slouchy
wearing  apparel generally, testifying to a chronic impecuniosity.  Probably
he  was one of his hangerson but for  the  matter  of that it  was  merely a
question of one preying on his next door 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's 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 bucket dredger,  rejoicing  in the  farfamed  name of Eblana,
moored  alongside  Customhouse  Quay  and  quite  possibly  Out  of  repair,
whereupon he observed evasively:
     -- Everybody gets their own  ration of luck,  they say. Now you mention
it  his face was familiar to me.  But  leaving that for the moment, how much
did you part with, he queried, if I am not too inquisitive?
     -- Half-a-crown, Stephen responded.  I  daresay he  needs it  to  sleep
somewhere.
     -- Needs, Mr Bloom ejaculated, professing not the least surprise at the
intelligence, I can quite credit the assertion and I guarantee he invariably
does. Everyone according to his  needs and everyone according to his  deeds.
But talking about things in general,  where, added he with a smile, will you
sleep  yourself? Walking to Sandycove is  Out  of  the  question  and,  even
supposing you did, you  won't get  in after what  occurred at  Westland  Row
station.  Simply  fag out there for  nothing.  I  don't  mean to presume  to
dictate to you  in the slightest degree but why did you leave your  father's
house?
     -- To seek misfortune, was Stephen's answer.
     --  I  met  your  respected  father  on  a  recent  occasion, Mr  Bloom
diplomatically  returned. Today,  in fact, or, to  be strictly  accurate, on
yesterday.  Where does he live  at  present?  I gathered  in the  course  of
conversation that he had moved.
     -- I believe he is in Dublin somewhere, Stephen answered unconcernedly.
Why?
     -- A gifted man, Mr Bloom said  of Mr Dedalus senior, in more  respects
than one and a born  raconteur  if ever there was one. He takes great pride,
quite legitimately, Out of you. You could  go back,  perhaps,  he  hazarded,
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.
     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 oatmeal water for  milk after the Friday herrings they had eaten
at two  a penny,  with  an egg apiece  for Maggy, Boody and  Katey,  the cat
meanwhile under  the mangle devouring a  mess of  eggshells and charred fish
heads and bones on a square  of brown paper  in  accordance with  the  third
precept of  the church  to fast and abstain on the days commanded, it  being
quarter tense or, if not, ember days or something like that.
     -- No, Mr Bloom repeated again, I wouldn't personally repose much trust
in  that  boon companion of yours  who  contributes the humorous element, Dr
Mulligan, as a guide, philosopher, and friend, if I  were  in your shoes. He
knows which side his bread is buttered on though in all probability he never
realised what it is to be without regular meals. Of course you didn't notice
as  much as I did but it  wouldn't occasion  me the least surprise  to learn
that a pinch of  tobacco  or some  narcotic was  put  in your drink for some
ulterior object.
     He understood, however,  from all he  heard,  that Dr  Mulligan  was  a
versatile allround  man,  by  no means confined to  medicine  only, who  was
rapidly coming to the fore in his line and, if the report was verified, bade
fair to enjoy a flourishing practice in the not too distant future as a tony
medical practitioner drawing a handsome fee for his services  in addition to
which professional status  his rescue of  that man from certain  drowning by
artificial respiration and what they call first aid at Skerries, or Malahide
was it?  was,  he  was  bound to admit, an exceedingly plucky deed which  he
could  not too  highly praise,  so that frankly he was  utterly at a loss to
fathom what earthly  reason could be at the back of it except he put it down
to sheer cussedness or jealousy, pure and simple.
     --  Except  it simply amounts to one thing and  he  is  what  they call
picking your brains, he ventured to throw out.
     The guarded  glance of half  solicitude, half curiosity,  augmented  by
friendliness,  which  he gave at Stephen's  at present morose expression  of
features did not throw a flood of light, none at all in fact, on the problem
as to whether  he  had let himself be  badly bamboozled, to  judge by two or
three low spirited 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 he perceived an icecream car round
which a group of presumably Italians in heated altercation were getting  rid
of  voluble  expressions  in  their  vivacious language  in  a  particularly
animated way, there being some little differences between the parties.
     -- Putana madonna, che ci dia i quattrini! Ho ragione? Culo rotto!
     -- Intendiamoci. Mezzo sovrano piы
     -- Dice lui, pero.
     -- Farabutto! Mortacci sui!
     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  wouldn't  vouch  for the actual facts,  which quite
possibly there was not one vestige of truth in. A few  moments later saw our
two  noctambules safely seated  in a  discreet corner, only to be greeted by
stares from the decidedly miscellaneous  collection of waifs  and strays and
other nondescript  specimens of  the  genus homo,  already there engaged  in
eating  and drinking, diversified  by  conversation, for whom they seemingly
formed an object of marked curiosity.
     -- Now touching a cup of coffee, Mr Bloom ventured to plausibly suggest
to break the ice, it occurs to me you ought to sample something in the shape
of solid food, say a roll of some description.
     Accordingly  his first act  was  with characteristic sangfroid to order
these  commodities quietly.  The  hoi  polloi of jarvies  or stevedores,  or
whatever  they  were,  after  a  cursory  examination,  turned  their  eyes,
apparently dissatisfied, away, though one  redbearded bibulous individual, a
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 protиgи in an audible tone
of voice, apropos of the battle royal in the street  which  was still raging
fast and furious:
     --  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 dead lassitude generally, replied:
     -- To fill the ear of a cow elephant. They were haggling over money.
     -- Is that so? Mr Bloom asked. Of  course, he  subjoined pensively,  at
the inward reflection of there being  more languages to start with than were
absolutely necessary, it may be only the southern glamour that surrounds it.
     The keeper  of the  shelter in the middle  of this  tйte-ю-tйte  put  a
boiling swimming cup of a choice concoction labelled coffee on the table and
a rather antediluvian  specimen of  a bun,  or so it  seemed, after which he
beat  a  retreat to  his counter. Mr Bloom determining to have a good square
look at  him later  on  so as  not  to  appear  to...  for which  reason  he
encouraged Stephen to  proceed with his  eyes  while he did  the honours  by
surreptitiously pushing  the cup of  what  was temporarily  supposed  to  be
called coffee gradually nearer him.
     -- Sounds  are impostures, Stephen  said after  a  pause of some little
time. Like names,  Cicero, Podmore, Napoleon, Mr Goodbody, Jesus,  Mr Doyle.
Shakespeares were as common as Murphies. What's in a name?
     --  Yes, to be  sure,  Mr Bloom unaffectedly concurred.  Of course. Our
name was changed too, he added, pushing the socalled roll across.
     The  redbearded  sailor, who  had  his weather  eye  on the  newcomers,
boarded  Stephen,  whom  he  had  singled out  for attention  in particular,
squarely by asking:
     -- And what might your name be?
     Just in the nick of time  Mr  Bloom touched  his  companion's boot  but
Stephen,  apparently  disregarding  the  warm pressure,  from  an unexpected
quarter, answered:
     -- Dedalus.
     The sailor  stared at him heavily from  a  pair of drowsy  baggy  eyes,
rather bunged up from excessive use of boose,  preferably good  old Hollands
and water.
     -- You know Simon Dedalus? he asked at length.
     -- I've heard of him, Stephen said.
     Mr Bloom  was  all  at sea for a  moment, seeing the  others  evidently
eavesdropping too.
     -- He's Irish, the seaman bold affirmed, staring still in much the same
way and nodding. All Irish.
     -- All too Irish, Stephen rejoined.
     As  for Mr Bloom  he  could neither  make  head or  tail  of  the whole
business and he was just  asking himself what possible  connection when  the
sailor, of his own accord, turned to the other Occupants of the shelter with
the  remark: I seen him shoot  two eggs off  two bottles at fifty yards over
his shoulder. The left hand dead shot.
     Though he  was  slightly hampered by  an  occasional  stammer  and  his
gestures being also clumsy as it was still he did his best to explain.
     -- Bottle 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 some way sideways and glared  out into the  night
with an unprepossessing cast of countenance.
     -- Pom, he then shouted once.
     The entire  audience  waited,  anticipating an  additional  detonation,
there being still a further egg.
     -- Pom, he shouted twice.
     Egg   two  evidently   demolished,   he   nodded  and   winked,  adding
bloodthirstily:
     Buffalo Bill shoots to kill,
     Never missed nor he never will.
     A silence ensued till  Mr Bloom for agreeableness'  sake just felt like
asking him whether it was for a marksmanship competition like the Bisley.
     -- Beg pardon, the sailor said.
     -- Long ago? Mr Bloom pursued without flinching a hairsbreadth.
     --  Why, the sailor replied,  relaxing  to a  certain extent  under the
magic influence of diamond cut  diamond, it might be  a matter of ten years.
He toured the wide world  with Hengler's Royal Circus. I seen him do that in
Stockholm.
     -- Curious coincidence, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen unobtrusively.
     -- Murphy's my name, the sailor continued, W. 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. My little woman's down there.  She's waiting  for me, I
know. For England, home and  beauty. She's  my  own true wife I haven't seen
for seven years now, sailing about.
     Mr Bloom could easily picture his advent on this scene - the homecoming
to the mariner's roadside shieling after having diddled Davy Jones - a rainy
night with  a  blind moon.  Across the world  for a wife.  Quite a number of
stories there were on that particular Alice Ben Bolt  topic, Enoch Arden and
Rip  van  Winkle  and  does anybody  hereabouts  remember  Caoc  O'Leary,  a
favourite  and most trying declamation piece, by the way, of poor John Casey
and a bit  of perfect poetry  in its own small  way? Never about the runaway
wife  coming back,  however much devoted  to  the absentee. The  face at the
window! Judge of his  astonishment when he finally did  breast the tape  and
the  awful truth dawned  upon  him anent his  better  half, wrecked  in  his
affections. You  little expected me but I've come to  stay  and make a fresh
start. There she sits, a grass widow, 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. Boo! The
wind!  Her brandnew arrival is on her  knee,  post mortem child. With a high
ro! and a randy ro! and my galloping tearing tandy O! Bow to the inevitable.
Grin and  bear it. I remain with much love your brokenhearted husband, W. B.
Murphy.
     The  sailor, who scarcely seemed to be a Dublin resident, turned to one
of the jarvies with the request:
     -- You don't happen to have  such a thing as a spare chaw about you, do
you?
     The jarvey addressed, as it happened, had not but the keeper took a die
of plug from his  good jacket hanging on a  nail and  the desired object was
passed from hand to hand.
     -- Thank you, the sailor said.
     He  deposited  the quid in his gob  and,  chewing,  and with  some slow
stammers, proceeded:
     --  We  come  up this morning eleven  o'clock. The threemaster Rosevean
from Bridgwater with bricks. I shipped to get over. Paid off this afternoon.
There's my discharge. See? W. B. Murphy, A. B. S.
     In  confirmation of which statement he extricated from an inside pocket
and handed to his neighbours a not very clean looking 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. 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 pomilooy. That's how the Russians prays.
     -- You seen queer sights, don't be talking, put in a jarvey.
     --  Why,  the sailor said,  shifting  his partially chewed plug, I seen
queer things too, ups  and downs. I seen a  crocodile bite  the fluke of  an
anchor same as I chew that quid.
     He took out of his mouth  the  pulpy quid  and, lodging  it between his
teeth, bit ferociously.
     -- Khaan! Like that. And I seen maneaters in Peru that eats corpses and
the livers of horses. Look here. Here they are. A friend of mine sent me.
     He fumbled out a picture postcard from  his inside pocket, which seemed
to be in its way a species of repository, and pushed it along the table. The
printed matter on it stated: Choza de Indios. Beni, Bolivia.
     All focused  their attention  on the  scene  exhibited, at  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 long, the communicative tarpaulin added. Stomachs
like breadgraters.  Cuts  off  their  diddies  when they  can't bear no more
children. See them 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 genially.
     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.  Seяor A.  Boudin, Galeria Becche, Santiago, Chile.
There was no message evidently, as he took particular  notice. Though not an
implicit believer in the lurid story narrated (or the eggsniping transaction
for  that matter despite William Tell and the Lazarillo-Don  Cesar de  Bazan
incident  depicted in  Maritana on which occasion  the former's  ball passed
through  the  latter's hat), having  detected a discrepancy between his name
(assuming he was the person he  represented himself  to be  and not  sailing
under false  colours  after having  boxed  the compass  on the  strict  q.t.
somewhere) and  the  fictitious addressee  of  the  missive  which made  him
nourish some suspicions of our friend's bona fides, nevertheless it reminded
him  in  a way of  a  longcherished  plan  he meant to  one day realise some
Wednesday or Saturday of  travelling to  London via long sea not to say that
he had ever travelled extensively to any great extent but he  was at heart a
born  adventurer though by a  trick  of fate he had  consistently remained a
landlubber  except you call going to Holyhead  which was his longest. Martin
Cunningham frequently said he would work a pass through Egan but some deuced
hitch or other eternally cropped up with the net result that the scheme fell
through.  But  even suppose  it did  come to planking  down the  needful and
breaking Boyd's heart it was not so dear, purse permitting, a few guineas at
the outside, considering the fare to Mullingar where he figured on going was
five and six there and back. The trip would benefit health on account of the
bracing  ozone and  be in every way thoroughly pleasurable, especially for a
chap  whose  liver  was out of order, seeing the different places along  the
route,  Plymouth,  Falmouth,  Southampton  and  so  on,  culminating  in  an
instructive tour of the sights of the great metropolis, the spectacle of our
modern Babylon where doubtless  he would see the greatest improvement tower,
abbey,  wealth  of Park Lane to  renew acquaintance with. Another thing just
struck him as a by no  means bad notion  was he might have  a gaze around on
the spot to see about trying  to make  arrangements about  a concert tour of
summer  music embracing  the  most prominent pleasure  resorts, Margate with
mixed  bathing  and  firstrate  hydros  and  spas,  Eastbourne, Scarborough,
Margate and  so  on, beautiful  Bournemouth, the Channel islands and similar
bijou spots, which might prove  highly remunerative. Not,  of course, with a
hole and corner  scratch company or local ladies  on the job, witness Mrs C.
P.  M'Coy  type -  lend  me  your  valise  and I'll post you the ticket. No,
something top notch, an  all star Irish cast, the  Tweedy-Flower grand opera
company with its own legal consort as leading lady as a sort of counterblast
to the Elster Grimes and Moody-Manners,  perfectly simple matter  and he was
quite  sanguine of success, providing  puffs  in the local papers  could  be
managed by some fellow with a bit of bounce who could pull the indispensable
wires and thus combine business with pleasure. But who? That was the rub.
     Also, without  being actually positive, it struck him a great field was
to be opened  up in the line of opening up new routes to keep pace  with the
times apropos of the Fishguard-Rosslare route which, it was mooted, was once
more on the  tapis in the Circumlocution departments with the usual quantity
of  red tape and dillydallying of effete fogeydom and dunderheads generally.
A great opportunity there  certainly was for push and enterprise to meet the
travelling  needs  of the public at  large,  the  average man,  i.e.  Brown,
Robinson and Co.
     It was a subject  of regret and absurd as well on the face of it and no
small blame to  our vaunted  society  that the man in  the street, when  the
system really needed toning up, for a  matter of  a couple of paltry pounds,
was debarred  from seeing more of the world they lived in instead  of  being
always  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 steam  tram,  but also
farther  away from the madding crowd, in Wicklow,  rightly termed the garden
of  Ireland,  an  ideal neighbourhood  for elderly wheelmen,  so long  as it
didn't  come down, and in the wilds of Donegal, where if report spoke  true,
the  coup d'il was exceedingly grand, though the  lastnamed locality was
not easily getatable  so that the influx of visitors was not as yet all that
it might  be  considering the signal benefits to be  derived from it,  while
Howth with its historic associations  and  otherwise,  Silken  Thomas, Grace
O'Malley, George IV, rhododendrons several hundred feet above sealevel was a
favourite  haunt with all  sorts  and conditions of men,  especially in  the
spring when  young men  s fancy, though it had its own  toll  of  deaths  by
falling off the cliffs  by  design or accidentally, usually, by the way,  on
their left leg, it being only about three quarters of an hour's run from the
pillar. Because of course  uptodate tourist  travelling was as yet merely in
its  infancy,  so to speak, and the accommodation  left much  to be desired.
Interesting to fathom, it seemed to him, from a motive of curiosity pure and
simple, was whether it was the traffic that created the  route or vice-versa
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
Chinese does.
     Possibly  perceiving an  expression  of  dubiosity on  their faces, the
globetrotter went on adhering to his adventures.
     -- And I seen  a man killed in Trieste by an Italian chap. Knife in his
back. Knife like that.
     Whilst speaking he  produced a dangerous  looking clasp knife, 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. Chuck! 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 dиnouement 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  Bloom  and  Stephen,  each  in  his  own  particular  way,  both
instinctively  exchanged  meaning  glances,  in a  religious silence of  the
strictly entre nous variety however, towards  where Skin-the-Goat, alias the
keeper, 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 by 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,
some  score  of years  previously, in the days of the  land troubles when it
took  the  civilised  world  by  storm,  figuratively speaking, early in the
eighties, eightyone to be correct, when he was just turned fifteen.
     -- Ay, boss, the sailor broke in. Give us back them papers.
     The request being complied with, he clawed them up with a scrape.
     -- Have you seen the Rock of Gibraltar? Mr Bloom inquired.
     The sailor grimaced, chewing, in a way that  might  be read as yes, ay,
or no.
     -- Ah, you've touched there  too, Mr Bloom said, Europa point, thinking
he had, in the  hope that the rover might possibly by some reminiscences but
he failed to do so, simply letting spurt a jet of spew into the sawdust, and
shook his head with a sort of lazy scorn.
     -- What year would that be about? Mr Bloom interpolated. Can you recall
the boats?
     Our  soi-disant  sailor  munched  heavily   awhile,   hungrily,  before
answering.
     --  I'm  tired of  all them rocks in  the sea, he said,  and  boats and
ships. Salt junk all the time.
     Tired, seemingly, he ceased. His questioner, perceiving that he was not
likely to get a great deal of  change out  of such a wily old customer, fell
to woolgathering on the enormous  dimensions  of the water  about the globe.
Suffice it to say that,  as a casual  glance at the map revealed, it covered
fully three fourths of it and he  fully realised accordingly what it  meant,
to rule the waves. On more than one occasion -  a dozen at the lowest - near
the  North Bull at Dollymount  he  had  remarked a superannuated  old  salt,
evidently derelict, seated habitually near the not particularly redolent sea
on the  wall,  staring quite obliviously  at it and it at  him, dreaming  of
fresh woods and  pastures new as someone somewhere sings. And  it  left  him
wondering why.  Possibly  he had  tried to find out the  secret for himself,
floundering up and down the antipodes  and  all that  sort of thing and over
and  under - well, not exactly under, tempting the fates.  And the odds were
twenty to  nil there  was really no secret about  it at  all.  Nevertheless,
without going into the minutiae of the business, the eloquent fact  remained
that the sea was there in all its glory  and in the natural course of things
somebody or other had to sail on it and fly in the face of providence though
it  merely went  to show how people usually  contrived to load that sort  of
onus  on  to  the  other  fellow  like  the hell idea  and  the  lottery and
insurance, which  were run on  identically the same  lines so that for  that
very reason, if no other, lifeboat Sunday was a very laudable institution to
which the public at large, no matter where living, inland or seaside,-is the
case might be, having it brought home  to them like that,  should extend its
gratitude also to  the harbourmasters and coastguard service who had  to man
the  rigging and push  off and out  amid the  elements, whatever the season,
when duty called Ireland expects that every man and so on, and sometimes had
a terrible time  of it in  the wintertime  not forgetting the Irish  lights,
Kish and others, liable to capsize at any moment rounding which he once with
his  daughter  had experienced  some remarkably choppy, not to  say  stormy,
weather.
     --  There was  a fellow sailed with me in  the  Rover,  the old seadog,
himself  a  rover,  proceeded.  Went  ashore  and  took  up  a soft  job  as
gentleman's valet at six quid a month. Them are  his trousers I've on me and
he gave me an oilskin and that jackknife. I'm game for that job, shaving and
brushup. I hate roaming about. There's my son now, Danny, run off to sea and
his mother got him took in a draper's in Cork where he could be drawing easy
money.
     -- What age  is he? queried  one hearer who, by the way, seen  from the
side, bore a distant resemblance to Henry Campbell, the townclerk, away from
the carking cares of office, unwashed, of course, and in a seedy getup and a
strong suspicion of nosepaint about the nasal appendage.
     -- Why, the sailor  answered  with  a  slow puzzled  utterance. My  son
Danny? He'd be about eighteen now, way I figure it.
     The  Skibbereen father  hereupon tore open  his grey  or unclean anyhow
shirt with his two hands and scratched away at his chest on which was  to be
seen an image tattooed in blue Chinese ink, intended to represent an anchor.
     --  There was lice  in that bunk  in Bridgwater, he  remarked. Sure  as
nuts. I must get a wash tomorrow or next day. It's them black lads I objects
to. I hate those buggers. Sucks 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 time honoured symbol  of the
mariner's hope and  rest,  they had a full view of the figure 16 and a young
man's sideface looking frowningly rather.
     -- Tattoo, the exhibitor explained.  That  was done when we were  lying
becalmed off Odessa in the Black Sea under Captain Dalton Fellow the name of
Antonio done that. There he is himself, a Greek.
     -- Did it hurt much doing it? one asked the sailor.
     That worthy,  however, was  busily  engaged  in  collecting  round  the
someway in his. Squeezing or...
     --  See here, he said,  showing Antonio. There he is, cursing the mate.
And there he is  now, he added. The same  fellow, pulling the skin  with his
fingers, some special knack evidently, and he laughing at a yarn.
     And in  point  of  fact  the young man  named Antonio's  livid face did
actually look  like  forced  smiling  and the  curious  effect  excited  the
unreserved admiration  of everybody,  including  Skin-the-Goat who this time
stretched over.
     -- Ay,  ay, sighed  the sailor, looking down on  his manly  chest. He's
gone too. Ate by sharks after. Ay, ay.
     He let go of the skin so that the profile resumed the normal expression
of before.
     -- Neat bit of work, longshoreman one 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. A Greek he was.
     And then  he added,  with  rather gallowsbird humour,  considering  his
alleged end:
     -- As bad as old Antonio,
     For he left me on my ownio.
     The face of a streetwalker, glazed and haggard under a black straw hat,
peered askew round the  door of  the  shelter, palpably reconnoitring on her
own with the object of bringing more grist to her mill.  Mr Bloom,  scarcely
knowing  which  way to look,  turned  away on  the  moment,  flusterfied but
outwardly calm,  and picking up from the table the pink sheet of  the  Abbey
street organ which the jarvey, if such he was, had laid aside, he  picked it
up  and looked at the pink of the paper  though why  pink? His reason for so
doing was he recognised  on the moment round  the door the same face  he had
caught  a fleeting glimpse of that afternoon  on Ormond Quay, the  partially
idiotic female, namely, of  the lane, who knew the lady in the brown costume
does be with you (Mrs B.), and begged  the chance  of his washing.  Also why
washing, which seemed rather vague than not?
     Your washing. Still, candour compelled him to admit that he  had washed
his  wife's  undergarments when soiled in Holles Street  and women would and
did too a man's similar garments initialled with Bewley and Draper's marking
ink (hers were, that is) if  they really loved him, that is to say. Love me,
love my dirty  shirt. Still, just then, being on tenterhooks, he desired the
female's  room more than her company so it came as a genuine relief when the
keeper made  her  a  rude sign to take herself off.  Round  the side  of the
Evening  Telegraph he just caught  a fleeting glimpse of her  face round the
side of the  door with a kind of demented glassy  grin showing that  she was
not exactly all  there, viewing  with evident  amusement the group of gazers
round Skipper Murphy's nautical chest and then there was no more of her.
     -- The gunboat, the keeper said.
     -- It beats me, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen,  medically I am speaking,
how  a wretched  creature  like  that  from  the Lock Hospital, reeking with
disease, can  be  barefaced enough to  solicit or how any  man  in his sober
senses, if  he values his  health in  the  least. Unfortunate  creature!  Of
course, I  suppose some  man is  ultimately  responsible for  her condition.
Still no matter what the cause is from...
     Stephen  had  not  noticed  her  and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  merely
remarking:
     -- In  this country people sell  much  more than she  ever had and do a
roaring trade. Fear not  them that  sell the body but have not  power to buy
the soul. She is a bad merchant. She buys dear and sells cheap.
     The  elder man, though not by  any  manner  of means an  old  maid or a
prude, said  that it was nothing short of  a crying scandal that ought to be
put a stop to instanter to say  that women of that  stamp  (quite apart from
any oldmaidish  squeamishness  on the subject), a necessary  evil, were  not
licensed and medically inspected by the proper authorities, a thing he could
truthfully state he, as a paterfamilias, was a stalwart advocate of from the
very first  start. Whoever embarked on  a policy of  that sort, he said, and
ventilated the matter  thoroughly  would  confer a lasting boon on everybody
concerned.
     -- You, as a good  catholic, he  observed,  talking of  body and  soul,
believe in the soul.  Or  do you mean  the  intelligence,  the brainpower as
such, as distinct from any outside object, the  table, let us say, that cup?
I  believe in  that myself because it has been explained by competent men as
the  convolutions of the  grey  matter. Otherwise  we would never  have such
inventions as X rays, for instance. Do you?
     Thus cornered, Stephen had to make a superhuman effort of memory to try
and concentrate and remember before he could say:
     -- They tell me  on the  best authority it  is a  simple  substance and
therefore incorruptible. It would  be immortal, I understand,  but  for  the
possibility  of its  annihilation by its First  Cause, Who,  from all  I can
hear, is  quite capable of adding that to  the number of His other practical
jokes, corruptio  per se and corruptio per  accidens both  being excluded by
court etiquette.
     Mr  Bloom thoroughly acquiesced  in the general gist of this though the
mystical finesse involved was a bit out of his sublunary depth still he felt
bound to enter a demurrer on the head of simple, promptly rejoining:
     -- Simple?  I  shouldn't think  that is the  proper word. Of  course, I
grant you, to concede a point, you  do knock across a  simple soul once in a
blue moon.  But  what  I am anxious to arrive  at  is  it  is one  thing for
instance to invent  those rays Rжntgen did, Or the  telescope  like  Edison,
though  I believe  it was  before his time, Galileo was the man  I mean. 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 best known 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.  I'm  not so sure about that. That's a matter of every man's
opinion and, without dragging in the  sectarian side  of the business, I beg
to differ  with you  in toto there.  My belief is,  to tell  you the  candid
truth,  that those bits were genuine  forgeries all of them  put in by monks
most probably or it's  the big question of our national poet over again, who
precisely  wrote  them,  like  Hamlet  and  Bacon,  as  you  who  know  your
Shakespeare infinitely better than I, of  course I needn't  tell  you. Can't
you  drink that coffee, by the way? Let me stir it  and take a piece of that
bun. It's like one of our skipper's bricks disguised. Still, no one can give
what he hasn't got. Try a bit.
     -- Couldn't, Stephen contrived  to  get out, his mental  organs for the
moment refusing to dictate further.
     Faultfinding  being a proverbially  bad  hat, Mr  Bloom thought well to
stir,  or  try  to, the  clotted sugar  from  the bottom and reflected  with
something approaching acrimony on the Coffee  Palace and its temperance (and
lucrative) work. To be sure it was a legitimate object and beyond yea or nay
did  a  world of good. Shelters  such as the present one they were in run on
teetotal  lines  for vagrants  at night,  concerts,  dramatic evenings,  and
useful lectures (admittance free) by qualified men for the lower orders.  On
the other  hand, he  had a distinct  and painful recollection they  paid his
wife, Madam Marion Tweedy who had been prominently associated with it at one
time, a very modest remuneration  indeed for her pianoplaying. The idea,  he
was  strongly inclined  to believe, was to do good and net a  profit,  there
being  no  competition  to  speak  of.  Sulphate  of copper poison,  SO4  or
something in some dried peas he remembered reading of in a cheap eatinghouse
somewhere but he couldn't remember when it was or where. Anyhow, inspection,
medical inspection, of all eatables, seemed  to him more than ever necessary
which possibly accounted for the vogue of Dr Tibble's Vi-Cocoa on account of
the medical analysis involved.
     -- Have a shot at it now, he ventured to  say of the coffee after being
stirred.
     Thus prevailed on to at any rate taste it, Stephen lifted the heavy mug
from the brown puddle - it clopped out of it  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 oblige me by taking  away  that
knife. I can't look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history.
     Mr  Bloom  promptly  did  as  suggested  and removed  the  incriminated
article, a blunt hornhandled ordinary knife with nothing particularly  Roman
or  antique about it to the lay eye, observing that the point  was the least
conspicuous point about it.
     -- Our mutual  friend's stories are like himself, Mr Bloom,  apropos of
knives, remarked  to  his  confidente  sotto  voce.  Do you  think  they are
genuine?  He could spin those  yarns for hours on end all night long and lie
like old boots. Look at him.
     Yet still, though his eyes were thick with sleep and sea  air, life was
full of  a host of things and coincidences of a terrible nature and  it  was
quite within the bounds of possibility that it was not an entire fabrication
though at first  blush there was  not much  inherent  probability in all the
spoof he got off his chest being strictly accurate gospel.
     He had been meantime taking stock of the individual in front of him and
Sherlockholmesing  him up,  ever since  he  clapped eyes on  him.  Though  a
wellpreserved man of no little stamina, if a trifle prone to baldness, there
was something spurious in  the cut of his jib that suggested a jail delivery
and  it  required  no  violent  stretch  of  imagination to associate such a
weirdlooking specimen with the oakum and treadmill fraternity. He might even
have done for his man,  supposing it  was his own case  he  told,  as people
often did about others, namely, that he killed him  himself and  had  served
his four or  five goodlooking years  in durance  vile to say nothing  of the
Antonio personage  (no relation to  the dramatic personage of identical name
who sprang from the pen Of our national poet) who expiated his crimes in the
melodramatic  manner above  described. On  the other hand  he  might be only
bluffing, a  pardonable  weakness, because meeting unmistakable mugs, Dublin
residents, like  those  jarvies waiting news  from abroad, would  tempt  any
ancient mariner who  sailed the ocean seas to draw  the long  bow  about the
schooner Hesperus and  etcetera. And when all was  said and done, the lies a
fellow told about  himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the
wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him.
     Mind you, I'm not  saying that it's  all a pure invention, he  resumed.
Analogous  scenes are occasionally, if not often, met with.  Giants, though,
that is rather a far cry  you see once in a way. Marcella, the midget queen.
In those waxworks  in Henry  street  I myself saw some Aztecs, as  they  are
called, sitting  bowlegged. They couldn't straighten their  legs if you paid
them  because  the  muscles  here, you see, he proceeded, indicating  on his
companion the  brief outline, 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 ice  creamers 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 tuck in with garlic de rigueur
off him or her next day on the quiet and, he added, on the cheap.
     -- Spaniards,  for instance, he continued, passionate temperaments like
that,  impetuous  as  Old Nick,  are given  to taking the law into their own
hands and give you your quietus double quick with those poignards they carry
in the abdomen. It comes from the great heat, climate generally. My wife is,
so to speak, Spanish, half, that is. Point of fact  she could actually claim
Spanish nationality if  she wanted, having been born in (technically) Spain,
i.e.  Gibraltar. She has  the  Spanish  type. Quite dark,  regular brunette,
black.  I, for one, certainly believe climate accounts for character. That's
why I asked you if you wrote your poetry in Italian.
     --  The temperaments at the door,  Stephen  interposed with, were  very
passionate about ten shillings. Roberto ruba roba sua.
     -- Quite so, Mr Bloom dittoed.
     --  Then, Stephen said,  staring and  rambling on  to  himself or  some
unknown  listener somewhere,  we  have  the  impetuosity  of  Dante  and the
isosceles  triangle, Miss Portinari, he  fell in love with and Leonardo  and
san Tommaso Mastino.
     -- It's in the blood, Mr Bloom acceded  at once.  All are washed in the
blood of the sun.  Coincidence, I just happened to be in the  Kildare street
Museum today, shortly prior  to our meeting, if  I can so call it, and I was
just  looking at those antique  statues  there. The  splendid proportions of
hips, bosom.  You simply  don't knock  against those kind of  women here. An
exception here and there. Handsome, yes, pretty in a way  you find, but what
I'm talking about is the female form. Besides, they have  so little taste in
dress,  most of  them, which greatly enhances a  woman's natural beauty,  no
matter what you say. Rumpled stockings - it may be, possibly is, a foible of
mine, but still it's a thing I simply hate to see.
     Interest, however,  was starting to  flag  somewhat  all round and  the
others  got on  to  talking about  accidents at sea,  ships lost in  a  fog,
collisions with icebergs, all that sort  of thing. Shipahoy,  of course, had
his own say to say. He had doubled the Cape a  few odd times and weathered a
monsoon, a  kind of wind, in the China seas  and through all those perils of
the  deep there was one thing,  he declared, stood to him, or  words to that
effect, a pious medal he had that saved him.
     So then after that they drifted  on to the wreck of Daunt's rock, wreck
of that  illfated Norwegian barque - nobody could think of her name  for the
moment till  the jarvey  who  had really  quite  a  look of  Henry  Campbell
remembered  it, Palme, on Booterstown Strand, that was the talk of the  town
that year (Albert  William  Quill  wrote  a fine piece of original  verse of
distinctive merit on  the topic  for the Irish Times) breakers running  over
her and crowds and crowds on the shore in  commotion petrified  with horror.
Then  someone  said  something about the case of  the s. s.  Lady  Cairns of
Swansea, run into by the  Mona,  which  was on  an Opposite  tack, in rather
muggyish weather  and lost with all  hands on deck.  No  aid  was given. Her
master, the  Mona's, said he  was afraid  his  collision bulkhead would give
way. She had no water, it appears, in her hold.
     At this stage an incident happened. It  having become necessary for him
to unfurl a reef, the sailor vacated his seat.
     -- Let me cross your bows, mate, he said to his neighbour, who was just
gently dropping off into a peaceful dose.
     He made tracks heavily,  slowly, with  a  dumpy  sort of a gait to  the
door, stepped heavily down the one step there  was  out of the  shelter  and
bore due left.  While he was  in the act  of getting his bearings, Mr Bloom,
who noticed when he stood up that he had two flasks of presumably ship's rum
sticking  one out of each pocket for the private consumption of  his burning
interior, saw  him produce a bottle and uncork it, or unscrew, and, applying
its nozzle to his lips,  take a  good old delectable swig  out  of it with a
gurgling noise.  The irrepressible Bloom,  who  also had  a shrewd suspicion
that the  old  stager went out on a manoeuvre after the counterattraction in
the shape  of  a female,  who, however,  had disappeared to all  intents and
purposes, could, by straining, just perceive him, when duly refreshed by his
rum puncheon exploit, gazing 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
close at hand,  the  noise of his bilge-water some little  time subsequently
splashing on the ground where it apparently woke a horse of the cabrank.
     A hoof scooped anyway for new foothold after sleep and harness jingled.
Slightly disturbed in his sentrybox by the brasier of live coke, the watcher
of  the corporation, who,  though now broken down and fast  breaking up, was
none other  in stern reality than  the  Gumley aforesaid, now practically on
the parish  rates,  given  the  temporary job  by  Pat  Tobin  in all  human
probability, from dictates  of humanity, knowing him before - shifted  about
and shuffled in his box before composing  his  limbs  again  in the  arms of
Morpheus. A truly amazing piece of hard times in its most virulent form on a
fellow most respectably connected and familiarised with decent home comforts
all his life who came in for  a cool #100 a year at one time which of course
the double-barrelled  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 wrecks, the  keeper  said, who was evidently  au
fait.
     What he wanted to ascertain was why that ship ran bang against the only
rock  in Galway Bay  when the  Galway  Harbour  scheme was  mooted  by a  Mr
Worthington or some  name like that, eh? Ask her  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 soirиe, boisterously trolling, like a veritable son of a seacook:
     -- The biscuits was as hard as brass,
     And the beef as salt as Lot's wife's arse.
     O Johnny Lever!
     Johnny Lever, O!
     After which effusion the redoubtable specimen duly arrived on the scene
and,  regaining  his  seat, he  sank  rather  than sat heavily  on the  form
provided.
     Skin-the-Goat, assuming he was he, evidently  with an axe to grind, was
airing  his  grievances in a  forcible-feeble  philippic  anent  the natural
resources of Ireland, or something of that  sort, which he  described in his
lengthy  dissertation as the richest country  bar none on the face  of God's
earth, far and away  superior to England, with coal in large quantities, six
million  pounds' worth  of pork  exported every year,  ten  millions between
butter  and  eggs, and  all  the riches drained out of it by England levying
taxes on the poor  people that paid through the nose always, and gobbling up
the best meat in  the market, and a lot more surplus steam in the same vein.
Their conversation accordingly became general and all agreed that that was a
fact. You  could grow any mortal thing in  Irish soil, he stated,  and there
was Colonel  Everard down there  in Cavan growing  tobacco.  Where would you
find anywhere the like of Irish bacon?  But a day  of  reckoning,  he stated
crescendo  with  no  uncertain  voice  -  thoroughly  monopolising  all  the
conversation - was in store for mighty England, despite her power of pelf on
account  of  her  crimes. There  would be a fall and the  greatest  fall  in
history. The Germans and the Japs were going to have their little lookin, he
affirmed. The Boers  were the  beginning  of the end. Brummagem England  was
toppling already and her downfall would be Ireland, her Achilles heel, which
he explained to them about the vulnerable point of Achilles,  the Greek hero
-  a point his  auditors  at  once  seized as  he  completely gripped  their
attention by showing the tendon referred to on his boot. His advice to every
Irishman was: stay in the land of your birth and work for  Ireland and  live
for  Ireland.  Ireland, Parnell said,  could not spare a single one  of  her
sons.
     Silence all round marked  the termination of his finale. The impervious
navigator heard these lurid tidings undismayed.
     -- Take a bit of doing, boss, retaliated that rough diamond palpably  a
bit peeved in response to the foregoing truism.
     To  which cold  douche, referring to downfall and  so  on,  the  keeper
concurred but nevertheless held to his main view.
     -- Who's the best troops in the army?  the grizzled old veteran irately
interrogated. And the best jumpers  and racers?  And  the best admirals  and
generals we've got? Tell me that.
     -- The  Irish  for  choice,  retorted the cabby  like Campbell,  facial
blemishes apart.
     -- That's right,  the  old tarpaulin  corroborated. The  Irish catholic
peasant. He's the backbone of our empire. You know Jem Mullins?
     While  allowing him  his individual opinions,  as every man, the keeper
added  he cared nothing  for  any  empire, ours  or  his, and  considered no
Irishman worthy of  his salt  that served it. Then they began to have  a few
irascible  words, when it  waxed hotter, both, needless to say, appealing to
the listeners who followed the passage of arms with interest so long as they
didn't indulge in recriminations and come to blows.
     >From inside information extending over a  series of years Mr Bloom was
rather  inclined to  poohpooh  the  suggestion as egregious balderdash  for,
pending  that consummation  devoutly to  be or not to be wished for,  he was
fully cognisant of the fact that their neighbours across the channel, unless
they were  much bigger fools than he  took them for, rather concealed  their
strength than the opposite. It was quite on  a par with the quixotic idea in
certain quarters that in a hundred million years the coal seam of the sister
island would be played out and if,  as time went  On,  that turned Out to be
how the cat jumped all he could personally say on  the matter was that as  a
host of contingencies, equally relevant to  the  issue, might occur ere then
it was highly  advisable in the interim  to  try  to make  the most  of both
countries,  even  though poles apart. Another little interesting point,  the
amours of whores and chummies, to put it  in common  parlance, reminded  him
Irish soldiers had as  often fought for England as against her,  more so, in
fact. And now, why? So the scene between the  pair  of them, the licensee of
the  place, rumoured to  be or  have been Fitzharris, the famous invincible,
and the other, obviously bogus,  reminded him forcibly as being on all fours
with the confidence trick, supposing, that  is, it  was prearranged, as  the
lookeron, a  student of the human soul, if anything, the others seeing least
of the game. And as for the lessee or keeper,  who probably wasn't the other
person at all, he (Bloom)  couldn't help feeling, and most properly, it  was
better to give  people like that the goby unless you were a blithering idiot
altogether and refuse to have anything to do  with them as a  golden rule in
private life and their felonsetting, there always being  the offchance  of a
Dannyman  coming forward and turning queen's evidence - or king's now - like
Denis or Peter Carey, an idea he utterly  repudiated. Quite apart from that,
he disliked those careers of wrongdoing and  crime on principle. Yet, though
such criminal propensities had never  been an inmate  of  his  bosom  in any
shape or form,  he  certainly did feel,  and  no denying it  (while inwardly
remaining what  he was), a certain kind of admiration  for  a  man  who  had
actually  brandished a knife, cold steel, with  the courage of his political
convictions though, personally, he would never be a party to any such thing,
off the  same bat as those love vendettas of  the south  - have her or swing
for her -  when the husband frequently, after some words  passed between the
two concerning her relations with the other lucky mortal (the man having had
the pair watched), inflicted fatal injuries on
     his adored  one as a  result of an  alternative  postnuptial liaison by
plunging his knife into  her until it just  struck him that  Fitz, nicknamed
Skin-the-Goat,  merely drove  the car  for  the actual  perpetrators of  the
outrage and so was not,  if he  was reliably informed, actually party to the
ambush which, in point of fact, was the  plea some legal luminary  saved his
skin on. In any  case that  was very ancient  history by  now and as for our
friend, the  pseudo Skin-the-etcetera,  he  had transparently  outlived  his
welcome. He ought  to  have either died naturally or on  the scaffold  high.
Like  actresses,  always farewell - positively last performance then come up
smiling again. Generous to a fault, of course, temperamental, no economising
or any idea  of the  sort, always  snapping at the  bone  for the shadow. So
similarly he had a very shrewd suspicion that Mr  Johnny Lever  got  rid  of
some #.  s. d. in  the course of his  perambulations round the  docks in the
congenial atmosphere of the Old Ireland tavern, come back to Erin and so on.
Then as for the others, 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  much injured but on the
whole eventempered person declared, I let slip. He called me a jew, and in a
heated fashion, offensively. So I, without deviating from plain facts in the
least, told him his  God, I mean Christ, was a jew too, and all his  family,
like me, though  in  reality  I'm not. That was one for him. A  soft  answer
turns away wrath. He hadn't  a word to say for himself as everyone saw. Am I
not right?
     He turned  a long you  are wrong gaze on Stephen of timorous dark pride
at  the soft  impeachment,  with a glance  also of entreaty for he seemed to
glean in a kind of a way that it wasn't all exactly .
     -- Ex  quibus, Stephen mumbled  in a  noncommittal accent, their two or
four  eyes  conversing,  Christus or  Bloom his name is, or, after all,  any
other, secundum carnem.
     --  Of course, Mr Bloom 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  or
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, 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 overwhelmingly full of that
sort of thing.
     -- You just  took  the words out  of my mouth, he said. A hocuspocus of
conflicting evidence that candidly you couldn't remotely.
     All  those  wretched quarrels, in his  humble  opinion, stirring up bad
blood - 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 practical and are proved to  be so. I
don't want to indulge in any... because you know the standard  works on  the
subject, and then, orthodox as you are... But in  the economic, not touching
religion, domain,  the priest spells poverty.  Spain  again, you saw  in the
war, compared with  goahead America. Turks, it's  in  the dogma.  Because if
they didn't believe they'd go straight to heaven when they die they'd try to
live better  - at  least, so I think. That's the juggle on which  the p.p.'s
raise the wind on  false pretences. I'm, he resumed, with dramatic force, as
good  an Irishman as that rude person I told  you about at the  outset and I
want to see everyone, concluded he, all creeds and classes pro rata having a
comfortable tidysized income, in no niggard fashion either, something in the
neighbourhood of #300 per annum That's the  vital issue  at  stake and  it's
feasible and would  be provocative of friendlier intercourse between man and
man. At least that's  my idea for what  it's worth. I call that  patriotism.
Ubi patria, as we learned a small smattering of in our classical day in Alma
Mater, vita bene. Where you can live well, the sense is, if you work.
     Over his  untasteable apology  for a  cup of coffee, listening to  this
synopsis of things in general, Stephen stared at  nothing  in particular. He
could hear, of course, all kinds of  words changing colour like those  crabs
about  Ringsend  in  the morning,  burrowing  quickly into  all  colours  of
different sorts of the same sand where they had a  home somewhere beneath or
seemed to. Then he looked  up and saw the eyes  that said or didn't say  the
words the voice he heard said - if you work.
     -- Count me out, he managed to remark, meaning to work.
     The eyes were surprised at this observation, because as he,  the person
who owned  them pro. tem. observed, or  rather,  his voice speaking did: All
must work, have to, together.
     -- I mean, of course, the other hastened to affirm, work in  the widest
possible sense. Also literary labour, not merely for the kudos of the thing.
Writing for  the newspapers  which is  the readiest channel nowadays. That's
work too. Important work. After all,  from the little I know  of you,  after
all  the  money expended  on  your  education, you are  entitled  to  recoup
yourself and command your price. You have every bit as much right to live by
your pen in pursuit  of your  philosophy as the peasant has. What?  You both
belong to Ireland, the brain and the brawn. Each is equally important.
     --  You suspect,  Stephen  retorted with a sort of a half laugh, that I
may  be important  because  I  belong to  the  faubourg Saint Patrice called
Ireland for short.
     -- I would go a step farther, Mr Bloom insinuated.
     -- But I suspect,  Stephen interrupted, that Ireland must  be important
because it belongs to me.
     --  What belongs?  queried Mr Bloom,  bending, fancying he was  perhaps
under some  misapprehension.  Excuse me.  Unfortunately  I didn't catch  the
latter portion. What was it you?...
     Stephen,  patently  crosstempered, repeated and shoved aside his mug of
coffee, Or whatever you like to call it, none too politely, adding:
     -- We can't change the country. Let us change the subject.
     At this pertinent suggestion, Mr Bloom,  to change the  subject, looked
down, but  in a quandary, as  he couldn't tell  exactly what construction to
put  on  belongs  to which sounded rather a far cry. The rebuke of some kind
was clearer than the other part. Needless  to  say, the  fumes of his recent
orgy spoke then with some  asperity in a curious bitter way, foreign  to his
sober state. Probably the  home life, to  which Mr Bloom attached the utmost
importance, had not been all that was needful or he hadn't been familiarised
with the right sort of people. With a touch of fear for the young man beside
him,  whom he  furtively  scrutinised  with  an  air of  some  consternation
remembering he  had just come back  from  Paris, the  eyes  more  especially
reminding him forcibly of father and  sister, failing to throw much light on
the subject, however, he brought to  mind instances of cultured fellows that
promised so brilliantly, nipped in the bud of premature decay, and nobody to
blame but  themselves. For instance, there was the  case of O'Callaghan, for
one,  the  half  crazy 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  dиnouement after the  fun  had gone  on  fast and furious he got
landed into hot water and had to be spirited  away by a few friends, after a
strong  hint to a blind horse from John Mallon  of Lower  Castle Yard, so as
not to be made amenable under section two of the Criminal Law Amendment Act,
certain names of  those subpoenaed  being handed in  but  not divulged,  for
reasons which will occur to anyone  with a pick of  brains. Briefly, putting
two and two together, six  sixteen, which he pointedly turned a deaf ear to,
Antonio and so forth, jockeys and esthetes and the tattoo which was all  the
go  in the seventies or thereabouts, even  In  the  House of  Lords, because
early  in  life the occupant  of  the throne,  then heir apparent, the other
members of the  upper ten and other high personages simply  following in the
footsteps  of the head  of the  state,  he  reflected  about the  errors  of
notorieties  and  crowned  heads  running counter  to morality  such  as the
Cornwall case a number of years before under their  veneer in a way scarcely
intended by nature, a thing  good Mrs  Grundy as the law stands was terribly
down on, though not for the reason they thought they were probably, whatever
it was, except women chiefly, who were  always fiddling more or less at  one
another,  it being largely a matter  of dress and all the rest of it. Ladies
who like distinctive underclothing should, and every well tailored man must,
trying to make the gap  wider  between them by innuendo and  give  more of a
genuine fillip 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 interest  and duty even to
wait on and profit  by  the unlooked for occasion, though why, he  could not
exactly  tell,  being,  as  it  was,  already  several shillings to the bad,
having, in fact, let himself in for it. Still, to cultivate the acquaintance
of someone of no  uncommon calibre  who could provide  food  for  reflection
would amply  repay any small... Intellectual  stimulation  as  such  was, he
felt,  from time to time a firstrate tonic for  the mind. Added to which was
the coincidence  of  meeting,  discussion, dance, row, old salt, of the here
today and gone tomorrow type, night loafers, the whole galaxy of events, all
went to make up a miniature cameo of the world we live in, especially as the
lives of  the submerged tenth, viz.,  coalminers,  divers, scavengers, etc.,
were  very much under the microscope lately. To improve the shining  hour he
wondered whether he might meet with anything approaching the same luck as Mr
Philip  Beaufoy if taken  down in writing.  Suppose he were to pen something
out of  the  common groove (as he fully  intended  doing) at the rate of one
guinea per column, My Experiences, let us say, in a Cabman's Shelter.
     The pink edition, extra sporting, of the Telegraph, tell a graphic lie,
lay, as  luck  would have it, beside his elbow and  as he  was just puzzling
again, far from satisfied, over a country belonging to him and the preceding
rebus  the vessel came from Bridgwater and the  postcard was addressed to A.
Boudin, find the captain's age,  his eyes went aimlessly over the respective
captions  which came under  his special province, the  allembracing  give us
this day our daily press. First he got a bit of a start but it turned out to
be only something about somebody named H. du Boyes, agent for typewriters or
something like that. Great battle  Tokio. Lovemaking in  Irish #200 damages.
Gordon  Bennett. Emigration  swindle. Letter  from  His Grace William. Ascot
Throwaway recalls  Derby of '92 when Captain Marshall's dark horse, Sir Hugo
, captured the blue riband 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.
     -- 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 internment  in Clasnevin. The deceased  gentleman was a most
popular and  genial personality  in  city life and his demise, after a brief
illness, came as 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  & Son,  164  North  Strand  road. The  mourners
included: Patk. Dignam (son),  Bernard  Corrigan  (motherinlaw), John  Henry
Menton, solr.,  Martin Cunningham,  John Power  eatondph  1/8  ador  dorador
douradora (must be where  he called Monks  the dayfather about  Keyes's ad),
Thomas Kernan,  Simon Dedalus,  Stephen Dedalus,  B.  A., Edward J. Lambert,
Cornelius Kelleher, Joseph M'C. Hynes, L. Boom, C. P. M'Coy, - M'Intosh, and
several others.
     Nettled not a little by L. Boom (as it incorrectly stated) and the line
of  bitched type, but tickled to death  simultaneously  by  C. P. M'Coy  and
Stephen Dedalus,  B.  A.,  who  were conspicuous, needless to say, by  their
total absence (to  say nothing of M'Intosh), L. Boom pointed  it out to  his
companion  B.  A., engaged in stifling  another yawn, half nervousness,  not
forgetting the usual crop of nonsensical howlers of misprints.
     --  Is  that  first epistle to the Hebrews,  he asked,  as soon  as his
bottom jaw would let him, in? Text: open thy mouth and put thy foot in it.
     -- It is, really, Mr Bloom said (though first he fancied  he alluded to
the archbishop till he added about  foot and mouth with which there could be
no  possible  connection)  overjoyed to set  his  mind  at  rest and  a  bit
flabbergasted at Myles Crawford's after all managing the thing, there.
     While  the other was reading  it on page two Boom (to give him  for the
nonce  his new misnomer) whiled away a  few odd leisure moments in  fits and
starts  with the  account  of the  third event at Ascot on page  three,  his
sidevalue 1,000 sovs., with 3,000 sovs. In specie added for entire colts and
fillies, Mr F. Alexander's  Throwaway, b.h. by Rightaway, 5 yrs, 9 st 4 lbs,
Thrale  (W. Lane) 1. Lord Howard de  Walden's Zinfandel (M. Cannon) 2. Mr W.
Bass's Sceptre, 3. Betting  5  to 4  on Zinfandel,  20 to 1 Throwaway (off).
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 Braine so that Lenehan's version  of the business
was all  pure buncombe.  Secured  the  verdict  cleverly by a length.  1,000
sovs.,  with 3,000 in specie. Also ran J.  de Bremond's (French horse Bantam
Lyons was anxiously  inquiring after  not  in yet but  expected any  minute)
Maximum II. Different  ways  of bringing  off  a  coup.  Lovemaking damages.
Though that  halfbaked Lyons ran  off at a tangent in his impetuosity to get
left.  Of  course,  gambling eminently  lent  itself to that  sort  of thing
though,  as  the  event  turned  out, the  poor fool hadn't much  reason  to
congratulate himself  on  his pick,  the forlorn  hope. Guesswork it reduced
itself to eventually.
     -- There was every indication they would arrive at that, Mr Bloom said.
     -- Who? the other, whose hand by the way was hurt, said.
     One  morning  you would open the  paper, the cabman affirmed, and read,
Return of  Parnell. He  bet them  what  they liked. A Dublin fusilier was in
that shelter  one night and said he  saw  him  in South Africa. Pride it was
killed him. He ought to have done away with himself or  lain  low for a time
after Committee Room No. 15 until  he was  his old self again with no-one to
point a finger  at him. Then they would all to a man have gone down on their
marrowbones to him  to come  back when he had recovered his senses.  Dead he
wasn't. Simply absconded somewhere. The coffin they brought over was full of
stones.  He changed his name  to De Wet, the Boer general. He made a mistake
to fight the priests. And so forth and so on.
     All the same Bloom (properly so dubbed) was  rather surprised at  their
memories for in nine cases out of  ten it was  a case of tarbarrels, and not
singly  but in their thousands, and  then complete  oblivion because it  was
twenty  odd years.  Highly  unlikely, of course, there was even  a shadow of
truth  in  the  stories  and,  even  supposing,  he thought a  return highly
inadvisable, all  things  considered. Something evidently riled  them in his
death. Either  he  petered out too tamely of  acute pneumonia just  when his
various different political arrangements  were nearing completion or whether
it transpired he owed his death to  his having neglected to change his boots
and clothes  after a wetting when  a cold resulted and failing  to consult a
specialist he being confined to his room till he eventually  died of it amid
widespread  regret before a fortnight was at an  end or quite possibly  they
were distressed to  find the job was taken  out  of  their  hands. Of course
nobody being acquainted with his movements even before, there was absolutely
no clue as to his whereabouts which were decidedly  of the Alice, where  art
thou order even prior to his starting to  go under several  aliases  such as
Fox and Stewart, so  the remark which emanated from friend  cabby  might  be
within the bounds of  possibility. Naturally then, it would prey on his mind
as a  born leader of men, which undoubtedly he was, and a commanding figure,
a sixfooter or  at any rate five feet ten or  eleven in his stockinged feet,
whereas Messrs So-and-So who, though they weren't even a patch on the former
man,  ruled the roost after their redeeming features were  very few and  far
between. It certainly  pointed a moral, the idol with feet of clay. And then
seventytwo of  his trusty henchmen  rounding on him with mutual mudslinging.
And the identical same with  murderers. You had to come back - that haunting
sense kind of drew you - to show the understudy in the title rтle 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 expression
notwithstanding the little misadventure  mentioned  between the cup and  the
lip - what's bred in the  bone.  Still,  as regards return, you were a lucky
dog if they didn't set the terrier at you directly  you got back. Then a lot
of shillyshally usually followed. Tom for and  Dick  and  Harry against. And
then, number  one, you  came up against the man  in  possession and  had  to
produce  your credentials, like the claimant in  the Tichborne  case,  Roger
Charles Tichborne. Bella was the boat's name to the best of his recollection
he,  the heir, went down in, as the evidence went to show, and  there was  a
tattoo mark too in Indian ink,  Lord Bellew, was it? As he might very easily
have picked up the details from some pal on board ship and then, when got up
to tally with the description  given, introduce himself with, Excuse me,  my
name is So-and-So or some such commonplace remark. A more prudent course, Mr
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 town-clerk, Henry
Campbell remarked, and plenty of her. I seen her picture in a barber's.  Her
husband was a captain or an officer.
     -- Ay, Skin-the-Goat amusingly added. He was, and a cottonball one.
     This gratuitous contribution  of a humorous character occasioned a fair
amount of laughter  among his entourage.  As regards Bloom, he, without  the
faintest suspicion of a smile, merely gazed in the direction of the door and
reflected  upon  the historic story which had aroused extraordinary interest
at the time when the facts, to make matters worse, were made public with the
usual affectionate letters that passed between them, full of sweet nothings.
First,  it was  strictly  platonic till nature intervened and  an attachment
sprang up between them, till bit by bit  matters came  to  a  climax and the
matter  became  the talk  of the town  till the  staggering blow  came  as a
welcome  intelligence to not a few evildisposed  however,  who were resolved
upon encouraging his downfall though the thing was public property all along
though not  to anything  like the  sensational extent  that it  subsequently
blossomed into. Sino  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  that the  weeklies,  addicted  to the lubric  a little,  simply coined
shoals  of money  out  of. Whereas  the  simple fact of the  case was it was
simply a case of the husband  not  being  up  to the scratch with nothing in
common  between  them beyond the name and then  a real man  arriving  on the
scene, strong to the verge of weakness, falling a victim to her siren charms
and forgetting  home ties. The  usual sequel,  to  bask  in  the loved one's
smiles. The eternal question of the life connubial, needless to say, cropped
up. Can real  love, supposing  there happens to be another chap in the case,
exist between married folk? Though it was no concern of theirs absolutely if
he  regarded  her  with  affection  carried away  by  a  wave  of  folly.  A
magnificent  specimen of manhood he was truly,  augmented obviously by gifts
of a  high order as compared with the other military  supernumerary, that is
(who was just the  usual  everyday  farewell, my gallant captain kind  of an
individual in  the  light dragoons, the 18th  hussars to  be  accurate), and
inflammable doubtless (the fallen leader, that is, not the other) in his own
peculiar way which she of course, woman,  quickly perceived as highly likely
to  carve  his way to fame, which he almost bid fair  to do till the priests
and ministers of the gospel as a whole, his erstwhile staunch  adherents and
his beloved evicted tenants for whom he had done yeoman service in the rural
parts of the country by taking  up the cudgels on their behalf in a way that
exceeded  their  most  sanguine expectations,  very  effectually  cooked his
matrimonial goose, thereby heaping  coals of fire  on his head,  much in the
same way as the fabled ass's kick. Looking back now in  a retrospective kind
of arrangement,  all seemed a kind  of  dream. And the  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. And, if I don't greatly mistake, she was Spanish too.
     --  The king of Spain's daughter, Stephen answered, adding something or
other  rather muddled about farewell and adieu to you Spanish onions and the
first land called the Deadman and from Ramhead to Scilly was so and so many.
     --  Was  she? Bloom  ejaculated surprised, though not astonished by any
means.  I never heard that rumour before. Possible, especially there it was,
as she lived there. So, Spain.
     Carefully avoiding a  book in his  pocket Sweets of, which reminded him
by  the by of  that  Capel street library  book out of date, he took out his
pocketbook and, turning over the various contents rapidly, finally he.
     -- Do you consider, by the by, he said, thoughtfully selecting  a fades
photo which he laid on the table, that a Spanish type?
     Stephen, obviously addressed, looked  down on the photo showing a large
sized lady,  with  her fleshy charms on evidence in an  open fashion, as she
was in the  full bloom of womanhood, In evening dress cut ostentatiously low
for the occasion to give a liberal  display of  bosom, with more than vision
of  breasts,  her full lips  parted, and some perfect teeth,  standing near,
ostensibly with gravity,  a piano, on the rest of which was In old Madrid, a
ballad, pretty in its  way, which was then all  the  vogue. Her (the lady's)
eyes, dark, large, looked at Stephen, about to smile  about  something to be
admired,  Lafayette of  Westmoreland street,  Dublin's premier  photographic
artist, being responsible for the esthetic execution.
     Mrs  Bloom,  my  wife  the  prima  donna,  Madam  Marion Tweedy,  Bloom
indicated. Taken a few years since. In or about '96. Very like her then.
     Beside  the young man  he looked also at the photo of  the lady now his
legal  wife who, he intimated,  was the accomplished daughter of Major Brian
Tweedy and  displayed  at an early  age remarkable  proficiency as a  singer
having even made  her bow to the public when her years numbered barely sweet
sixteen. As for the face, it  was a speaking  likeness in  expression but it
did not do justice to her figure, which came in for a lot of notice  usually
and  which  did not come out to  the best advantage  in that getup She could
without difficulty, he said, have posed for  the ensemble,  not to dwell  on
certain opulent curves of the... He dwelt, being  a  bit of an artist in his
spare time, on the female form in general developmentally because,  as it so
happened, no later than that afternoon, he had  seen  those Grecian statues,
perfectly developed  as  works of art, in the National  Museum. Marble could
give  the  original, shoulders, back,  all the symmetry. All the  rest, yes,
Puritanism. It does though, St Joseph's sovereign... whereas no photo could,
because it simply wasn't art, in a word.
     The  spirit moving  him, he would  much have liked to follow Jack Tar's
good example and leave  the likeness there for  a very few minutes  to speak
for itself on the plea he... so that the other could drink in the beauty for
himself,  her  stage presence being, frankly,  a  treat  in itself which the
camera could  not at  all do  justice to. But it  was  scarcely professional
etiquette  so,  though  it was  a  warm pleasant sort  of  a night  now  yet
wonderfully cool for the season considering, for sunshine after storm... And
he  did  feel a kind of  need there and then to  follow suit like a  kind of
inward voice  and satisfy a possible  need by moving a motion. Nevertheless,
he sat tight,  just viewing  the slightly soiled  photo  creased  by opulent
curves, none the worse for wear, however, and looked  away thoughtfully with
the intention of  not further increasing the other's possible  embarrassment
while  gauging  her symmetry  of  heaving embonpoint.  In  fact,  the slight
soiling was only an  added charm,  like  the case of  linen slightly soiled,
good as new, much better, in fact, with the starch out. Suppose she was gone
when he?... I looked for the lamp which  she told me came into his  mind but
merely as a passing  fancy  of his because he then recollected  the  morning
littered bed etcetera and the book about Ruby with met him pike  hoses (sic)
in  it  which  must have  fell  down sufficiently  appropriately beside  the
domestic chamberpot with apologies to Lindley Murray.
     The  vicinity  of  the  young  man  he  certainly  relished,  educated,
distinguи,  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
make-believe went on about that sort of thing involving a lifelong slur with
the usual  splash  page of letterpress 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  to  show cause  why and,  he failing  to quash  it,  nisi was  made
absolute. But as for that, the two misdemeanants, wrapped up as they largely
were in one another, could  safely afford to ignore  it as they very largely
did till  the  matter  was put  in  the hands of  a solicitor,  who filed  a
petition  for  the party  wronged in  due  course. He,  Bloom,  enjoyed  the
distinction of being  close to Erin's  uncrowned king in the  flesh when the
thing  occurred  in  the historic fracas  when  the  fallen leader's  -  who
notoriously stuck  to  his  guns  to the last drop  even when clothed in the
mantle of  adultery - (leader's) trusty  henchmen to the number of ten  or a
dozen or possibly even more than that penetrated  into the printing works of
the  Insuppressible or no it was United Ireland  (a by no means,  by the by,
appropriate  appellative)  and  broke  up  the  typecases  with  hammers  or
something like  that  all on  account  of some scurrilous effusions from the
facile  pens of the O'Brienite scribes at the usual mudslinging  occupation,
reflecting on  the erstwhile tribune's  private morals.  Though  palpably  a
radically  altered man, he was still a  commanding figure, though carelessly
garbed as usual,  with that look of  settled  purpose which went a  long way
with  the shillyshallyers till they  discovered to  their  vast discomfiture
that their idol had feet of clay, after placing  him upon  a pedestal, which
she,  however, was the  first  to  perceive. As  those were particularly hot
times in the general hullaballoo Bloom sustained a minor injury from a nasty
prod  of  some chap's elbow in the  crowd that of course congregated lodging
some  place  about the  pit  of  the  stomach, fortunately  not  of a  grave
character.  His hat  (Parnell's) 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, 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  cabmen and  so  on, who passed it  all  off  as  a  jest,  laughing
immoderately,  pretending   to  understand  everything,  the  why  and   the
wherefore, and in  reality not knowing their own minds, it  being a case for
the two  parties  themselves unless it ensued that  the  legitimate  husband
happened to be a party to it owing  to  some anonymous letter from the usual
boy  Jones,  who happened  to come  across them at  the crucial moment in  a
loving  position locked  in one  another's arms drawing attention  to  their
illicit proceedings and leading up  to a domestic rumpus and the erring fair
one begging forgiveness of her lord and master upon her knees  and promising
to  sever the  connection and  not  receive his visits any more  if only the
aggrieved husband would overlook the matter and let bygones be bygones, with
tears in her eyes, though  possibly with her tongue in her fair cheek at the
same time, as quite possibly there were several others. He personally, being
of  a sceptical bias,  believed, and  didn't make  the smallest  bones about
saying so either, that man, or men in the plural, were always hanging around
on the waiting list about a lady, even supposing she  was the best  wife  in
the world  and they got on fairly well  together  for  the sake of argument,
when, neglecting her duties, she  chose  to be tired of wedded life, and was
on  for a little flutter in polite debauchery to press their  attentions  on
her with improper  intent, the upshot being  that her affections centred  on
another, the cause of many liaisons  between still attractive  married women
getting on  for fair and forty and  younger men, no doubt as several  famous
cases of feminine infatuation proved up to the hilt.
     It was a thousand  pities  a young fellow  blessed with an allowance of
brains, as his neighbour obviously was, should waste his valuable time  with
profligate women,  who  might present him with  a  nice dose to last him his
lifetime. In the nature of single  blessedness  he would one  day  take unto
himself a wife when Miss Right came on the scene but  in the interim ladies'
society  was  a  conditio sine  qua  non though he had  the gravest possible
doubts,  not that  he  wanted  in  the  smallest to pump Stephen  about Miss
Ferguson (who was very possibly the particular lodestar who brought him down
to  Irishtown  so  early in  the morning), as to  whether he would find much
satisfaction basking in the boy and  girl  courtship idea and the company of
smirking misses  without a penny to their names bi- or  tri-weekly  with the
orthodox  preliminary canter of  complimentpaying and walking out leading up
to fond  lovers'  ways  and flowers and chocs.  To think  of  him  house and
homeless, rooked by some landlady worse than any stepmother, was  really too
bad at his age. The queer  suddenly things he popped  out with attracted the
elder man who  was several years the other's senior  or like his father. But
something substantial he certainly ought  to  eat, were  it  only an eggflip
made on unadulterated maternal nutriment or, failing that, the homely Humpty
Dumpty boiled.
     -- At what  o'clock did you  dine?  he questioned of the slim form  and
tired though unwrinkled face.
     -- Some time yesterday, Stephen said.
     --  Yesterday,  exclaimed  Bloom  till  he  remembered it  was  already
tomorrow, Friday. Ah, you mean it's after twelve!
     -- The day before yesterday, Stephen said, improving on himself.
     Literally  astounded  at this piece  of  intelligence, Bloom reflected.
Though  they didn't  see eye to  eye in everything, a certain analogy  there
somehow was, as if both their minds were travelling, so to speak, in the one
train of thought. At his age when dabbling in politics roughly some score of
years previously when he had been a quasi aspirant to  parliamentary honours
in the Buckshot  Foster  days he too recollected in retrospect (which was  a
source of keen  satisfaction in itself) he  had a sneaking  regard for those
same  ultra ideas. For instance, when the evicted tenants' question, then at
its  first  inception,  bulked  largely  in  people's minds 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 further 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 at the
gathering  of  the  clans in Barney  Kiernan's  so  that  he,  though  often
considerably  misunderstood  and  the  least  pugnacious of  mortals,  be it
repeated, departed from his customary habit to give him (metaphorically) one
in the gizzard though so far as politics themselves were  concerned, he  was
only  too conscious of the  casualties  invariably resulting from propaganda
and displays of mutual animosity and the misery and suffering it entailed as
a  foregone  conclusion on  fine  young fellows, chiefly, destruction of the
fittest, in a word.
     Anyhow, upon weighing 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  that  he  was  a  bit
standoffish or not over effusive  but  it grew on him someway. For one thing
he  mightn't what you call jump at the idea,  if approached, and what mostly
worried  him was  he didn't know how  to lead up to it  or word  it exactly,
supposing he did  entertain the proposal, as it would afford him  very great
personal pleasure if  he  would allow him  to help to put coin in his way or
some wardrobe, if found suitable. At  all events  he wound up by concluding,
eschewing  for  the nonce hidebound precedent, a cup of Epps's cocoa  and  a
shakedown for the night plus the  use of a rug  or two and  overcoat doubled
into a pillow. At least he would be in safe hands and as warm as a  toast on
a  trivet. He failed to perceive any very vast amount of harm in that always
with the proviso no rumpus of any sort was kicked up. A move had  to be made
because that merry old soul,  the grasswidower in question, who  appeared to
be glued to the spot,  didn't appear in any particular hurry to wend his way
home  to  his dearly  beloved  Queenstown  and  it  was highly  likely  some
sponger's bawdyhouse of  retired beauties 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 XX
equal my right  name and address, as Mr Algebra  remarks passim. At the same
time he inwardly chuckled over his repartee to  the blood and  ouns champion
about his God being  a jew. People could put up with  being bitten by a wolf
but  what properly riled  them was a  bite from a sheep. The most vulnerable
point  too of  tender  Achilles, your  God  was  a  jew, because mostly they
appeared to imagine  he came from  Carrick-on-Shannon or somewhere  about 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 with me  and talk things  over. My  diggings are  quite  close  in  the
vicinity. You can't drink that stuff. 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 (Bloom's) busy
brain.  Education  (the  genuine  article),  literature,  journalism,  prize
titbits, up to date billing, hydros  and  concert tours in  English watering
resorts packed  with theatres, turning money away, duets in Italian with the
accent perfectly true to nature and a quantity of other things, no necessity
of  course to tell the world and his wife from the housetops about it and  a
slice of luck. An opening was all was wanted. Because he more than suspected
he had his  father's voice to bank his hopes on which  it was  quite on  the
cards he had  so it would be just as well, by  the way no harm, to trail the
conversation in the direction of that particular red herring just to.
     The  cabby read out  of the  paper he had got  hold of that the  former
viceroy, earl Cadogan, had presided at the cabdrivers' association dinner in
London  somewhere. Silence  with a  yawn or two  accompanied  this thrilling
announcement. Then the old specimen in the corner who appeared to  have some
spark of vitality left read out  that Sir Anthony MacDonnell had left Euston
for the chief secretary's lodge  or words to that effect. To which absorbing
piece  of  intelligence  echo answered  why.  -  Give us  a squint  at  that
literature,  grandfather,  the  ancient  mariner  put  in, manifesting  some
natural impatience.
     -- And welcome, answered the elderly party thus addressed.
     The  sailor lugged out from a case he  had a pair  of  greenish goggles
which he very slowly hooked over his nose and both ears.
     -- Are you bad  in the  eyes? the  sympathetic personage like  the town
clerk 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  sea-green
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.
     Thereupon  he pawed the journal  open and pored  upon  Lord only  knows
what,  found drowned or the exploits of King Willow, Iremonger having made a
hundred and something  second wicket not  out for  Notts, during  which time
(completely regardless of Ire)  the keeper was  intensely occupied loosening
an apparently new  or  secondhand boot  which manifestly pinched him, as  he
muttered against whoever it was  sold it, all of them who were  sufficiently
awake enough to be picked out  by their facial expressions, that is to  say,
either simply looking on glumly or passing a trivial remark.
     To  cut a long story short Bloom, grasping the situation, was the first
to rise to  his feet 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 to 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
sиance.
     Seeing that the ruse worked and the coast  was  clear,  they  left  the
shelter  or shanty together and  the иlite society of  oil skin  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 to...
     -- One thing I never understood, he said, to be original on the spur of
the moment, why they put tables upside  down at night, I  mean chairs upside
down on the tables In cafes.
     To which  impromptu the never failing  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 by,
the 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. It's
not far. Lean on me.
     Accordingly he  passed his left arm in  Stephen's  right and led him on
accordingly.
     -- Yes, Stephen  said uncertainly, because he thought he felt a strange
kind of flesh of a different man approach him, sinewless and  wobbly and all
that.
     Anyhow, they passed the sentrybox with stones,  brazier, etc. where the
municipal  supernumerary, ex-Gumley, was still to  all intents and  purposes
wrapped in the arms of Murphy, as the adage has it, dreaming of fresh fields
and  pastures new. And apropos of coffin of  stones, the analogy was  not at
all bad, as it was in fact a stoning to death on  the part of seventytwo out
of eighty  odd constituencies  that  ratted  at the time  of  the split  and
chiefly the belauded peasant class, probably the selfsame evicted tenants he
had put in their holdings.
     So  they passed on  to  chatting  about music, a form of art  for which
Bloom,  as a pure amateur, possessed the greatest love, as they  made tracks
arm-in-arm across Beresford place. Wagnerian music, though confessedly grand
in  its way, was a bit too heavy  for Bloom and hard to follow at  the first
go-off but the music of Mercadante's Huguenots, Meyerbeer's Seven Last Words
on the Cross, and Mozart's  Twelfth Mass, he simply  revelled in, the Gloria
in that  being to his mind the  acme of first class music as such, literally
knocking  everything else into  a  cocked hat.  He infinitely preferred  the
sacred  music  of  the catholic  church to anything the opposite  shop could
offer in  that  line such as those Moody and Sankey hymns or Bid  me to live
and I will  live thy  protestant to  be. He  also  yielded  to  none  in his
admiration of  Rossini's  Stabat Mater,  a work simply abounding in immortal
numbers,  in which his  wife,  Madam Marion Tweedy, made a  hit, a veritable
sensation,  he might safely  say  greatly adding  to her other  laurels  and
putting the others totally in the shade  in  the jesuit  fathers'  church in
Upper Gardiner  street,  the  sacred edifice being thronged  to the doors to
hear her with virtuosos, or virtuosi rather. There was the unanimous opinion
that there was none to  come up to her and, suffice it to say in a  place of
worship for music of a sacred character, there was a generally voiced desire
for an encore. On the whole, though favouring preferably light  opera of the
Don Giovanni description, and Martha, a gem in  its line, he had a penchant,
though with only a surface knowledge, for the  severe classical  school such
as Mendelssohn. And talking of that, taking it for granted he knew all about
the old  favourites,  he  mentioned par excellence  Lionel's  air in Martha,
M'appari,  which,  curiously  enough,  he 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 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 Bloom did not quite recall, though the name certainly
sounded familiar, for sixtyfive  guineas and Farnaby and  son with their dux
and comes conceits and Byrd (William), who played the virginals, he said, in
the  Queen's Chapel or anywhere else he found them  and one Tomkins who made
toys or airs and John Bull.
     On the roadway which they were approaching whilst still speaking beyond
the swing chain, 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 a right the allusion  to sixtyfive
guineas  and John  Bull.  He inquired  if  it  was  John  Bull the political
celebrity of  that  ilk, as it struck him,  the  two  identical names,  as a
striking coincidence.
     By  the  chains,  the horse  slowly swerved  to turn, which  perceiving
Bloom, who was keeping a  sharp lookout as usual plucked the  other's sleeve
gently, jocosely remarking:
     -- Our lives are in peril tonight. Beware of the steamroller.
     They  thereupon stopped. Bloom looked at the head of  a horse not worth
anything  like  sixtyfive  guineas,  suddenly in evidence  in the dark quite
near, so that it seemed  new, a different grouping of  bones and even flesh,
because palpably  it  was  a  fourwalker,  a hipshaker, a  blackbuttocker, a
taildangler, a headhanger, putting his hind foot foremost the while the lord
of his creation sat on  the perch, busy with his  thoughts. But such  a good
poor  brute,  he was sorry he  hadn't  a  lump  of sugar  but, as he  wisely
reflected,  you  could scarcely be prepared  for every emergency  that might
crop up. He was just a big foolish nervous noodly kind of a horse, without a
second care in the world. But even a dog, he reflected, take that mongrel in
Barney Kiernan's, of the same size, would be a holy  horror to  face. But it
was no animal's fault in particular if he was built that way like the camel,
ship of the desert, distilling grapes into potheen in  his hump. Nine tenths
of them all could be caged or trained, nothing beyond the art of man barring
the  bees; whale with a harpoon hairpin,  alligator, tickle the small of his
back  and he sees the joke; chalk a circle  for  a  rooster; tiger, my eagle
eye. These  timely  reflections  anent  the brutes of the field occupied his
mind, somewhat distracted from Stephen's words, while the ship of the street
was manoeuvring and Stephen went on about the highly interesting old...
     -- What's  this I was saying?  Ah, yes! My wife, he intimated, plunging
in  medias  res,  would  have  the  greatest  of  pleasure  in  making  your
acquaintance as she is passionately attached to music of any kind.
     He looked  sideways in a  friendly fashion at the sideface of  Stephen,
image of his mother, which  was not  quite the  same as the usual blackguard
type  they  unquestionably  had an  indubitable  hankering after  as he  was
perhaps not that way built.
     Still, supposing he had his father's gift, as he more  than  suspected,
it opened up new vistas in his mind, such as Lady Fingall's Irish industries
concert on the preceding Monday, and aristocracy in general.
     Exquisite variations he was now describing on an air Youth here has End
by Jans Pieter Sweelinck, a Dutchman of Amsterdam where the frows come from.
Even more he  liked an old German  song of Johannes Jeep about the clear sea
and the voices of sirens, sweet murderers of men, which boggled Bloom a bit:
     Von der Sirenen Listigkeit
     Tun die Poeten dichten.
     These opening  bars he  sang  and translated extempore. Bloom, nodding,
said he perfectly understood  and begged him to go on by all means, which he
did.
     A phenomenally beautiful tenor voice  like that, the rarest  of  boons,
which Bloom appreciated at the very first note he got out, could  easily, if
properly  handled by some recognised authority  on voice  production such as
Barraclough  and being able to read  music into the bargain, command its own
price where  baritones  were  ten  a penny  and procure  for  its  fortunate
possessor in the  near future an  entrиe into fashionable houses in the best
residential quarters,  of financial magnates in a large way of  business and
titled people where, with his university degree of B. A.  (a  huge ad in its
way) and gentlemanly  bearing to all  the more influence the good impression
he  would  infallibly  score  a distinct success, being blessed with  brains
which also could be utilised for the  purpose  and other  requisites, if his
clothes were  properly attended  to, so as to the better worm his  way  into
their  good  graces as he, a youthful tyro in  society's sartorial niceties,
hardly understood how a  little thing like that could militate against  you.
It was in  fact only a  matter of  months and  he  could easily foresee  him
participating  in  their musical  and  artistic  conversaziones  during  the
festivities of the Christmas season, for choice, causing a slight flutter in
the dovecotes of the fair sex and being made  a  lot  of  by ladies out  for
sensation, cases of which, as he happened to know,  were on record, in fact,
without giving the show away,  he himself once upon a time,  if he cared to,
could  easily have... Added  to which  of  course,  would  be the  pecuniary
emolument by no means to  be sneezed at, going hand in hand with his tuition
fees. Not,  he parenthesised,  that for  the  sake of filthy  lucre he  need
necessarily embrace  the  lyric platform as  a walk in life for  any lengthy
space  of  time but  a step in  the required direction it was, beyond yea or
nay,  and both  monetarily  and mentally it contained no reflection  on  his
dignity in the smallest and it often turned in uncommonly handy to be handed
a cheque  at a muchneeded moment  when every little helped.  Besides, though
taste  latterly had  deteriorated to  a  degree, original  music  like that,
different from the conventional rut, would rapidly have a great vogue, as it
would  be  a  decided  novelty  for  Dublin's musical world after the  usual
hackneyed run of catchy tenor solos foisted on a confiding public by Ivan St
Austell  and Hilton St Just and their genus  omne. Yes, beyond a shadow of a
doubt, he could, with all the cards in his hand and he had a capital opening
to make a name for himself and win a  high place in the  city's esteem where
he could command a stiff figure and, booking ahead, give a grand concert for
the  patrons of  the  King  street  house, given  a  backerup,  if  one were
forthcoming to  kick him  upstairs, so to  speak - a big  if, however - with
some impetus of the goahead  sort to obviate the inevitable  procrastination
which often tripped up a too much  feted prince  of good fellows and it need
not detract from the other  by one  iota as, being his  own master, he would
have heaps of time to practise literature in his spare moments when desirous
of so  doing  without  its clashing  with  his  vocal  career  or containing
anything derogatory  whatsoever as it was  a  matter for  himself alone.  In
fact,  he had the  ball at  his feet and that was  the very  reason  why the
other, possessed of  a remarkably sharp nose for smelling a rat of any sort,
hung on to him at all.
     The horse was just then... and later on, at a propitious opportunity he
purposed (Bloom did), without anyway prying Into  his private affairs on the
fools step in where angels principle advising him  to  sever  his connection
with  a  certain  budding  practitioner,  who,  he  noticed,  was  prone  to
disparage, and even, to a slight extent, with  some hilarious pretext,  when
not  present, deprecate him, or  whatever you like to  call  it,  which,  in
Bloom's humble opinion,  threw a  nasty sidelight on that side of a person's
character - no pun intended.
     The horse, having reached the  end of his  tether, so to speak, halted,
and, rearing high a  proud feathering tail, added his quota  by letting fall
on the floor, which the brush would soon brush up and polish,  three smoking
globes  of turds.  Slowly,  three  times, one  after  another,  from  a full
crupper,  he  mired.  And  humanely his driver waited till  he (or  she) had
ended, patient in his scythed car.
     Side by  side Bloom, profiting by the  contretemps, with Stephen passed
through the gap of the chains, divided by the upright, and, stepping over  a
strand of mire, went across towards Gardiner street lower,  Stephen  singing
more boldly, but not loudly, the end of the ballad:
     Und alle Schiffe brэcken
     The  driver  never  said a  word, good, bad or  indifferent.  He 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 tйte-ю-tйte  (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.



    Ulysses 17: Ithaca


     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 inadvertance as  far as the farther corner of  Temple street, north: 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
glow-lamps  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 male-cent influence of the presabbath, Stephen's
collapse.

     Did  Bloom   discover  common  factors  of   similarity  between  their
respective like and unlike reactions to experience?
     Both were sensitive  to  artistic  impressions musical in preference to
plastic or  pictorial. Both preferred a continental to  an insular manner of
life, a cisatlantic to a transatlantic place of residence. Both indurated by
early domestic  training and an  inherited  tenacity of heterodox resistance
professed their disbelief  in many orthodox  religious, national, social and
ethical  doctrines. Both admitted the alternately  stimulating and obtunding
influence of heterosexual magnetism.

     Were their views on some points divergent?
     Stephen dissented openly from Bloom's view on the importance of dietary
and civic self help while Bloom  dissented tacitly  from Stephen's  views on
the eternal  affirmation of the  spirit of man in literature. Bloom assented
covertly to Stephen's rectification of the anachronism involved in assigning
the date of the conversion of the Irish nation to christianity from druidism
by Patrick  son  of Calpornus, son of Potitus, son of Odyssus,  sent by pope
Celestine  I  in the  year 432  in the reign  of  Leary to the  year  260 or
thereabouts in the reign of Cormac MacArt (266 A.D.) suffocated by imperfect
deglutition  of  aliment at Sletty and interred  at Rossnaree.  The collapse
which Bloom ascribed to gastric inanition  and certain chemical compounds of
varying  degrees  of  adulteration  and  alcoholic strength,  accelerated by
mental  exertion  and the velocity of  rapid circular  motion in  a relaxing
atmosphere, Stephen attributed to  the reapparition  of  a  matutinal  cloud
(perceived by both from two different points  of observation, Sandycove  and
Dublin) at first no bigger than a woman's hand.

     Was there one point on which their views were equal and negative?
     The influence of gaslight or electric light on the  growth of adjoining
paraheliotropic trees.

     Had Bloom discussed similar subjects during nocturnal perambulations in
the past?
     In  1884  with  Ower  Goldberg and Cecil Turnbull  at night  on  public
thoroughfares between Longwood avenue  and  Leonard's  corner and  Leonard's
corner and Synge street and Synge street and Bloomfield avenue. In 1885 with
Percy  Apjohn  in the evenings, reclined against the wall between  Gibraltar
villa  and  Bloomfield house  in  Crumlin, barony  of  Uppercross.  In  1886
occasionally  with  casual  acquaintances   and  prospective  purchasers  on
doorsteps, in  front parlours, in third class railway carriages of  suburban
lines. In  1888 frequently with  major  Brian  Tweedy and  his daughter Miss
Marion  Tweedy, together and  separately on  the  lounge in Matthew Dillon's
house in Roundtown. Once in 1892 and once in 1893 with Julius 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 action did Bloom make on their arrival at their destination?
     At  the  housesteps of the  4th  of the  equidifferent uneven  numbers,
number 7 Eccles  street,  he  inserted his hand  mechanically  into the back
pocket of his trousers to obtain his latchkey.

     Was it there?
     It was in the corresponding pocket of the trousers which he had worn on
the day but one preceding.

     Why was he doubly irritated?
     Because he had forgotten and because he remembered that he had reminded
himself twice not to forget.

     What   were   then  the   alternatives   before   the,   premeditatedly
(respectively) and inadvertently, keyless couple?
     To enter or not to enter. To knock or not to knock.

     Bloom's decision?
     A  stratagem. Resting his  feet on the dwarf wall, he climbed  over the
area railings,  compressed his hat on his  head, grasped two points  at  the
lower union of rails and stiles, lowered his body gradually by its length of
five feet nine inches and a half  to within  two feet ten inches of the area
pavement, and allowed his body to move freely in space by separating himself
from the railings and crouching in preparation for the impact of the fall.

     Did he fall?
     By  his  body's  known  weight of  eleven  stone  and  four  pounds  in
avoirdupois measure,  as certified  by the  graduated machine for periodical
selfweighing in the premises of Francis Fraedman, 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,
mohammedan  era one thousand three hundred and  twentytwo), golden number $,
epact 13, solar  cycle 9, dominical letters C B, Roman  indication 2, Julian
period 6617, MXMIV.

     Did he rise uninjured by concussion?
     Regaining new stable equilibrium he rose uninjured though  concussed by
the impact, raised the latch of  the area door  by the exertion of force  at
its  freely  moving  flange and by leverage of the first kind applied at its
fulcrum gained  retarded  access  to  the  kitchen  through the  subadjacent
scullery, ignited a Lucifer match by friction, set free inflammable coal gas
by  turning on  the ventcock, lit  a high flame  which,  by  regulating,  he
reduced to quiescent candescence and lit finally a portable candle.

     What discrete succession of images did Stephen meanwhile perceive?
     Reclined against the area railings he perceived through the transparent
kitchen  panes a man  regulating a  gasflame  of 14  C P, a man  lighting  a
candle, a man removing  in turn each of his  two boots, a  man  leaving  the
kitchen holding a candle of ICP.

     Did the man reappear elsewhere?
     Alter a lapse of four minutes the glimmer of his candle was discernible
through  the semitransparent semicircular glass fanlight over the  halldoor.
The  halldoor  turned  gradually  on its  hinges. In  the open  space of the
doorway the man reappeared without his hat, with his candle.

     Did Stephen obey his sign?
     Yes,  entering  softly,  he helped  to close  and  chain  the door  and
followed softly along the hallway the man's back and listed feet and lighted
candle past a lighted crevice of  doorway on the  left and  carefully down a
turning staircase of more than five steps into the kitchen of Bloom's house.

     What did Bloom do?
     He  extinguished the  candle by a sharp expiration of  breath upon  its
flame,  drew two spoonseat deal chairs to the  hearthstone, one for  Stephen
with  its  back  to the area window, the other  for himself  when necessary,
knelt  on one knee,  composed in the  grate  a pyre of crosslaid resintipped
sticks and various coloured papers and irregular polygons of best Abram coal
at twentyone shillings a ton from the yard of Messrs Flower  and M'Donald of
14 D'Olier street, kindled  it at  three projecting points of paper with one
ignited lucifer match, thereby releasing  the  potential energy contained in
the  fuel by  allowing its carbon and hydrogen  elements  to enter into free
union with the oxygen of the air.

     Of what similar apparitions did Stephen think?
     Of others elsewhere in other times who, kneeling on one knee or on two,
had  kindled  fires  for  him, of  Brother Michael in  the infirmary  of the
college of the Society of Jesus at Clongowes Wood, Sallins, in the county of
Kildare:  of his father, Simon Dedalus, in an unfurnished room of his  first
residence  in Dublin,  number thirteen Fitzgibbon  street: of his  godmother
Miss  Kate Morkan in the  house of her dying sister Miss Julia Morkan  at 15
Usher's Island: of his mother Mary, wife of Simon Dedalus, in the kitchen of
number twelve  North  Richmond street on  the morning of the  feast of Saint
Francis-Xavier 1898:  of the dean  of studies,  Father Butt, in the physics'
theatre  of  university College, 16  Stephen's  green,  north: of his sister
Dilly (Delia) in his father's house in Cabra.

     What did  Stephen see on raising  his gaze to the height of a yard from
the fire towards the opposite wall?
     Under  a row  of  five  coiled spring housebells  a  curvilinear  rope,
stretched between two holdfasts athwart across the recess beside the chimney
pier, from which hung four smallsized square handkerchiefs folded unattached
consecutively in adjacent  rectangles and one pair of ladies' grey hose with
lisle suspendertops  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
2,400 million gallons, percolating through a subterranean aqueduct of filter
mains  of single and  double pipeage constructed at an initial plant cost of
#5 per linear yard by way of the  Dargle, Rathdown,  Glen of  the  Downs and
Callowhill  to the 26 acre reservoir at Stillorgan, a distance of 22 statute
miles, and thence, through a system of relieving tanks, by a gradient of 250
feet  to the  city boundary at  Eustace  bridge, upper Leeson street, though
from prolonged summer drouth and daily  supply of 12 1/2 million gallons the
water had  fallen below the sill of the  overflow  weir for which reason the
borough  surveyor and  waterworks engineer,  Mr Spencer  Harty, C.E., on the
instructions  of  the  waterworks  committee,  had  prohibited  the  use  of
municipal water for purposes other than those of consumption (envisaging the
possibility of recourse  being  had to the importable water of the Grand and
Royal  canals  as  in  1893)  particularly  as  the  South Dublin Guardians,
notwithstanding  their ration  of 15 gallons  per day  per  pauper  supplied
through a 6  inch  meter,  had been convicted of a wastage of 20,000 gallons
per night by a reading of their meter on the affirmation of the law agent of
the  corporation,  Mr  Ignatius  Rice,  solicitor,  thereby  acting  to  the
detriment  of  another  section  of  the public,  selfsupporting  taxpayers,
solvent, sound.

     What in  water  did Bloom, waterlover,  drawer of  water,  watercarrier
returning to the range, admire?
     Its  universality: its democratic equality and constancy to its  nature
in  seeking  its  own  level:  its  vastness  in  the  ocean  of  Mercator's
projection: its umplumbed  profundity  in  the  Sundam trench of the Pacific
exceeding 8,000 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
billions  of  tons  of  the  most  precious  metals: its  slow  erosions  of
peninsulas and  downwardtending  promontories: its  alluvial  deposits:  its
weight and volume and  density: its imperturbability in lagoons and highland
tarns:  its  gradation  of colours  in the torrid  and  temperate and frigid
zones: its vehicular  ramifications in continental lakecontained streams and
confluent  oceanflowing  rivers  with  their  tributaries  and  transoceanic
currents: gulfstream,  north and south  equatorial courses: its violence  in
seaquakes,   waterspouts,  artesian   wells,  eruptions,  torrents,  eddies,
freshets,   spates,   groundswells,   watersheds,  waterpartings,   geysers,
cataracts, whirlpools, maelstroms, inundations,  deluges,  cloudbursts:  its
vast circumterrestrial ahorizontal curve: its secrecy in springs, and latent
humidity,  revealed   by   rhabdomantic  or   hygrometric   instruments  and
exemplified by the  hole in the  wall  at Ashtown  gate, saturation  of air,
distillation of  dew:  the  simplicity  of its  composition, two constituent
parts of hydrogen with one constituent part of oxygen:  its healing virtues:
its buoyancy in the waters of the  Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness
in runnels, gullies, inadequate dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for
cleansing,  quenching   thirst   and   fire,   nourishing  vegetation:   its
infallibility as  paradigm and paragon: its metamorphoses  as  vapour, mist,
cloud, rain,  sleet, snow, hail: its strength in rigid hydrants: its variety
of forms in loughs  and bays and  gulfs and  bights and guts and lagoons and
atolls  and archipelagos  and  sounds  and  fjords  and  minches  and  tidal
estuaries and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers, icebergs, icefloes: its
docility in working hydraulic  millwheels, turbines, dynamos, electric power
stations,  bleachworks,  tanneries,  scutchmills:  its  utility  in  canals,
rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its potentiality derivable
from harnessed  tides  or watercourses  falling  from  level  to level:  its
submarine  fauna  and  flora (anacoustic,  photophobe) numerically,  if  not
literally, the inhabitants of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90% of
the  human  body: the  noxiousness  of its  effluvia  in lacustrine marshes,
pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning moon.

     Having set the halffilled  kettle  on the now burning coals, why did he
return to the stillflowing tap?
     To  wash  his  soiled  hands  with   a  partially  consumed  tablet  of
Barrington's  lemonflavoured  soap,  to which  paper still  adhered  (bought
thirteen hours previously for fourpence and still unpaid for), in fresh cold
neverchanging  everchanging  water and  dry them, face and hands, in a  long
redbordered holland cloth passed over a wooden revolving roller.

     What reason did Stephen give for declining Bloom's offer?
     That he was hydrophobe, hating partial contact by immersion or total by
submersion  in cold water (his last  bath having taken place in the month of
October  of the preceding year), disliking the aqueous substances  of  glass
and crystal, distrusting aquacities of thought and language.

     What  impeded  Bloom  from  giving  Stephen  counsels  of  hygiene  and
prophylactic  to which should  be added suggestions concerning a preliminary
wetting of the head and contraction of  the muscles  with rapid splashing of
the face and neck and thoracic and epigastric region in case of sea or river
bathing, the parts  of the human anatomy  most  sensitive to  cold being the
nape, stomach, and thenar or sole of foot?
     The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius.

     What additional didactic counsels did he similarly repress?
     Dietary: concerning  the  respective percentage of protein and  caloric
energy in  bacon, salt  ling  and butter, the absence  of the former  in the
lastnamed and the abundance of the latter in the firstnamed.

     Which seemed to the host to be the predominant qualities of his guest?
     Confidence  in himself, an equal and  opposite power of abandonment and
recuperation.

     What concomitant phenomenon  took place in the vessel of liquid by  the
agency of fire?
     The  phenomenon  of  ebullition.  Fanned by  a  constant  updraught  of
ventilation   between  the  kitchen  and  the   chimneyflue,   ignition  was
communicated from the faggots of precombustible fuel to polyhedral masses of
bituminous  coal,  containing  in   compressed  mineral  form  the  foliated
fossilised  decidua  of primeval forests which had  in  turn  derived  their
vegetative  existence  from  the  sun,  primal  source  of  heat  (radiant),
transmitted  through  omnipresent  luminiferous  diathermanous  ether.  Heat
(convected), a mode of motion developed by such  combustion,  was constantly
and  increasingly conveyed from the source of calorification to  the  liquid
contained in the vessel,  being radiated  through the uneven unpolished dark
surface of  the metal  iron,  in part reflected, in  part absorbed, in  part
transmitted, gradually raising the  temperature of the water from  normal to
boiling  point, a  rise in  temperature  expressible  as the  result  of  an
expenditure  of 72 thermal units needed to raise I pound of water from 50
to 212 Fahrenheit.

     What announced the accomplishment of this rise in temperature?
     A double falciform ejection of water vapour from under the kettlelid at
both sides simultaneously.
     For what personal purpose could Bloom have applied the water so boiled?
     To shave himself.

     What advantages attended shaving by night?
     A softer beard: a softer brush if intentionally  allowed to remain from
shave  to shave  in its  agglutinated lather: a softer skin  if unexpectedly
encountering  female acquaintances  in remote places  at incustomary  hours:
quiet  reflections  upon  the course of  the day: a  cleaner sensation  when
awaking  after  a  fresher sleep  since  matutinal noises, premonitions  and
perturbations, a clattered milkcan, a postman's double  knock, a paper read,
reread  while lathering, relathering the  same spot, a  shock, a shoot, with
thought of  aught he sought though fraught with nought might cause a  faster
rate of shaving and a nick on  which incision plaster with precision cut and
humected and applied adhered which was to be done.

     Why did absence of light disturb him less than presence of noises
     Because of  the surety of the sense of touch in his firm full masculine
feminine passive active hand.

     What quality did it  (his  hand) possess  but  with what  counteracting
influence?
     The operative surgical quality but  that he was reluctant to shed human
blood  even when  the  end justified the means, preferring in  their natural
order, heliotherapy, psychophysicotherapeutics, osteopathic surgery.

     What lay under  exposure on the  lower  middle and upper shelves of the
kitchen dresser opened by Bloom?
     On  the lower  shelf  five  vertical  breakfast plates, six  horizontal
breakfast saucers on  which rested inverted  breakfast cups, a moustachecup,
uninverted,  and  saucer of Crown Derby, four white goldrimmed eggcups,  and
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 noggin  and  a quarter  of soured  adulterated  milk,
converted  by  heat into  water, acidulous serum  and  semisolidified curds,
which  added to the quantity subtracted  for  Mr  Bloom's  and Mrs Fleming's
breakfasts made one imperial pint,  the total quantity originally delivered,
two  cloves, a halfpenny  and  a  small  dish containing  a  slice  of fresh
ribsteak.  On the  upper  shelf  a battery of jamjars  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 887, 886.

     What reminiscences temporarily corrugated his brow?
     Reminiscences   of   coincidences,   truth   stranger   than   fiction,
preindicative of the result of  the Gold Cup flat handicap, the official and
definitive  result of  which he had read in the Evening Telegraph, late pink
edition, in the cabman's shelter, at Butt bridge.

     Where had previous intimations  of the  result,  effected or projected,
been received by him?
     In  Bernard  Kiernan's licensed  premises  8, 9 and 10  Little  Britain
street:  in David Byrne's licensed premises, 14  Duke  street:  in O'Connell
street lower, outside Graham Lemon's when a dark man had placed in his  hand
a throwaway (subsequently thrown away), advertising Elijah, restorer  of the
church in Zion: in Lincoln place outside the premises of F. W.  Sweny and Co
(Limited) dispensing  chemists, when,  when Frederick M. (Bantam)  Lyons had
rapidly and successively requested, perused and  restituted the copy  of the
current issue of the Freeman's Journal and National Press which he  had been
about to throw away (subsequently thrown away), he had proceeded towards the
oriental edifice of the Turkish and Warm Baths, 11 Leinster street, with the
light of inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in his arms  the
secret of the race, graven in the language of prediction.

     What qualifying considerations allayed his perturbations?
     The difficulties of interpretation since the significance  of any event
followed its occurrence as  variably  as  the acoustic  report followed  the
electrical discharge and  of counterestimating  against  an actual  loss  by
failure to interpret the total  sum of possible losses proceeding originally
from a successful interpretation.

     His mood?
     He hid not risked, he did not expect, he had not been disappointed,  he
was satisfied.

     What satisfied him?
     To have sustained no positive loss. To have brought a positive gain  to
others. Light to the gentiles.

     How did Bloom prepare a collation for a gentile?
     He  poured into two teacups two level spoonfuls, four in all, of Epps's
soluble cocoa and proceeded  according to the directions for  use printed on
the label, to each adding after sufficient time  for infusion the prescribed
ingredients for diffusion in the manner and in the quantity prescribed.

     What supererogatory marks of special hospitality did the host  show his
guest?
     Relinquishing his symposiarchal right to the moustache cup of imitation
Crown  Derby presented to him by his only  daughter,  Millicent  (Milly), he
substituted   a  cup  identical  with   that   of  his   guest  and   served
extraordinarily to his guest and, in reduced measure, to himself the viscous
cream ordinarily reserved for the breakfast of his wife Marion (Molly).

     Was  the guest  conscious  of and  did  he  acknowledge these marks  of
hospitality?
     His attention was directed to them by his host jocosely and he accepted
them seriously as they drank in jocoserious silence Epps's massproduct,  the
creature cocoa.

     Were  there  marks of hospitality which he contemplated but suppressed,
reserving them for another and for himself on future occasions  to  complete
the act begun?
     The reparation of a  fissure of the length of 1 1/2 inches in the right
side  of his guest's jacket. A gift to his guest of  one of the  four lady's
handkerchiefs, if and when ascertained to be in a presentable condition.

     Who drank more quickly?
     Bloom, having the advantage of ten seconds at the initiation ad 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 on 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 at  10/-, 5/-  and 2/6  respectively  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.
     Bollo edoom
     Old Ollebo, M. P.

     What acrostic upon the abbreviation of his first  name  had he (kinetic
poet) sent to Miss Marion Tweedy on the 14 February 1888?
     Poets oft have sung in rhyme
     Of music sweet their praise divine.
     Let them hymn it nine times nine.
     Bearer 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  (written by  Greenleaf  Whittier,
scenery  by George A. Jackson and  Cecil  Hicks, costumes  by  Mrs  and Miss
Whelan,  produced  by  R.  Shelton  26  December  1892  under  the  personal
supervision  of Mrs  Michael Gunn,  ballets by  Jessie Noir, harlequinade by
Thomas Otto) and sung by Nelly Bouverist principal girl?
     Firstly, oscillation between events  of imperial and of local interest,
the  anticipated diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria (born 1820, acceded 1837)
and the  posticipated opening  of  the new  municipal fish market: secondly,
apprehension of opposition  from extreme  circles  on  the questions of  the
respective  visits  of Their Royal Highnesses, the duke and duchess  of York
(real), and of His Majesty King  Brian Boru (imaginary); thirdly, a conflict
between professional etiquette  and professional  emulation  concerning  the
recent erections of the Grand Lyric Hall on Burgh Quay and the Theatre Royal
in Hawkins street: fourthly, distraction resultant from compassion for Nelly
Bouverist's  non-intellectual,  non-political,  nontopical   expression   of
countenance and concupiscence caused  by  Nelly Bouverist's  revelations  of
white  articles of nonintellectual, 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 (1,000 pages and a laugh in every  one); sixthly,
the rhymes homophonous and cacophonous, associated with the names of the new
lord mayor,  Daniel Tallon, the new  high sheriff,  Thomas Pile and the  new
solicitorgeneral, Dunbar Plunket Barton.

     What relation existed between their ages?
     16 years before in 1888 when Bloom was of Stephen's present age Stephen
was 6.16  years after in 1920 when  Stephen would be of Bloom's present  age
Bloom would be 54. In 1936  when Bloom would be 70 and Stephen 54 their ages
initially  in the  ratio of  16  to 0 would  be as 17  1/2 to  13  1/2,  the
proportion increasing and the  disparity diminishing according  as arbitrary
future  years  were  added,  for  if the  proportion  existing in  1883  had
continued immutable, conceiving that  to  be  possible, till  then 1904 when
Stephen was 22 Bloom would be 374 and in  1920 when Stephen  would be 38, as
Bloom  then  was, Bloom would be 646  while in 1952 when Stephen  would have
attained the  maximum postdiluvian age of 70  Bloom, being 1190  years alive
having been born  in  the  year 714, would have surpassed  by 221 years  the
maximum antediluvian age, that of  Methusalah, 969  years, while, if Stephen
would continue to live until he would attain that age in the year 3072 A.D.,
Bloom would have been obliged to have been alive 83,300 years,  having  been
obliged to have been born in the year 81,396 B.C.

     What events might nullify these calculations?
     The cessation of existence of both or either, the inauguration of a new
era  or calendar, the annihilation of the world and consequent extermination
of the human species, inevitable but impredictable.

     How many previous encounters proved their preexisting acquaintance?
     Two. The first in  the lilacgarden of Matthew  Dillon's  house,  Medina
Villa, Kimmage road, Roundtown, in 1887, in the company of Stephen's mother,
Stephen  being  then  of  the age of 5 and  reluctant  to  give  his hand in
salutation. The  second  in the  coffeeroom of Breslin's  hotel  on  a rainy
Sunday  in  the January  of  1892, in  the  company of  Stephen's father and
Stephen's granduncle, Stephen being then 5 years older.

     Did Bloom accept the  invitation to  dinner  given then  by the son and
afterwards seconded by the father?
     Very gratefully, with grateful appreciation, with sincere  appreciative
gratitude, in appreciatively grateful sincerity of regret, he declined.

     Did  their conversation on the  subject of these reminiscences reveal a
third connecting link between them?
     Mrs Riordan, a widow of independent  means, had resided in the house of
Stephen's  parents  from  1 September 1888 to 29 December 1891 and had  also
resided during the years 1892, 1893 and 1894 in the City Arms Hotel owned by
Elizabeth O'Dowd of 54 Prussia  street where during  parts of the years 1893
and 1894 she had been a constant  informant of Bloom who resided also in the
same hotel, being at that time a clerk  in the employment of Joseph Cuffe of
5 Smithfield for the superintendence of sales in the adjacent  Dublin Cattle
market on the North Circular road.

     Had he performed any special corporal work of mercy for her?
     He had sometimes propelled her on warm summer evenings, an infirm widow
of independent,  if limited means, in  her convalescent bathchair with  slow
revolutions of its wheels as  far as  the corner of the  North Circular road
opposite Mr Gavin Low's  place  of  business where she had  remained  for  a
certain   time  scanning  through  his  onelensed   binocular   fieldglasses
unrecognisable  citizens  on  tramcars,  roadster  bicycles,  equipped  with
inflated pneumatic  tyres,  hackney  carriages, tandems,  private  and hired
landaus, dogcarts, ponytraps and brakes passing from the city to the Phoenix
Park and vice versa.

     Why could he then support that his vigil with the greater equanimity?
     Because  in middle youth he had often sat observing through a rondel of
bossed glass of a  multicoloured pane the spectacle  offered with  continual
changes  of the  thoroughfare without, pedestrians, quadrupeds, velocipedes,
vehicles, passing slowly, quickly, evenly, round and round and round the rim
of a round 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
suppositions 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 relaxation  and the most  pleasant repristination of
juvenile agility.

     Had any special agility been his in earlier youth?
     Though ringweight  lifting  had been beyond his strength  and  the full
circle gyration beyond his  courage yet  as  a  High School  scholar he  had
excelled in his table 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 Bloom's thoughts  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 Rudolf Bloom)  of Szombathely, Vienna, Budapest, Milan, London
and  Dublin and  of Ellen Higgins, second daughter of Julius  Higgins  (born
Karoly) and  Fanny  Higgins  (born Hegarty); Stephen,  eldest surviving male
consubstantial heir of  Simon  Dedalus  of  Cork  and  Dublin  and of  Mary,
daughter of Richard and Christina Goulding (born Grier).

     Had Bloom and  Stephen been baptised, and where and by whom,  cleric or
layman?
     Bloom (three times)  by the  reverend Mr Gilmer Johnston M. A. alone in
the  protestant church of  Saint Nicolas 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 course of the royal university.

     Why  did  Bloom  refrain  from  stating  that  he  had  frequented  the
university of life?
     Because of his fluctuating incertitude  as  to whether this observation
had or had not been already made by him to Stephen or by Stephen to him.

     What two temperaments did they individually represent?
     The scientific. The artistic.

     What  proofs  did Bloom adduce to  prove  that his tendency was towards
applied, rather than towards pure, science?
     Certain possible inventions of which he had cogitated when reclining in
a state of supine repletion to aid digestion, stimulated by his appreciation
of  the importance of inventions  now  common  but  once  revolutionary  for
example,  the aeronautic  parachute,  the  reflecting  telescope, the spiral
corkscrew,  the safety pin, the  mineral water siphon,  the canal lock  with
winch and sluice, the suction pump.

     Were  these inventions  principally intended for an improved  scheme of
kindergarten?
     Yes, rendering obsolete popguns, elastic airbladders, games  of hazard,
catapults. They comprised  astronomical kaleidoscopes exhibiting  the twelve
constellations  of  the  zodiac from  Aries to  Pisces, miniature mechanical
orreries,  arithmetical  gelatine lozenges,  geometrical to  correspond with
zoological biscuits, globemap playingballs, historically costumed dolls.

     What also stimulated him in his cogitations?
     The financial success achieved by Ephraim Marks and  Charles  A. James,
the former by his 1d. bazaar at 42 George's street, South, the latter at his
6 1/2d.  shop  and  world's fancy fair and  waxwork exhibition  at 30  Henry
street, admission 2d., children 1d.; and the infinite possibilities hitherto
unexploited of the modern art of advertisement  if  condensed  in triliteral
monoideal symbols, vertically of maximum visibility (divined),  horizontally
of  maximum legibility  (deciphered) and of magnetising efficacy  to  arrest
involuntary attention, to interest, to convince, to decide.

     Such as?
     K. 11. Kino's 111- Trousers.
     House of Keys. Alexander J. Keyes.

     Such as not?
     Look  at this long candle. Calculate when  it burns out and you receive
gratis I  pair  of our special  non-compo boots, guaranteed I candle  power.
Address: Barclay and Cook, 18 Talbot Street.
     Bacilikil (Insect Powder).
     Veribest (Boot Blacking).
     Uwantit (Combined pocket twoblade penknife with corkscrew, nailfile and
pipecleaner).

     Such as never?
     What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat?
     Incomplete.
     With it an abode of bliss.
     Manufactured by George Plumtree, 23 Merchants' quay,  Dublin, put up in
4 oz.  pots, and inserted by Councillor Joseph  P.  Nannetti, M. P., Rotunda
Ward, 19 Hardwicke street, under the obituary  notices and anniversaries  of
deceases.  The  name on  the label  is Plumtree. A  plumtree  is  a meatpot,
registered  trade mark. Beware  of imitations.  Peatmot.  Trumplee. Montpat.
Plamtroo.

     Which  example  did  he  adduce  to  induce  Stephen  to  deduce   that
originality, though producing its own reward, does not invariably conduce to
success?
     His own ideated  and rejected project of an illuminated showcart, drawn
by a beast of burden,  in which two smartly dressed girls were to be  seated
engaged in writing.

     What suggested scene was then constructed by Stephen?
     Solitary  hotel in mountain  pass. Autumn. Twilight.  Fire lit. In dark
corner young man seated. Young woman enters. Restless. Solitary.  She  sits.
She goes to window. She stands. She  sits. Twilight. She thinks. On solitary
hotel paper she writes. She thinks. She writes. She sighs. Wheels and hoofs.
She hurries out. He comes from his dark corner. He seizes solitary paper. He
holds it towards fire. Twilight. He reads. Solitary

     What?
     In  sloping,  upright  and  backhands: Queen's  hotel,  Queen's  hotel,
Queen's Ho...

     What suggested scene was then reconstructed by Bloom?
     The Queen's  Hotel,  Ennis, County,  Glare, where Rudolph Bloom (Rudolf
Virag) died  on  the evening of the 27  June 1886, at some hour unstated, in
consequence of  an overdose of monkshood  (aconite) selfadministered in  the
form  of a neuralgic liniment, composed of 2 parts  of aconite liniment to 1
of chloroform liniment (purchased by him  at 10.20 a.m. on the morning of 27
June 1886 at the  medical hall of Francis Dennehy, 17  Church street, Ennis)
after having, though not in consequence of having, purchased at 3.15 p.m. on
the afternoon of 27  June 1886 a new  boater  straw hat, extra  smart (after
having, though  not in consequence of having, purchased at  the hour and  in
the place aforesaid, the  toxin aforesaid), at the general drapery store  of
James Cullen, 4 Main street, Ennis.

     Did  he attribute  this homonymity  to  information or  coincidence  or
intuition?
     Coincidence.

     Did he depict the scene verbally for his guest to see?
     He preferred  himself  to  see another's face and listen  to  another's
words by  which  potential narration  was  realised and  kinetic temperament
relieved.

     Did he see  only a  second coincidence in  the second scene narrated to
him, described by the narrator as A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or The Parable
of the Plums?
     It, with the preceding scene and with others unnarrated but existent by
implication,  to  which add essays on various  subjects  or  moral apothegms
(e.g.  My Favourite Hero  or Procrastination is the Thief  of Time) composed
during schoolyears,  seemed to him to  contain in itself and  in conjunction
with  the personal  equation  certain possibilities  of  financial,  social,
personal and  sexual  success, whether  specially collected  and selected as
model pedagogic themes (of cent per cent merit) for the use  of  preparatory
and  junior  grade  students or  contributed in printed form, following  the
precedent of Philip Beaufoy or Doctor Dick or Heblon's Studies in Blue, to a
publication  of certified circulation and  solvency or employed  verbally as
intellectual stimulation for sympathetic  auditors, tacitly  appreciative of
successful narrative and confidently augurative  of  successful achievement,
during  the  increasingly  longer  nights  gradually  following  the  summer
solstice on  the day but three  following,  videlict,  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, spillikins, cup and ball,
nap,  spoil  five, bezique, twentyfive, beggar my neighbour, draughts, chess
or backgammon): embroidery, darning or knitting for the policeaided clothing
society: musical  duets, mandoline and guitar,  piano  and flute, guitar and
piano: legal scrivenery or  envelope addressing:  biweekly visits to variety
entertainments: commercial activity as pleasantly  commanding and pleasingly
obeyed mistress proprietress in a cool dairy shop or warm cigar  divan:  the
clandestine satisfaction of erotic irritation  in masculine  brothels, state
inspected  and medically  controlled:  social visits, at  regular infrequent
prevented intervals and with regular frequent preventive superintendence, to
and from female acquaintances of  recognised respectability in the vicinity:
courses  of   evening  instruction  specially  designed  to  render  liberal
instruction agreeable.

     What instances of deficient mental development in his wife inclined him
in favour of the lastmentioned (ninth) solution?
     In disoccupied moments she had  more than once covered a sheet of paper
with signs and hieroglyphics  which  she  stated  were Greek  and  Irish and
Hebrew characters. She had interrogated constantly  at varying intervals  as
to the  correct method of  writing the capital initial of the name of a city
in  Canada,  Quebec.  She  understood  little  of  political  complications,
internal, or balance of power, external. In calculating the addenda of bills
she frequently had  recourse to  digital  aid. After  completion of  laconic
epistolary compositions she abandoned the  implement  of calligraphy in  the
encaustic pigment exposed to the corrosive action of copperas, green vitriol
and  nutgall.  Unusual  polysyllables  of  foreign  origin  she  interpreted
phonetically or  by false analogy  or by both: metempsychosis  (met him pike
hoses), alias (a mendacious person mentioned in sacred Scripture).

     What compensated in the false balance of her intelligence for these and
such deficiencies of judgment regarding persons, places and things?
     The false  apparent  parallelism  of  all  perpendicular  arms  of  all
balances, proved true by construction. The counterbalance of her proficiency
of judgment regarding one person, proved true by experiment.

     How had he attempted to remedy this state of comparative ignorance?
     Variously. By leaving  in a conspicuous place a certain book open at  a
certain  page:  by assuming  in  her,  when  alluding explanatorily,  latent
knowledge: by  open ridicule in her presence of some absent other's ignorant
lapse.

     With what success had he attempted direct instruction?
     She  followed  not  all,  a  part  of the  whole, gave  attention  with
interest,  comprehended  with surprise,  with care  repeated,  with  greater
difficulty  remembered,  forgot  with  ease,  with  misgiving  reremembered,
rerepeated with error.

     What system had proved more effective?
     Indirect suggestion implicating self-interest.

     Example?
     She disliked  umbrella with  rain, he  liked woman with  umbrella,  she
disliked new hat with rain, he liked woman with  new  hat, he bought new hat
with rain, she carried umbrella with new hat.

     Accepting the analogy  implied in his guest's parable which examples of
postexilic eminence did he adduce?
     Three  seekers of  the pure truth, Moses  of  Egypt,  Moses Maimonides,
author of  More  Neubkim (Guide of the Perplexed)  and  Moses Mendelssohn of
such eminence that from Moses (of Egypt) to Moses (Mendelssohn)  there arose
none like Moses (Maimonides).

     What statement was made, under correction, by Bloom concerning a fourth
seeker  of  pure truth,  by name  Aristotle, mentioned, with  permission, by
Stephen?
     That the seeker mentioned had been a pupil of a rabbinical philosopher,
name uncertain.

     Were other anapocryphal  illustrious sons of the law  and children of a
selected or rejected race mentioned?
     Felix  Bartholdy Mendelssohn (composer),  Baruch Spinoza (philosopher),
Mendoza (pugilist), Ferdinand Lassalle (reformer, duellist).

     What  fragments of verse  from  the ancient  Hebrew  and ancient  Irish
languages were  cited  with modulations of voice and translation of texts by
guest to host and by host to guest?
     By Stephen: suil, suil, suil arun, suil  go siocair agus, suil  go cuin
(walk, walk, walk your way, walk in safety, walk with care).
     By  Bloom: Kifeloch, harimon rakatejch  m'baad l'zamatejch  (thy temple
amid thy hair is as a slice of pomegranate).

     How  was a glyphic comparison  of the phonic  symbols of both languages
made in substantiation of the oral comparison?
     On  the penultimate  blank page of  a  book of inferior literary style,
entitled Sweets of Sin (produced by Bloom  and so manipulated that its front
cover came in contact with the surface of the table) with a pencil (supplied
by Stephen) Stephen wrote the Irish characters for gee, eh, dee, em,  simple
and modified, and Bloom in turn wrote the Hebrew characters  ghimel,  aleph,
daleth and  (in the absence  of mem) a  substituted  goph,  explaining their
arithmetical values as ordinal  and  cardinal numbers, videlicet 3, 1,4  and
100.

     Was  the knowledge possessed by both  of each of  these  languages, the
extinct and the revived, theoretical or practical?
     Theoretical,  being confined to certain grammatical rules  of accidence
and syntax and practically excluding vocabulary.

     What points of contact  existed between these languages and between the
peoples who spoke them?
     The presence of  guttural sounds, diacritic aspirations, epenthetic and
servile letters in both languages: their antiquity, both having  been taught
on the plain of Shinar 242 years after the deluge in the seminary instituted
by Fenius Farsaigh, descendant of  Noah, progenitor of Israel, and ascendant
of  Heber   and   Heremon,  progenitors  of  Ireland:  their  archeological,
genealogical,   hagiographical,   exegetical,   homilectic,    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  Chanan
David of Zion and the possibility of Irish political autonomy or devolution.

     What anthem did Bloom chant partially in anticipation of that multiple,
ethnically irreductible consummation?
     Kolod balejwaw pnimali
     Nefesch, jehudi, homijah.
     Why was the chant arrested at the conclusion of this first distich?
     In consequence of defective mnemotechnic.

     How did the chanter compensate for this  deficiency? By a  periphrastic
version of the general text.

     In what common study did their mutual reflections merge?
     The  increasing  simplification traceable from the Egyptian  epigraphic
hieroglyphs to the Greek and Roman alphabets and the  anticipation of modern
stenography and telegraphic code in the cuneiform inscriptions (Semitic) and
the virgular quinquecostate ogham writing (Celtic).

     Did the guest comply with his host's request?
     Doubly, by appending his signature in Irish and Roman characters.

     What was Stephen's auditive sensation?
     He  heard in a profound ancient male unfamiliar melody the accumulation
of the past.

     What was Bloom's visual sensation?
     He saw in a quick  young  male  familiar  form  the predestination of a
future.

     What   were   Stephen's  and   Bloom's   quasisimultaneous   volitional
quasisensations of concealed identities?
     Visually, Stephen's: The traditional  figure of hypostasis, depicted by
Johannes   Damascenus,   Lentulus  Romanus   and   Epiphanius   Monachus  as
leucodermic, sesquipedalian with winedark hair.
     Auditively,  Bloom's:  The  traditional   accent  of  the  ecstasy   of
catastrophe.

     What future  careers had been possible for Bloom in the  past  and with
what exemplars?
     In  the  church, Roman, Anglican, or Nonconformist: exemplars, the very
reverend John Conmee S.J., the reverend T. Salmon, D.D.,  provost of Trinity
college, Dr  Alexander J. Dowie. At  the bar,  English or  Irish: exemplars,
Seymour  Bushe,  K.C.,  Rufus   Isaacs,  K.C.  On  the   stage,  modern   or
Shakespearean  exemplars,  Charles  Wyndham,  high  comedian,  Osmond Tearle
(1901), exponent of Shakespeare.

     Did  the  host  encourage  his  guest  to chant in a modulated voice  a
strange legend on an allied theme?
     Reassuringly,  their  place  where none  could  hear  them  talk  being
secluded, reassured, the decocted beverages,  allowing for subsolid residual
sediment of a mechanical mixture,  water  plus sugar  plus cream plus cocoa,
having been consumed.

     Recite the first (major) part of this chanted legend?
     d Little  Harry Hughes and his schoolfellows  all Went out for  to play
ball
     And the very first ball little Harry Hughes played
     He drove it o'er the jew's garden wall.
     And the very second ball little Harry Hughes played
     He broke the jew's windows all.
     How did the son of Rudolph receive this first part?
     With unmixed feeling. Smiling, a jew, he heard  with  pleasure  and saw
the unbroken kitchen window.

     Recite the second part (minor) of the legend.
     Then out there came the jew's daughter
     And she all dressed in green.
     `Come back, come back, you pretty little boy,
     And play your ball again.'
     `I can't come back and I won't come back
     Without my schoolfellows all,
     For if my master he did hear
     He'd make it a sorry ball.'
     She took him by the lilywhite hand
     And led him along the hall
     Until she led him to a room
     Where none could hear him call.
     She took a penknife out of her pocket
     And cut off his little head,
     And now he'll play his ball no more
     For he lies among the dead.
     How did the father of Millicent receive this second part?
     With mixed feelings.  Unsmiling, he heard and  saw  with wonder a jew's
daughter, all dressed in green.

     Condense Stephen's commentary.
     One  of all,  the least  of all,  is the  victim  predestined.  Once by
inadvertence, twice by design he challenges his destiny. It comes when he is
abandoned and  challenges him reluctant  and, as  an  apparition of hope and
youth  holds  him unresisting. It leads  him to a  strange  habitation, to a
secret infidel apartment, and there, implacable, immolates him, consenting.

     Why was the host (victim predestined) sad?
     He wished  that a tale of a  deed should be told  of a  deed not by him
should by him not be told.

     Why was the host (reluctant, unresisting) still?
     In accordance with the law of the conservation of energy.

     Why was the host (secret infidel) silent?
     He  weighed the possible evidences  for and against  ritual murder: the
incitation  of  the  hierarchy,  the  superstition  of   the  populace,  the
propagation of  rumour in  continued  fraction of  veridicity,  the  envy of
opulence,  the  influence  of  retaliation,  the  sporadic  reappearance  of
atavistic delinquency, the  mitigating circumstances of fanaticism, hypnotic
suggestion and somnambulism.

     >From which (if any)  of  these mental or physical disorders was he not
totally immune?
     >From hypnotic  suggestion:  once,  waking,  he had  not recognised his
sleeping  apartment:  more than once, waking, he  had been for an indefinite
time  incapable  of  moving  or  uttering  sounds. From somnambulism:  once,
sleeping, his  body had risen, crouched  and crawled in  the direction  of a
heatless fire and, having attained its destination, there,  curled, unheated
in night attire had lain, sleeping.

     Had this latter or any cognate phenomenon declared itself in any member
of his family?
     Twice,  in Holles street and in Ontario terrace, his daughter Millicent
(Milly) at  the ages of 6 and 8 years had uttered in sleep an exclamation of
terror and had replied to the interrogations of  two figures in night attire
with a vacant mute expression.

     What other infantile memories had he of her?
     15 June  1889. A querulous  newborn female infant crying  to cause  and
lessen congestion. A  child renamed Padney  Socks she  shook with shocks her
moneybox: counted his three free moneypenny buttons one, tloo, tlee: a doll,
a boy, a  sailor she cast  away:  blond,  born  of two dark,  she had  blond
ancestry,  remote,  a  violation,  Herr  Hauptmann  Hainau,  Austrian  army,
proximate, a hallucination, lieutenant Mulvey, British navy.

     What endemic characteristics were present?
     Conversely the nasal and frontal formation was derived in a direct line
of lineage which, though interrupted, would continue at distant intervals to
its most distant intervals.

     What memories had he of her adolescence?
     She relegated her hoop and skippingrope to a recess. On the duke's lawn
entreated by an English visitor, she declined to permit him to make and take
away her photographic image (objection  not  stated). On the South  Circular
road  in  the company  of Elsa Potter, followed by an individual of sinister
aspect, she  went  half  way  down  Stamer street  and turned  abruptly back
(reason of change not stated).  On the  vigil of the 15th anniversary of her
birth  she wrote a letter from Mullingar, county  Westmeath,  making a brief
allusion to a local student (faculty and year not stated).

     Did that first division, portending a second division, afflict him?
     Less than he had imagined, more than he had hoped.

     What second departure was contemporaneously perceived by him  similarly
if differently?
     A temporary departure of his cat.

     Why similarly, why differently?
     Similarly, because actuated by a secret purpose the quest of a new male
(Mullingar student) or of a healing herb (valerian). Differently, because of
different possible returns to the inhabitants or to the habitation.

     In other respects were their differences similar?
     In  passivity,  in  economy,   in  the   instinct   of   tradition,  in
unexpectedness.

     As?
     Inasmuch as leaning  she sustained her blond hair for him  to ribbon it
for her (cf. neckarching cat). Moreover, on the free surface of the lake  in
Stephen's  green  amid inverted  reflections of trees her uncommented  spit,
describing concentric  circles  of waterrings, indicated by the constancy of
its  permanence the  locus of a  somnolent prostrate fish (cf. mousewatching
cat).  Again,  in   order  to  remember  the  date,  combatants,  issue  and
consequences of a  famous military engagement she pulled a plait of her hair
(cf. earwashing cat). Furthermore, silly Milly, she dreamed of having had an
unspoken unremembered conversation with a horse  whose name had  been Joseph
to whom  (which) she had offered a  tumblerful of lemonade which it (he) had
appeared to have accepted (cf.  hearthdreaming cat).  Hence in passivity, in
economy,  in the instinct of tradition, in unexpectedness, their differences
were similar.

     In what way had  he  utilised gifts 1) an  owl,  2)  a clock,  given as
matrimonial auguries, to interest and to instruct her?
     As object  lessons to  explain:  1) the  nature and habits of oviparous
animals, the possibility of  aerial flight, certain abnormalities of vision,
the  secular process  of  imbalsamation:  2) the principle of the  pendulum,
exemplified in bob, wheelgear and  regulator, the  translation  in  terms of
human  or  social regulation  of the various positions clockwise of  movable
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  not for her she expressed the immediate  desire to possess
without  gradual  acquisition a  fraction  of  his  science, the moiety, the
quarter, a thousandth part.

     What  proposal did  Bloom,  diambulist, father of  Milly, somnambulist,
make to Stephen, noctambulist?
     To pass in repose  the hours intervening between Thursday (proper)  and
Friday  (normal)  on an extemporised  cubicle  in the apartment  immediately
above the kitchen and  immediately adjacent to the sleeping apartment of his
host and hostess.

     What   various  advantages   would  or  might  have   resulted  from  a
prolongation of such extemporisation?
     For the  guest:  security of domicile and seclusion  of study. For  the
host: rejuvenation of intelligence, vicarious satisfaction. For the hostess:
disintegration of obsession, acquisition of correct Italian pronunciation.

     Why might these several provisional contingencies between a guest and a
hostess not necessarily  preclude or be precluded by a permanent eventuality
of reconciliatory union between a schoolfellow and a jew's daughter?
     Because the  way  to daughter  led through mother,  the  way  to mother
through daughter.

     To what inconsequent polysyllabic question  of his  host  did the guest
return a monosyllabic negative answer?
     If  he  had known  the late Mrs Emily  Sinico,  accidentally  killed at
Sydney Parade railway station, 14 October 1903.

     What inchoate corollary statement  was  consequently  suppressed by the
host?
     A statement explanatory of his absence on the occasion of the interment
of  Mrs Mary Dedalus, born Goulding, 26 June 1903, vigil of  the anniversary
of the decease of Rudolph Bloom (born Virag).

     Was the proposal of asylum accepted?
     Promptly, inexplicably, with amicability, gratefully it was declined.

     What exchange of money took place between host and guest?
     The  former returned to  the latter,  without  interest, a sum of money
(њ1.7s.0.), one pound seven shillings, advanced by the latter to the former.

     What counterproposals were  alternately  advanced, accepted,  modified,
declined, restated in other terms, reaccepted, ratified, reconfirmed?
     To  inaugurate a prearranged course of  Italian instruction, place  the
residence of the  instructed. To inaugurate a  course of  vocal instruction,
place the residence of the instructress. To  inaugurate a series of  static,
semistatic and peripatetic intellectual  dialogues, places the  residence of
both speakers  (if both  speakers were resident in the same place), the Ship
hotel and tavern, 6 Lower Abbey street (W. and E. Connery, proprietors), the
National Library  of  Ireland, 10  Kildare  street,  the National  Maternity
Hospital, 29, 30 and 31 Holles street, a  public  garden, the vicinity of  a
place of  worship,  a  conjunction of two or  more public thoroughfares, the
point of  bisection of a right line drawn between their residences  (if both
speakers were resident in different places).

     What rendered problematic for Bloom the realisation of  these  mutually
selfexcluding propositions?
     The  irreparability of  the  past:  once  at  a  performance of  Albert
Hengler's circus  in  the  Rotunda,  Rutland  square,  Dublin,  an intuitive
particoloured clown in quest  of paternity had penetrated from the ring to a
place in  the  auditorium where Bloom, solitary, was seated and had publicly
declared to an exhilarated  audience that he  (Bloom) was his  (the clown's)
papa. The imprevidibility  of the  future:  once in  the summer of  1898  he
(Bloom) had marked a florin (2s.) with three notches on  the milled edge and
tendered it in  payment of an account due to and received by J. and T. Davy,
family  grocers,  1  Charlemont  Mall,  Grand Canal,  for circulation on the
waters of civic finance, for possible, circuitous or direct, return.

     Was the clown Bloom's son?
     No.

     Had Bloom's coin returned?
     Never.

     Why would a recurrent frustration the more depress him?
     Because at  the critical turningpoint of human existence  he desired to
amend many  social  conditions,  the product of inequality and  avarice  and
international animosity.

     He   believed   then  that  human  life  was   infinitely  perfectible,
eliminating these conditions?
     There remained  the generic  conditions imposed by natural, as distinct
from human  law,  as integral parts  of  the human whole: the  necessity  of
destruction  to procure alimentary sustenance: the painful  character of the
ultimate functions of  separate existence,  the agonies of  birth and death:
the monotonous  menstruation  of  simian  and (particularly)  human  females
extending from the age of  puberty to the menopause: inevitable accidents at
sea,  in mines  and factories:  certain  very  painful  maladies  and  their
resultant surgical operations,  innate  lunacy and  congenital  criminality,
decimating epidemics: catastrophic cataclysms which make terror the basis of
human mentality:  seismic  upheavals the epicentres of which  are located in
densely populated regions: the  fact of vital growth, through convulsions of
metamorphosis from infancy through maturity to decay.

     Why did he desist from speculation?
     Because it was a task  for a superior intelligence to substitute  other
more  acceptable phenomena in 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.

     I n  what  order of precedence, with  what  attendant ceremony  was the
exodus from the house of bondage to the wilderness of inhabitation effected?
     Lighted Candle in Stick borne by
     BLOOM.
     Diaconal Hat on Ashplant borne by
     STEPHEN.

     With what intonation secreto of what commemorative psalm?
     The 113th, modus peregrinus: In  exitu Israкl 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
incipent  lunation,  approaching   perigee:   of  the  infinite  lattiginous
scintillating uncondensed milky way, discernible  by daylight by an observer
placed  at the  lower end of a  cylindrical vertical shaft 5000 ft deep sunk
from the surface towards the centre of  the earth: of Sirius (alpha in Canis
Major) 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 from immeasurably remote  eons to infinitely  remote
futures in comparison with which the years,  threescore and ten, of allotted
human life formed a parenthesis of infinitesimal brevity.

     Were there obverse meditations of involution increasingly less vast?
     Of the  eons  of geological periods recorded in  the stratifications of
the earth: of the myriad minute entomological  organic existences  concealed
in cavities of the earth, beneath removable stones,  in hives and mounds, of
microbes,  germs,   bacteria,  bacilli,  spermatozoa:  of  the  incalculable
trillions  of  billions  of millions of imperceptible molecules contained by
cohesion of molecular affinity in a single pinhead: of the universe of human
serum  constellated with  red and white bodies, themselves universes of void
space  constellated with  other bodies, each, in continuity, its universe of
divisible component bodies of which each was again divisible in divisions of
redivisible  component  bodies,  dividends  and  divisors  ever  diminishing
without  actual  division  till, if the  progress were carried  far  enough,
nought nowhere was never reached.

     Why did he not elaborate these calculations to a more precise result?
     Because some years previously in 1886 when occupied with the problem of
the quadrature of  the circle he  had  learned  of the existence of a number
computed to a relative degree of accuracy to be of such magnitude  and of so
many places, e.g., the 9th power  of  the 9th  power of 9,  that, the result
having  been obtained,  33 closely  printed  volumes  of  1000 pages each of
innumerable quires and  reams of India  paper would have to be requisitioned
in order  to  contain the complete tale  of its  printed integers  of units,
tens,  hundreds,  thousands,  tens  of  thousands,  hundreds  of  thousands,
millions, tens of millions, hundreds of millions, billions,  the  nucleus of
the  nebula  of  every digit  of  every  series  containing  succinctly  the
potentiality of being raised to the utmost kinetic  elaboration of any power
of any of its powers.

     Did he find the problem 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 all that is vanity.

     And the problem of possible redemption?
     The minor was proved by the major.

     Which various features of the constellations were in turn considered?
     The various colours  significant of various degrees of vitality (white,
yellow,  crimson, vermilion, cinnabar): their degrees  of brilliancy:  their
magnitudes  revealed up  to  and including  the 7th:  their  positions:  the
waggoner's star: Walsingham way: the chariot of David: the annular cinctures
of Saturn: the condensation of spiral nebulae into suns:  the interdependent
gyrations  of  double  suns:  the  independent  synchronous  discoveries  of
Galileo,   Simon   Marius,   Piazzi,  Le  Verrier,   Herschel,   Galle:  the
systematisations  attempted  by  Bode  and  Kepler of cubes of distances and
squares  of  times  of  revolution:  the almost  infinite compressibility of
hirsute comets and their vast elliptical egressive and reentrant orbits from
perihelion to aphelion: the sidereal  origin  of meteoric stones: the Libyan
floods  on Mars about the period of  the birth  of the younger astroscopist:
the annual  recurrence of meteoric showers about the period of  the feast of
S. Lawrence  (martyr, 10 August): the  monthly  recurrence known as the  new
moon with the old moon in  her arms: the posited  influence of  celestial on
human  bodies:  the  appearance of  a  star  (1st  magnitude)  of  exceeding
brilliancy dominating by night and day (a new luminous sun generated by  the
collision and amalgamation in incandescence of two nonluminous exsuns) about
the period of the  birth of William Shakespeare over delta  in the recumbent
neversetting  constellation of  Cassiopeia and of a star (2nd  magnitude) of
similar origin  but lesser brilliancy which had appeared in and  disappeared
from the constellation of the Corona Septentrionalis about the period of the
birth  of Leopold  Bloom and of other stars  of (presumably) similar  origin
which had  (effectively or presumably)  appeared in and disappeared from the
constellation of Andromeda about the period of the birth of Stephen Dedalus,
and  in and  from the constellation of Auriga some years after the birth and
death of Rudolph Bloom, junior,  and in and from other  constellations  some
years  before  or after the birth  or death of other  persons: the attendant
phenomena  of  eclipses,  solar  and  lunar,  from  immersion  to  emersion,
abatement  of wind,  transit  of  shadow, taciturnity  of  winged creatures,
emergence  of  nocturnal  or crepuscular  animals,  persistence  of infernal
light, obscurity of terrestrial waters, pallor of human beings.

     His  (Bloom's)  logical  conclusion,  having  weighed  the  matter  and
allowing for possible error?
     That it was not a heaventree, not a heavengrot,  not a heavenbeast, not
a heavenman.  That it was a  Utopia, there  being  no known  method from the
known  to  the  unknown:  an  infinity,  renderable equally  finite  by  the
suppositions probable 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 future spectators had entered actual present existence.

     Was he more convinced of the esthetic value of the spectacle?
     Indubitably in  consequence of the reiterated examples of poets  in the
delirium  of the frenzy of  attachment or  in  the  abasement  of  rejection
invoking ardent sympathetic constellations or the frigidity of the satellite
of their planet.

     Did he then accept  as an article of belief the  theory of astrological
influences upon sublunary disasters?
     It  seemed  to  him as  possible  of  proof as of confutation  and  the
nomenclature employed  in  its  selenographical  charts as  attributable  to
verifiable intuition as to  fallacious analogy: the lake of dreams,  the sea
of rains, the gulf of dews, the ocean of fecundity.

     What special affinities appeared  to him to exist between the moon  and
woman?
     Her   antiquity   in  preceding  and  surviving   successive  tellurian
generations:  her  nocturnal  predominance:  her satellitic  dependence: her
luminary reflection: her constancy under all her phases, rising, and setting
by her appointed times,  waxing  and waning: the forced invariability of her
aspect:  her  indeterminate  response  to  inaffirmative  interrogation: her
potency over effluent and refluent waters: her power to enamour, to mortify,
to  invest with beauty, to render insane, to incite to and  aid delinquency:
the tranquil inscrutability of  her visage: the terribility of her  isolated
dominant  implacable  resplendent propinquity: her  omens  of tempest and of
calm: the  stimulation of  her  light,  her  motion  and  her presence:  the
admonition of her craters, her arid  seas, her silence: her splendour,  when
visible: her attraction, when invisible.

     What visible luminous sign  attracted Bloom's,  who attracted Stephen's
gaze?
     In  the second  storey (rere)  of his  (Bloom's)  house  the light of a
paraffin oil lamp with oblique shade projected on  a  screen of roller blind
supplied by Frank O'Hara, window blind,  curtain  pole and revolving shutter
manufacturer, 16 Aungier street.

     How  did  he elucidate the mystery  of  an invisible  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.

     Boa then were silent?
     Silent, each  contemplating the other in both mirrors of the reciprocal
flesh of theirhisnothis fellowfaces.

     Were they indefinitely inactive?
     At Stephen's  suggestion, at Bloom's instigation  both,  first Stephen,
then Bloom, in penumbra  urinated,  their  sides contiguous, their organs of
micturition reciprocally rendered invisible by  manual circumposition, their
gazes, first Bloom's, then Stephen's, elevated to the projected luminous and
semiluminous shadow.

     Similarly?
     The trajectories of their, first sequent, then simultaneous, urinations
were dissimilar: Bloom's longer, less irruent, in the incomplete form of the
bifurcated  penultimate alphabetical letter who in his ultimate year at High
School  (1880) had been capable of attaining the  point of greatest altitude
against  the  whole  concurrent strength of the  institution, 210  scholars:
Stephen's higher,  more sibilant, who in  the ultimate hours of the previous
day had augmented by diuretic consumption an insistent vesical pressure.

     What  different problems  presented  themselves  to each concerning the
invisible audible collateral organ of the other?
     To   Bloom:  the   problems  of   irritability,  tumescence,  rigidity,
reactivity,  dimension, sanitariness, pelosity. To  Stephen:  the problem of
the sacerdotal  integrity  of  Jesus  circumcised  (1st  January, holiday of
obligation to  hear  mass and abstain from unnecessary servile work) and the
problem as to whether the divine prepuce, the carnal bridal ring of the holy
Roman catholic apostolic  church,  conserved  in Calcata, were deserving  of
simple  hyperduly  or  of the  fourth  degree  of  latria  accorded  to  the
abscission of such divine excrescences as hair and toenails.

     What celestial sign was by both simultaneously observed?
     A star precipitated  with great apparent velocity  across the firmament
from Vega in the Lyre above the zenith beyond the stargroup of  the Tress of
Berenice towards the zodiacal sign of Leo.

     How  did  the centripetal  remainer  afford egress  to the  centrifugal
departer?
     By inserting the barrel of an  arruginated male  key  in the hole of an
unstable female lock, obtaining a purchase on the bow of the key and turning
its  wards  from right to  left, withdrawing a bolt from its staple, pulling
inward spasmodically an obsolescent unhinged door and revealing an  aperture
for free egress and free ingress.

     How did they take leave, one of the other, in separation?
     Standing perpendicular at the same door and  on different  sides of its
base, the lines of their valedictory arms, meeting at any point  and forming
any angle less than the sum of two right angles.

     What  sound accompanied the  union of their  tangent,  the  disunion of
their (respectively) centrifugal and centripetal hands?
     The sound  of  the peal  of the hour of the night by  the  chime of the
bells in the church of Saint George.

     What echoes of that sound were by both and each heard?
     By Stephen:
     Liliata rutilantium. Turma circumdet.
     Iubilantium te virginum. Chorus excipiat.
     By Bloom:
     Heigho, heigho,
     Heigho, heigho.
     Where were the several members of the company which with Bloom that day
at the  bidding  of  that peal had travelled from Sandymount in the south to
Glasnevin in the north?
     Martin  Cunningham  (in bed), Jack Power  (in bed),  Simon Dedalus  (in
bed), Tom Kernan (in  bed), Ned Lambert (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  Rиaumur:  the
incipient intimations of proximate dawn.

     Of what did  bellchime and  handtouch and footstep and lonechill remind
him?
     Of companions now in various manners in different places defunct: Percy
Apjohn (killed in action,  Modder River), Philip Gilligan (phthisis,  Jervis
Street hospital), Matthew F. Kane (accidental  drowning, Dublin Bay), Philip
Moisel   (pyemia,  Heytesbury  street),   Michael   Hart   (phthisis,  Mater
Misericordi&Aelig; hospital), Patrick Dignam (apoplexy, Sandymount).

     What prospect of what phenomena inclined him to remain?
     The disparition of three final stars,  the diffusion  of day-break, the
apparition of a new solar disk.

     Had he ever been a spectator of those phenomena?
     Once, in 1887 after a protracted  performance of  charades in the house
of  Luke Doyle, Kimmage, he had awaited with patience the apparition of  the
diurnal phenomenon, seated on a  wall, his gaze  turned in the  direction of
Mizrach, the east.

     He remembered the initial paraphenomena?
     More  active air, a  matutinal distant  cock, ecclesiastical  clocks at
various points, avine music,  the isolated tread of an  early wayfarer,  the
visible  diffusion  of the  light  of an invisible luminous body,  the first
golden limb of the resurgent sun perceptible low on the horizon.

     Did he remain?
     With deep inspiration he returned, retraversing the garden,  reentering
the passage,  reclosing  the door. With brief suspiration  he reassumed  the
candle, reascended the  stairs, reapproached  the door  of the  front  room,
hallfloor, and reentered.

     What suddenly arrested his ingress?
     The right temporal lobe of the hollow sphere  of his cranium  came into
contact with  a solid  timber angle where,  an  infinitesimal  but  sensible
fraction of a second later,  a  painful sensation was located in consequence
of antecedent sensations transmitted and registered.

     Describe the alterations effected in the disposition of the articles of
furnitures?
     A sofa  upholstered in prune plush had been  translocated from opposite
the  door  to  the  ingleside near  the  compactly  furled  Union  Jack  (an
alteration which  he had frequently intended to execute): the blue and white
checker inlaid majolicatopped table had been placed opposite the door in the
place vacated by the prune plush sofa:  the  walnut sideboard (a  projecting
angle of which had momentarily arrested his ingress) had been moved from its
position  beside the door to a more advantageous but more  perilous position
in front of the  door: two chairs had been moved from  right and left of the
ingleside to the position originally occupied  by the blue and white checker
inlaid majolicatopped table.

     Describe them.
     One:  a  squat stuffed easychair  with stout  arms  extended  and  back
slanted  to  the  rere,  which,  repelled in  recoil, had  then upturned  an
irregular fringe  of  a rectangular  rug and  now  displayed  on  its  amply
upholstered seat a centralised diffusing and diminishing discolouration. The
other: a slender  splayfoot chair  of  glossy  cane curves, placed  directly
opposite the former,  its frame from top to seat and from seat to base being
varnished dark brown, its seat being a bright circle of white plaited rush.

     What significances attached to these two chairs?
     Significances   of   similitude,   of   posture,   of   symbolism,   of
circumstantial evidence, of testimonial supermanence.

     What occupied the position originally occupied by the sideboard?
     A  vertical  piano (Cadby)  with  exposed  keyboard, its  closed coffin
supporting  a  pair of  long  yellow  ladies' gloves and an emerald  ashtray
containing four  consumed  matches,  a  partly  consumed cigarette  and  two
discoloured ends  of cigarettes,  its musicrest supporting the music  in the
key of  G natural for voice and piano  of Love's Old Sweet Song (words by G.
Clifton  Bingham, composed  by  J.  L.  Molloy,  sung  by  Madam  Antoinette
Sterling)  open  at  the  last page  with the  final indications ad libitum,
forte, pedal, animato, sustained, pedal, ritirando, close.

     With what sensations did Bloom contemplate in rotation these objects?
     With strain, elevating a candlestick:  with pain,  feeling on his right
temple a contused tumescence: with  attention,  focusing his gaze on a large
dull  passive  and  slender bright  active: with  solicitation, bending  and
downturning the upturned  rugfringe: with amusement, remembering Dr  Malachi
Mulligan's  scheme  of  colour  containing  the  gradation  of  green:  with
pleasure,  repeating the words  and antecedent  act and  perceiving  through
various  channels  of  internal sensibility the consequent  and  concomitant
tepid pleasant diffusion of gradual discolouration.

     His next proceeding?
     >From  an open box on the  majolicatopped table  he  extracted a  black
diminutive  cone, one inch  in  height, placed it on its circular base on  a
small  tin  plate,  placed  his  candlestick  on  the  right  corner of  the
mantelpiece, produced  from  his  waistcoat  a  folded  page  of  prospectus
(illustrated) entitled  Agendath  Netaim,  unfolded  the same,  examined  it
superficially,  rolled   it  into   a  thin  cylinder,  ignited  it  in  the
candleflame, applied it when ignited to the apex of the cone till the latter
reached the stage  of  rutilance, placed the  cylinder in the basin  of  the
candlestick disposing its unconsumed part in such a manner  as to facilitate
total combustion.

     What followed this operation?
     That truncated conical crater  summit of the diminutive volcano emitted
a vertical and serpentine fume redolent of aromatic oriental incense.

     What  homothetic  objects,  other than  the  candlestick,  stood on the
mantelpiece?
     A timepiece  of striated Connemara marble, stopped at the  hour of 4.46
a.m. on the 21 March 1896, matrimonial gift of Matthew Dillon: a dwarf  tree
of glacial arborescence under a transparent bellshade,  matrimonial  gift of
Luke and Caroline Doyle: an embalmed owl,  matrimonial gift of Alderman John
Hooper.

     What interchanges of looks took place between  these  three objects and
Bloom?
     In the mirror of the giltbordered pierglass the undecorated back of the
dwarf tree regarded the upright back  of the embalmed owl. Before the mirror
the matrimonial gift of Alderman John Hooper with  a  clear  melancholy wise
bright motionless compassionate gaze regarded Bloom while Bloom with obscure
tranquil  profound motionless  compassionated  gaze regarded the matrimonial
gift of Luke and Caroline Doyle.

     What  composite asymmetrical  image  in  the mirror  then attracted his
attention?
     The image of a solitary (ipsorelative) mutable (aliorelative) man.

     Why solitary (ipsorelative)?
     Brothers and sisters had he none,
     Yet that man's father was his grandfather's son.

     Why mutable (aliorelative)?
     >From infancy  to maturity he  had  resembled his maternal procreatrix.
From  maturity to  senility he  would  increasingly  resemble  his  paternal
creator.

     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.
     Thorn'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).
     When We Were Boys by William O'Brien M.P. (green cloth, slightly faded,
envelope bookmark at p. 217).
     Thoughts from Spinoza (maroon leather).
     The Story of the Heavens by Sir Robert Ball (blue cloth).
     Ellis's Three Trips to Madagascar (brown cloth, title obliterated).
     The  Stark-Munro Letters by  A.  Conan  Doyle, property  of the City of
Dublin Public Library, 106 Capel Street, lent 21 May (Whitsun Eve) 1904, due
4  June  1904,  13  days   overdue  (black  cloth  binding,   bearing  white
letternumber ticket).
     Voyages  in  China by `Viator'  (recovered  with  brown paper, red  ink
title).
     Philosophy of the Talmud (sewn pamphlet).
     Lockhart's  Life of  Napoleon  (cover  wanting, marginal an  notations,
minimising victories, aggrandising defeats of the protagonist).
     Soll  und  Haben by Gustav  Freytag  (black boards, Gothic  characters,
cigarette coupon bookmark at p. 24).
     Hozier's History of the Russo-Turkish War (brown cloth, 2 volumes, with
gummed label,  Garrison Library, Governor's  Parade, Gibraltar, on verso  of
cover).
     Laurence Bloomfield  in Ireland by William  Allingham  (second edition,
green cloth, gilt  trefoil design, previous owner's name on recto of flyleaf
erased).
     A Handbook of Astronomy  (cover,  brown  leather,  detached,  5 plates,
antique  letterpress  long  primer,  author's  footnotes nonpareil, marginal
clues brevier, captions small pica).
     The Hidden Life of Christ (black boards).
     In the  Track of the  Sun  (yellow  cloth, titlepage missing, recurrent
title intestation).
     Physical Strength and How to Obtain It by Eugene Sandow (red cloth).
     Short but yet Plain Elements of Geometry written in French by F. Ignat.
Pardies and rendered  into Englifh by John Harris D. D. London,  printed for
R.  Knaplock at the Bifhop's Head  MDCCXI, with dedicatory  epiftle  to  his
worthy  friend  Charles Cox, efquire,  Member of Parliament for the burgh of
Southwark  and having ink calligraphed statement on the  flyleaf  certifying
that the book was the property of Michael Gallagher,  dated this 10th day of
May 1822 and requefting the perfon who should find it, if the book should be
loft or go  aftray, to reftore  it to Michael  Gallagher,  carpenter, Dufery
Gate, Ennifcorthy, county Wicklow, the fineft place in the world.

     What reflections  occupied his mind during the  process of reversion of
the inverted volumes?
     The necessity of order,  a place for  everything  and everything in its
place: the deficient appreciation of literature  possessed  by  females: the
incongruity of an apple incuneated in a tumbler and of an  umbrella inclined
in a  closestool:  the  insecurity  of hiding  any  secret document  behind,
beneath or between the pages of a book.

     Which volume was the largest in bulk?
     Hozier's History of the Russo - Turkish War.

     What  among other data did the  second volume of  the work  In question
contain?
     The name of  a decisive battle (forgotten),  frequently remembered by a
decisive officer, major Brian Cooper Tweedy (remembered).

     Why, firstly and secondly, did he not consult the work in question?
     Firstly, in order to exercise mnemotechnic: secondly,  because after an
interval of amnesia, when seated at  the central table, about to consult the
work in  question,  he  remembered by mnemotechnic the name of the  military
engagement, Plevna.

     What caused him consolation in his sitting posture?
     The candour, nudity, pose, tranquillity, youth, grace, sex,  counsel of
a statue  erect in  the centre of the table, an image of Narcissus purchased
by auction from P. A. Wren, 9 Bachelor's Walk.

     What caused him irritation in his sitting posture?
     Inhibitory  pressure of collar (size 17) and waistcoat (5 buttons), two
articles  of  clothing  superfluous  in  the  costume  of mature  males  and
inelastic to alterations of mass by expansion.

     How was the irritation allayed?
     He removed  his collar,  with  contained black  necktie and collapsible
stud,  from his neck to a position on the left  of the  table. He unbuttoned
successively in reversed direction waistcoat, trousers, shirt and vest along
the medial line of irregular  incrispated black hair 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 vertebr&Aelig;, thence produced both ways at right angles
and terminating in circles described about two equidistant points, right and
left, on  the  summits of the mammary prominences. He unbraced  successively
each of  six minus one braced  trouser  buttons, arranged in pairs, of which
one incomplete.

     What involuntary actions followed?
     He compressed between 2 fingers  the flesh circumjacent to  a cicatrice
in the  left infracostal region below the  diaphragm resulting  from a sting
inflicted 2 weeks and 3 days previously (23 May 1904) by a bee. He scratched
imprecisely with his right  hand, though insensible  of  prurition,  various
points and surfaces of  his partly exposed, wholly abluted skin. He inserted
his left hand into the left  lower pocket of his waistcoat and extracted and
replaced  a  silver coin  (1 shilling),  placed  there  (presumably) on  the
occasion (17 October  1903)  of the  interment  of Mrs Emily  Sinico, Sydney
Parade.

     Compile the budget for 16 June 1904.
     #. s. d. #. s. d.
     1 Pork kidney 0. 0. 3 Cash in hand 0.4.9
     2 Copy Freeman's Journal 0.0.2 Commission recd. Freeman's Journal
     1 Bath and gratification 0. 1.6 2.7.6
     Tramfare 0. 0. 2 Loan (Stephen Dedalus) 1.7.0
     2 In Memoriam Patrick
     Dignam 0.5.0
     2 Banbury cakes 0.0.1
     2 Lunch 0.0.7
     1 Rental fee for book 0.1.0
     2 Packet notepaper and
     envelopes 0.0.2
     2 Dinner and gratification 0.2.0
     2 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
     2 Cake Fry's plain choco
     late 0.0.
     1 Square soda bread 0.0.4
     1 Coffee and bun 0.0.4
     Loan (Stephen Dedalus)
     refunded 2.7.0
     BALANCE 0.27.5
     #.2.29. 3 #.2.19.3

     Did the process of divestiture continue?
     Sensible of  a benignant persistent ache  in his footsoles  he extended
his  foot to  one  side and observed the creases, protuberances and  salient
points caused  by foot  pressure  in the  course  of  walking repeatedly  in
several  different  directions, then,  inclined, he  disnoded the laceknots,
unhooked and loosened the laces, took  off each  of his two  boots  for  the
second time, detached  the partially moistened right  sock through the  fore
part  of which the  nail  of his  great  toe had again effracted, raised his
right foot and, having unhooked a  purple elastic  sock suspender,  took off
his right sock, placed his unclothed right foot on the margin of the seat of
his chair, picked at and gently lacerated the protruding part  of the  great
toenail, raised the part lacerated to his nostrils and  inhaled the odour of
the  quick,  then  with  satisfaction  threw  away  the  lacerated  unguinal
fragment.

     Why with satisfaction?
     Because the odour inhaled corresponded to other odours inhaled of other
unguinal  fragments, picked and lacerated by  Master  Bloom,  pupil  of  Mrs
Ellis's  juvenile  school,  patiently  each  night  in  the  act   of  brief
genuflection and nocturnal prayer and ambitious meditation.

     In what ultimate ambition had all concurrent and  consecutive ambitions
now coalesced?
     Not to inherit by right of primogeniture, gavelkind or borough English,
or possess  in perpetuity an extensive demesne  of  a  sufficient number  of
acres,  roods and  perches, statute land measure (valuation #42), of grazing
turbary surrounding a  baronial  hall with gatelodge and carriage drive nor,
on the other hand, a terracehouse or semidetached villa, described as Rus in
Urbe or  Qui si Sana,  but to purchase by private  treaty  in  fee simple  a
thatched   bungalowshaped  2   storey  dwellinghouse  of  southerly  aspect,
surmounted by vane  and lightning conductor, connected with the  earth, with
porch covered by parasitic plants (ivy or Virginia creeper), halldoor, olive
green, with  smart carriage  finish and neat doorbrasses,  stucco front with
gilt tracery at eaves and gable, rising, if possible, upon a gentle eminence
with  agreeable  prospect  from  balcony  with  stone  pillar  parapet  over
unoccupied  and  unoccupyable interjacent  pastures  and standing  in 5 or 6
acres  of  its  own  ground,  at such  a  distance from the  nearest  public
thoroughfare as to render its houselights visible at night above and through
a quickset hornbeam hedge of topiary cutting, situate at a  given point  not
less than 1 statute mile from the periphery of the metropolis, within a time
limit of not more than 5 minutes from tram  or train  line  (e.g.,  Dundrum,
south,  or  Sutton,  north,  both localities equally  reported by  trial  to
resemble the terrestrial poles in  being favourable climates for  phthisical
subjects), the  premises to be held under feefarmgrant, lease 999 years, the
message 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 wine-coloured leather, gloss  renewable with a
minimum of  labour  by use  of linseed oil and  vinegar)  and  pyramidically
prismatic central chandelier lustre, bentwood perch with a fingertame parrot
(expurgated language), embossed mural paper at 10/-per dozen with transverse
swags  of  carmine  floral design and  top  crown frieze,  staircase,  three
continuous flights  at  successive right  angles, of  varnished cleargrained
oak, treads and risers, newel, balusters and handrail, with stepped-up 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  brace, armrests, footstool
and  artistic oleograph  on  inner  face  of  door:  ditto, plain: servant's
apartments with separate sanitary and hygienic necessaries for cook, general
and betweenmaid (salary, rising  by biennial unearned increments of #2, with
comprehensive  fidelity insurance annual bonus (#1), and  retiring allowance
(based on  the 65 system) after 30 years service), pantry,  buttery, larder,
refrigerator,  outoffices, coal and  wood cellarage with  winebin (still and
sparkling  vintages)  for distinguished  guests, if  entertained  to  dinner
(evening dress), carbon monoxide gas supply throughout.

     What additional attractions might the grounds contain?
     As addenda, a tennis and fives court, a  shrubbery, a glass summerhouse
with tropical palms, equipped  in  the best botanical manner a  rockery with
waterspray,  a beehive arranged  on  humane  principles, oval  flowerbeds in
rectangular grassplots set  with  eccentric  ellipses  of scarlet and chrome
tulips, blue  scillas, crocuses, polyanthus, sweet William,  sweat pea, lily
of  the  valley  (bulbs  obtainable  from  sir  James  W.  Mackey  (Limited)
(wholesale and  retail) seed  and bulb  merchant and  nurseryman, agent  for
chemical manures,  23  Sackville street, upper), an orchard,  kitchen garden
and  vinery,  protected  against  illegal trespassers  by  glasstopped mural
enclosures, a lumbershed with padlock for various inventoried implements.

     As?
     Eeltraps,  lobsterpots,  fishingrods, hatchet,  steelyard,  grindstone,
clodcrusher, swatheturner, carriagesack,  telescope ladder,  10 tooth  rake,
washing clogs, haytedder, tumbling rake, billhook, paintpot, brush, hoe  and
so on.

     What improvements might be subsequently introduced?
     A  rabbitry  and  fowlrun,  a  dovecote,  a  botanical  conservatory, 2
hammocks  (lady's  and gentleman's),  a  sundial  shaded  and  sheltered  by
laburnum or lilac trees, an exotically harmonically accorded Japanese tinkle
gatebell  affixed  to  left  lateral  gatepost,  a  capacious  waterbutt,  a
lawnmower with side  delivery and grassbox,  a lawnsprinkler  with hydraulic
hose.

     What facilities of transit were desirable?
     When  citybound  frequent  connection  by  train  or  tram  from  their
respective intermediate station or  terminal. When countrybound velocipedes,
a  chainless  freewheel  roadster  cycle  with  side basketcar  attached, or
draught  conveyance, a donkey with wicker trap or  smart  phaeton  with good
working solidungular cob (roan gelding, 14h).

     What might be the name of this erigible or erected residence?
     Bloom Cottage. Saint Leopold's. Flowerville.

     Could Bloom of 7 Eccles street foresee Bloom of Flowerville?
     In loose allwool garments  with Harris tweed cap, price 8/6, and useful
garden boots  with  elastic gussets and wateringcan,  planting aligned young
firtrees, syringing, pruning, staking, sowing hayseed, trundling a weedladen
wheelbarrow  without excessive fatigue  at  sunset amid the scent of newmown
hay, ameliorating the soil, multiplying wisdom, achieving longevity.

     What syllabus of intellectual pursuits was simultaneously possible?
     Snapshot photography, comparative study of religions, folklore relative
to  various  amatory  and  superstitious  practices,  contemplation  of  the
celestial constellations.

     What lighter recreations?
     Outdoor: garden  and fieldwork, cycling on level macadamised causeways,
ascents  of  moderately high hills, natation  in  secluded  fresh water  and
unmolested  river  boating in  secure wherry  or light curricle  with  kedge
anchor  on  reaches  free  from  weirs  and  rapids (period of  estivation),
vespertinal perambulation or equestrian circumprocession with inspection  of
sterile landscape  and  contrastingly  agreeable cottagers' fires of smoking
peat turves (period  of hibernation). Indoor discussion in tepid security of
unsolved  historical and criminal  problems: lecture of unexpurgated  exotic
erotic masterpieces:  house  carpentry with toolbox containing hammer,  awl,
nails, screws, tintacks, gimlet, tweezers, bullnose plane and turnscrew.
     Might he become a gentleman farmer of field produce and live stock?
     Not impossibly, with  1 or 2  stripper cows, 1  pike of upland hay  and
requisite farming implements, e.g., an  end-to-end  churn,  a  turnip pulper
etc.

     What  would be his civic functions and social  status among the  county
families and landed gentry?
     Arranged successively in  ascending powers  of hierarchical order, that
of  gardener, groundsman,  cultivator, breeder,  and  at  the zenith  of his
career, resident magistrate or justice of the peace with a family  crest and
coat of arms and appropriate classical motto (Semper paratus), duly recorded
in  the court  directory (Bloom, Leopold P., M. P., P. C., K.  P.,  L. L. D.
honoris cause,  Bloomville, Dundrum) and mentioned in court  and fashionable
intelligence (Mr and Mrs Leopold Bloom have left Kingstown for England).

     What course of action did he outline for himself in such capacity?
     A course  that lay between  undue  clemency and  excessive rigour:  the
dispensation  in a  heterogeneous society of  arbitrary classes, incessantly
rearranged  in  terms of greater and lesser social  inequality of  unbiassed
homogeneous  indisputable  justice, tempered  with  mitigants  of the widest
possible latitude but exactable to the uttermost farthing with  confiscation
of estate, real and personal, to the crown. Loyal to the highest constituted
power in the land, actuated by an innate love of rectitude his aims would be
the strict maintenance of public order, the repression of many abuses though
not of all simultaneously (every  measure of  reform or retrenchment being a
preliminary solution to  be contained by fluxion in the final solution), the
upholding  of  the  letter  of  the  law (common,  statute and law merchant)
against all  traversers in covin and trespassers acting in contravention  of
bylaws and regulations, all resuscitators (by trespass and petty larceny  of
kindlings)  of   venville  rights,  obsolete  by   desuetude,  all   orotund
instigators of international persecution, all  perpetuators of international
animosities, all menial molestors of domestic conviviality, all recalcitrant
violators of domestic connubiality.

     Prove that he had loved rectitude from his earliest youth.
     To master  Percy  Apjohn at High School  in  1880  he  had divulged his
disbelief in  the  tenets  of  the  Irish  (protestant) church (to which his
father Rudolf  Virag,  later  Rudolph  Bloom, had  been converted  from  the
Israelitic  faith  and communion  in  1865  by  the  Society  for  promoting
Christianity among the Jews) subsequently abjured by him in  favour of Roman
catholicism at the epoch of  and  with a  view to  his matrimony in 1888. To
Daniel  Magrane  and  Francis  Wade in 1882  during  a  juvenile  friendship
(terminated by  the  premature emigration of the  former)  he had  advocated
during nocturnal perambulations  the  political  theory  of  colonial  (e.g.
Canadian)  expansion  and  the  evolutionary  theories  of  Charles  Darwin,
expounded in  The Descent of Man and The Origin of  Species. In 1885 he  had
publicly  expressed his adherence  to  the collective and  national economic
programme advocated by James Fintan Lalor, John Fisher Murray, John Mitchel,
J. F. X.  O'Brien  and others, the agrarian policy  of  Michael Davitt,  the
constitutional  agitation  of Charles Stewart Parnell (M. P. for Cork City),
the programme of peace,  retrenchment and reform  of William Ewart Gladstone
(M. P. for Midlothian, N. B.)  and, in support of his political convictions,
had  climbed up into a secure position  amid the  ramifications of a tree on
Northumberland road to see the  entrance (2 February 1888)  into the capital
of  a demonstrative  torchlight procession of 20,000, divided into 120 trade
corporations, bearing  2,000 torches in escort of the marquess of  Ripon and
John Morley.

     How much and how did he propose to pay for this country residence?
     As  per prospectus of the Industrious Foreign Acclimatised Nationalised
Friendly Stateaided Building Society (incorporated 1874),  a maximum of  #60
per  annum,  being  116th  of an  assured  income,  derived  from  giltedged
securities,  representing  at  5%  simple  interest  on  capital  of  #1,200
(estimate of  price  at  20  years  purchase) of  which  1/3rd to be paid on
acquisition and  the  balance in the form of annual rent, viz. #800  plus  2
1/2% interest on the same, repayable  quarterly in equal  annual instalments
until  extinction  by amortisation of loan advanced  for  purchase  within a
period of 20 years, amounting to an annual rental of #64, headrent included,
the  titledeeds to remain in  possession of  the  lender or  lenders  with a
saving clause envisaging forced sale, foreclosure and mutual compensation in
the event  of protracted failure to pay the terms  assigned,  otherwise  the
messuage to become the absolute property  of the tenant occupier upon expiry
of the period of years stipulated.

     What  rapid  but insecure means to opulence might  facilitate immediate
purchase?
     A  private  wireless  telegraph which  would  transmit by  dot and dash
system the result of a national equine  handicap (flat or steeplechase) of 1
or more miles and furlongs won by an outsider at odds of 50 to  1 at 3 hr. 8
m. p.m. at Ascot (Greenwich time)  the message being received and  available
for  betting purposes in Dublin at  2.59 p.m. (Dunsink time). The unexpected
discovery  of  an object of  great monetary value:  precious stone, valuable
adhesive  or  impressed  postage  stamps  (7-shilling,  mauve,  imperforate,
Hamburg, 1866:  4  pence, rose, blue paper perforate, Great Britain, 1866: 1
franc, stone,  official, rouletted,  diagonal  surcharge, Luxembourg, 1878):
antique  dynastical ring, unique relic in unusual repositories or by unusual
means: from  the  air  (dropped  by an eagle in  flight), by fire  (amid the
carbonised  remains of an incendiated edifice),  in  the sea  (amid flotsam,
jetsam, lagan and derelict), on earth (in the gizzard of a comestible fowl).
A Spanish prisoner's donation of a  distant treasure of valuables  or specie
or bullion lodged with a solvent banking corporation 100 years previously at
5% compound interest of the collective worth of #5,000,000 stg (five million
pounds  sterling).  A  contract with  an inconsiderate  contractee  for  the
delivery of 32 consignments of some given commodity in consideration of cash
payment on delivery  at the initial rate of 1/4d. to be increased constantly
in the  geometrical progression of 2 (1/4d., 1/2d., 1d., 2d., 4d., 8d.,  1s.
4d., 2s. 8d. to 32 terms). A prepared scheme based on a study of the laws of
probability  to break the bank  at Monte  Carlo.  A solution of  the secular
problem of  the quadrature  of  the  circle, government  premium  #1,000,000
sterling.

     Was vast wealth acquirable through industrial channels?
     The reclamation  of dunams  of  waste  arenary  soil,  proposed in  the
prospectus  of  Agendath  Netaim,  Bleibtreustrasse,  Berlin,  W.15  by  the
cultivation  of orange plantations and  melonfields and reafforestation. The
utilisation  of  waste  paper,  fells  of  sewer  rodents,  human  excrement
possessing chemical properties, in view of the vast production of the first,
vast number of the second  and immense quantity of the  third,  every normal
human being  of average vitality and appetite producing annually, cancelling
byproducts  of  water, a sum total of 80 lbs. (mixed  animal  and  vegetable
diet), to  be  multiplied  by  4,386,035  the  total  population of  Ireland
according to the census returns of 1901.

     Were there schemes of wider scope?
     A  scheme  to be  formulated and submitted for approval to the  harbour
commissioners for the exploitation of white coal (hydraulic power), obtained
by  hydroelectric plant at peak of tide at Dublin bar or at head of water at
Poulaphouca  or Powerscourt or catchment  basins of  main  streams  for  the
economic production of 500,000 W. H. P.  of electricity. A scheme to enclose
the peninsular delta of the North  Bull at Dollymount and erect on the space
of  the  foreland,  used  for  golf links  and rifle  ranges,  an  asphalted
esplanade with casinos, booths, shooting galleries, hotels,  boardinghouses,
readingrooms,  establishments for  mixed bathing.  A scheme  for  the use of
dogvans  and goatvans for the delivery of early morning milk.  A  scheme for
the  development of  Irish  tourist traffic in and around Dublin by means of
petrolpropelled  riverboats,  plying in the fluvial  fairway between  island
bridge and Ringsend, charabancs, narrow gauge local  railways,  and pleasure
steamers  for  coastwise  navigation  (10/-  per  person   per   day,  guide
(trilingual) included).  A  scheme for the repristination  of passenger  and
goods traffics over Irish waterways, when freed  from weedbeds. A scheme  to
connect  by tramline  the Cattle Market  (North  Circular road  and  Prussia
street) with the quays (Sheriff street, lower, and East Wall), parallel with
the Link line railway  laid  (in  conjunction with  the  Great  Southern and
Western railway line) between the cattle park, Liffey junction, and terminus
of Midland  Great Western  railway 43 to 45 North Wall, in proximity  to the
terminal stations  or  Dublin  branches of  Great  Central  Railway, Midland
Railway  of  England,  City  of  Dublin  Steam  Packet  Company,  Lancashire
Yorkshire Railway Company, Dublin and Glasgow Steam Packet  Company, Glasgow
Dublin and Londonderry Steam Packet Company (Laird line),  British and Irish
Steam Packet  Company,  Dublin  and  Morecambe  Steamers,  London and  North
Western  Railway Company,  Dublin  Port and  Docks  Board Landing Sheds  and
transit sheds of  Palgrave, Murphy and Company, steamship owners, agents for
steamers from  Mediterranean, Spain, Portugal,  France, Belgium  and Holland
and for  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  financiery   (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 eventually 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 or  his  axioms that  similar meditations or  the automatic
relation  to  himself  of   a  narrative  concerning  himself   or  tranquil
recollection  of the past when practised habitually before retiring for  the
night alleviated fatigue and produced as a result sound repose and renovated
vitality.

     His justifications?
     As  a  physicist he had learned that of the 70  years of complete human
life  at least 2/7ths, viz., 20  years  passed in sleep. As a philosopher he
knew that at the termination of any allotted life only an infinitesimal part
of any person's desires has been realised. As a physiologist  he believed in
the  artificial  placation  of  malignant agencies chiefly operative  during
somnolence.

     What did he fear?
     The committal of homicide or suicide  during  sleep by an aberration of
the light  of reason, the incommensurable categorical intelligence  situated
in the cerebral convolutions.

     What were habitually his final meditations?
     Of  some one  sole  unique  advertisement to  cause passers  to stop in
wonder,  a poster novelty, with  all extraneous accretions excluded, reduced
to  its simplest  and most efficient  terms not exceeding the span of casual
vision and congruous with the velocity of modern life.

     What did the first drawer unlocked contain?
     A Vere  Foster's  handwriting copybook, property  of Milly  (Millicent)
Bloom,  certain  pages  of  which bore diagram  drawings marked Papli, which
showed a  large globular  head with 5 hairs erect,  2  eyes in  profile, the
trunk  full  front  with  3  large  buttons,  1  triangular  foot:  2 fading
photographs of queen  Alexandra  of England and of  Maud Branscombe, actress
and  professional  beauty:  a  Yuletide  card,  bearing  on it  a  pictorial
representation of a parasitic plant,  the legend Mizpah, the date Xmas 1892,
the name  of the senders, from  Mr  and Mrs M. Comerford, the versicle:  May
this Yuletide  bring to thee, Joy and peace  and welcome glee: a butt of red
partly  liquefied sealing wax, obtained from the stores department of Messrs
Hely's, Ltd., 89, 90 and 91 Dame street: a box containing the remainder of a
gross of gilt  `J' pennibs, obtained from same department  of  same firm: an
old sandglass  which rolled containing sand which rolled: a sealed  prophecy
(never  unsealed)   written  by  Leopold   Bloom   in  1886  concerning  the
consequences of the passing into law of William Ewart Gladstone's Home  Rule
bill of 1886 (never passed into law): a bazaar ticket No 2004, of S. Kevin's
Charity  Fair, price 6d. 100  prizes: an infantile epistle,  dated, small em
monday, reading: capital  pee  Papli comma capital aitch How are you note of
interrogation  capital eye I am very well  full stop new paragraph signature
with flourishes capital em Milly no stop: a cameo  brooch, property of Ellen
Bloom  (born Higgins),  deceased:  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  reserved alphabetic  boustrophedontic  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 faintruled notepaper, watermarked,
now  reduced  by 3: some assorted Austrian-Hungarian coins: 2 coupons of the
Royal  and Privileged Hungarian  Lottery: a  lowpower  magnifying  glass:  2
erotic  photocards showing: a)  buccal coition between nude  senorita  (rere
presentation,  superior  position)  and  nude   torero  (fore  presentation,
inferior position): b) anal violation by male religious (fully clothed, eyes
abject) of female religious (partly clothed, eyes direct), purchased by post
from  Box 32, P. O., Charing  Cross, London, W.C.: a press cutting of recipe
for  renovation  of old tan  boots: a 1d. adhesive  stamp, lavender, of  the
reign  of Queen Victoria: a chart of measurements of Leopold  Bloom compiled
before,  during and after 2 months of  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 and 9 in., thigh 10  in. and 12
in., calf 11 in. and 12 in.:  1 prospectus of the  Wonderworker, the world's
greatest  remedy  for  rectal complaints direct  from Wonderworker, Coventry
House, South Place,  London  E. C.,  addressed to Mrs  L.  Bloom  with brief
accompanying note commencing: 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 anew man of  you  and  life  worth living. Ladies find
Wonderworker  especially  useful,  a   pleasant  surprise  when   they  note
delightful  result  like  a  cool drink of fresh  spring  water on a  sultry
summer's  day. Recommend it to  your lady and  gentlemen  friends,  lasts  a
lifetime. Insert long round end. Wonderworker.

     Were there testimonials?
     Numerous. From clergyman, British naval officer, wellknown author, city
man, hospital nurse, lady, mother of five, absentminded beggar.

     How did absentminded beggar's concluding testimonial conclude?
     What  a pity  the  government did not supply our men with wonderworkers
during the South African campaign! What a relief it would have been!

     What object did Bloom add to this collection of objects?
     A 4th typewritten letter received by Henry Flower (let  H. F. be L. B.)
from Martha Clifford (find M. C.).

     What pleasant reflection accompanied this action?
     The  reflection  that, apart from  the letter in question, his magnetic
face, form and address had been favourably received during the course of the
preceding day by  a  wife (Mrs Josephine Breen, born Josie Powell); a nurse,
Miss Calian (Christian  name unknown), a maid, Gertrude  (Gerty, family name
unknown).

     What possibility suggested itself?
     The possibility  of exercising virile  power of fascination in the most
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 and drawer contain?
     Documents: the birth certificate  of Leopold Paula Bloom:  an endowment
assurance  policy   of  #500  in  the  Scottish  Widows'  Assurance  Society
intestated Millicent  (Milly)  Bloom, coming  into force at 25 years as with
profit policy of #430, #462--10--0 and #500 at  60  years or death, 65 years
or  death and  death,  respectively,  or  with  profit  policy  (paidup)  of
#299--10--0  together with cash payment of #133--10--0, at  option:  a  bank
passbook issued  by the Ulster Bank, College  Green branch showing statement
of a/c for half year ending 31 December 1903, balance in depositor's favour:
#18--14--6 (eighteen pounds, fourteen  shillings and  six  pence, sterling),
net  personalty: certificate  of possession  of #900 Canadian 4% (inscribed)
government stock (free of stamp  duty): dockets of the  Catholic Cemeteries'
(Glasnevin)  Committee, relative  to a graveplot purchased:  a  local  press
cutting concerning change of name by deedpoll.
     Quote the textual terms of this notice.
     I, Rudolph Virag,  now resident  at no 52  Clanbrassil  street, Dublin,
formerly of Szombathely in the kingdom of Hungary, hereby give notice that I
have assumed and intend henceforth upon all occasions and at all times to be
known by the name of Rudolph Bloom.

     What  other objects relative to Rudolph  Bloom (born Virag) were in the
2nd drawer?
     An  indistinct daguerreotype  of Rudolph  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  hagadah  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 Herr... Gott... dein...

     What  reminiscences  of  a  human  subject suffering  from  progressive
melancholia did these objects evoke in Bloom?
     An  old man widower,  unkempt 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
tetragrammaron: the sanctity of the sabbath.

     How did these beliefs and practices now appear to him?
     Not more rational than they had  then  appeared, not less rational than
other beliefs and practices now appeared.

     What first reminiscence had he of Rudolph Bloom (deceased)?
     Rudolph Bloom  (deceased) narrated to his son Leopold Bloom  (aged 6) a
retrospective  arrangement of migrations  and  settlements  in  and  between
Dublin,  London,  Florence,  Milan,   Vienna,  Budapest,  Szombathely,  with
statements  of  satisfaction  (his  grandfather having  seen Maria  Theresa,
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 idiosyncrasies  of  the  narrator  were  concomitant  product$  of
amnesia?
     Occasionally  he  ate  without  having  previously   removed  his  hat.
Occasionally  he  drank voraciously  the juice  of  gooseberry fool  from an
inclined plate. Occasionally he removed from his lips the traces of food  by
means of a lacerated envelope or other accessible fragment of paper.

     What two phenomena of senescence were more frequent?
     The myopic  digital  calculation of coins,  eructation  consequent upon
repletion.

     What object offered partial consolation for these reminiscences?
     The  endowment  policy,  the bank  passbook,  the  certificate  of  the
possession of scrip.

     Reduce Bloom by cross multiplication of reverses of fortune, from which
these supports protected him, and by elimination of all positive values to a
negligible negative irrational unreal quantity.
     Successively, in descending helotic order: Poverty: that of the outdoor
hawker of imitation jewellery, the dun for  the recovery of bad and doubtful
debts, the  poor rate  and  deputy cess collector. Mendicancy: that  of  the
fraudulent  bankrupt  with  negligible  assets  paying  1s. 4d.  in  the  #,
sandwichman,  distributor  of  throwaways,  nocturnal  vagrant,  insinuating
sycophant,  maimed sailor,  blind  stripling,  superannuated bailiff's  man,
marfeast, lickplate, spoilsport, pickthank, eccentric  public  laughingstock
seated  on  bench  of  public  park  under  discarded  perforated  umbrella.
Destitution: the inmate of Old Man's House (Royal Hospital), Kilmainham, the
inmate  of Simpson's Hospital  for  reduced but  respectable men permanently
disabled by  gout  or want  of sight.  Nadir of  misery: the  aged  impotent
disfranchised ratesupported moribund lunatic pauper.

     With which attendant indignities?
     The  unsympathetic  indifference  of  previously  amiable females,  the
contempt  of muscular  males,  the acceptance of  fragments  of  bread,  the
simulated  ignorance of casual acquaintances, the latration of  illegitimate
unlicensed vagabond dogs, the  infantile discharge  of decomposed  vegetable
missiles, worth little or nothing 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 it 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 it not irrational?
     The  parties concerned,  uniting,  had increased  and multiplied, which
being done, offspring produced and educed to  maturity, the parties, if  now
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 it desirable?
     The  attractive character of certain localities  in Ireland and abroad,
as represented  in  general geographical  maps of  polychrome design  or  in
special ordnance survey charts by employment of scale numerals and hachures.

     In Ireland?
     The cliffs  of  Moher, the windy  wilds of Connemara,  lough Neagh with
submerged  petrified  city, the  Giant's  Causeway,  Fort  Camden  and  Fort
Carlisle, the Golden Vale of Tipperary, the islands of Aran, the pastures of
royal  Meath,  Brigid's  elm  in  Kildare,  the Queen's  Island  shipyard in
Belfast, the Salmon Leap, the lakes of Killarney.

     Abroad?
     Ceylon (with  spicegardens supplying tea to  Thomas  Kernan,  agent for
Pulbrook,  Robertson  and Co, 2 Mincing lane, London, E. C., 5  Dame street,
Dublin), Jerusalem, the holy city (with mosque of Omar and gate of Damascus,
goal of  aspiration),  the straits of Gibraltar (the  unique  birthplace  of
Marion Tweedy), the Parthenon (containing statues, 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 Major 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
Major.  On  land,  meridional, a  bispherical  moon,  revealed in  imperfect
varying  phases  of  lunation  through  the   posterior  interstice  of  the
imperfectly occluded skirt of a  carnose  negligent perambulating  female, a
pillar of the cloud by day.

     What  public   advertisement  would  divulge  the  occultation  of  the
departed?
     #5 reward lost, stolen or  strayed from his residence 7 Eccles  street,
missing gent about 40, answering  to  the name of  Bloom,  Leopold  (Poldy),
height 5 ft 9 1/2 inches, full build, olive complexion, may have since grown
a beard, when last seen was wearing a black suit. Above sum will be paid for
information leading to his discovery.

     What universal  binomial  denominations  would  be  his  as  entity and
nonentity?
     Assumed by any or known to none. Everyman or Noman.

     What tributes his?
     Honour  and  gifts of  strangers,  the friends  of  Everyman.  A  nymph
immortal, beauty, the bride of Noman.

     Would the departed never nowhere nohow reappear?
     Ever  he  would  wander,  selfcompelled, to the extreme  limit  of  his
cometary orbit, beyond  the  fixed stars and  variable  suns and  telescopic
planets, astronomical waifs  and strays,  to the extreme boundary of  space,
passing  from  land  to  land,  among   peoples,  amid   events.   Somewhere
imperceptibly he would hear and somehow reluctantly,  suncompelled, obey the
summons  of  recall.  Whence, disappearing  from  the  constellation of  the
Northern  Crown  he  would  somehow  reappear  reborn  above  delta  in  the
constellation of  Cassiopeia  and after  incalculable eons  of peregrination
return  an estranged  avenger, a wreaker of justice on  malefactors,  a dark
crusader,  a  sleeper awakened,  with financial  resources (by  supposition)
surpassing those of Rothschild or of the silver King.

     What would render such return irrational?
     An unsatisfactory equation between an exodus and return in time through
reversible  space and an exodus  and  return  in  space through irreversible
time.

     What play of forces, inducing inertia, rendered departure undesirable?
     The lateness  of the hour,  rendering procrastinatory: the obscurity of
the night, rendering invisible: the  uncertainty of thoroughfares, rendering
perilous:  the necessity for repose, obviating movement: the proximity of an
occupied  bed,  obviating  research:  the  anticipation  of  warmth  (human)
tempered with coolness  (linen), obviating  desire and  rendering desirable:
the statue of Narcissus, sound without echo, desired desire.

     What  advantages  were possessed  by  an occupied, as distinct  from an
unoccupied bed?
     The  removal  of  nocturnal solitude,  the  superior  quality  of human
(mature  female)  to  inhuman  (hotwaterjar) calefaction, the stimulation of
matutinal contact, the  economy of mangling done on the premises in the case
of  trousers  accurately folded  and  placed lengthwise between  the  spring
mattress (striped) and the woollen mattress (biscuit section).

     What  past  consecutive  causes,   before  rising   preapprehended,  of
accumulated fatigue did Bloom, before rising, silently recapitulate?
     The  preparation of  breakfast  (burnt offering): intestinal congestion
and premeditative defecation (holy of holies): the bath (rite of John):  the
funeral (rite of Samuel): the  advertisement  of  Alexander Keyes  (Urim and
Thummin): the unsubstantial lunch (rite of Melchizedek): the visit to museum
and  national  library  (holy  place):  the  bookhunt  along  Bedford   row,
Merchants' Arch, Wellington  Quay (Simchath Torah): the music in  the Ormond
Hotel (Shira Shirim): the altercation with a truculent troglodyte in Bernard
Kiernan's premises (holocaust): a blank period of time including a cardrive,
a visit  to a house of mourning, a  leavetaking (wilderness): the  eroticism
produced by feminine exhibitionism (rite of Onan): the prolonged delivery of
Mrs Mina Purefoy  (heave offering): the visit to the disorderly house of Mrs
Bella Cohen, 82 Tyrone street, lower, and subsequent brawl and chance medley
in  Beaver  street  (Armageddon): nocturnal perambulation  to  and from  the
cabman's shelter, Butt Bridge (atonement).

     What selfimposed enigma did Bloom about to rise in order to go so as to
conclude lest he should not conclude involuntarily apprehend?
     The cause of a  brief sharp unforeseen heard loud lone crack emitted by
the insentient material of a strainveined timber table.

     What   selfinvolved   enigma   did   Bloom  risen,   going,   gathering
multicoloured  multiform  multitudinous garments,  voluntarily apprehending,
not comprehend?
     Who was M'Intosh?

     What  selfevident  enigma  pondered  with desultory constancy during 30
years did Bloom now,  having effected natural obscurity by the extinction of
artificial light, silently suddenly comprehend?
     Where was Moses when the candle went out?

     What  imperfections  in  a perfect  day did Bloom,  walking,  silently,
successively, enumerate?
     A provisional failure to obtain renewal of  an advertisement, to obtain
a certain quantity of tea from Thomas Kernan  (agent for Pulbrook, Robertson
and  Co, 5 Dame  street,  Dublin,  and  2  Mincing lane, London, E.  C.), to
certify  the presence or absence of posterior rectal  orifice in the case of
Hellenic female divinities, to obtain admission  (gratuitous or paid) to the
performance of Leah by Mrs Bandman 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 the hypothesis?
     Retreating,  at  the  terminus of  the  Great Northern  Railway, Amiens
street, with constant uniform acceleration,  along parallel lines meeting at
infinity, if produced: along parallel lines, reproduced from infinity,  with
constant uniform retardation, at the terminus of the Great Northern Railway,
Amiens street, returning.

     What  miscellaneous  effects of  female personal wearing  apparel  were
perceived by him?
     A pair of  new inodorous  halfsilk black  ladies'  hose, a pair of  new
violet garters, a  pair  of outsize ladies'  drawers  of  India mull, cut on
generous  lines,  redolent  of  opoponax, jessamine  and  Muratti's  Turkish
cigarettes   and   containing  a   long  bright  steel  safety  pin,  folded
curvilinear, a camisole of baptiste  with  thin  lace  border, an  accordion
underskirt  of  blue  silk   moirette,  all  these  objects  being  disposed
irregularly on the  top  of a rectangular trunk, quadruple  battened, having
capped corners, with multicoloured labels, initialled on  its fore  side  in
white lettering B. C. T. (Brian Cooper Tweedy).

     What impersonal objects were perceived?
     A  commode,  one  leg  fractured, totally covered  by  square  cretonne
cutting, apple design, on which rested a lady's black straw hat. Orangekeyed
ware, bought of Henry Price,  basket, fancy goods, chinaware and ironmongery
manufacturer, 21, 22, 23 Moore street, disposed irregularly on the washstand
and  floor,  and  consisting  of  basin,  soapdish  and  brushtray  (on  the
washstand, together), pitcher and night article (on the floor, separate).

     Bloom's acts?
     He deposited the articles of clothing on a chair, removed his remaining
articles of clothing, took from beneath the bolster at the head of the bed a
folded long white  nightshirt, inserted his head and  arms into  the  proper
apertures of the nightshirt, removed a  pillow from the head to  the foot of
the bed, prepared the bedlinen accordingly and entered the bed.

     How?
     With circumspection,  as invariably when entering  an abode (his own or
not his own): with solicitude, the snakespiral springs of the mattress being
old,  the  brass  quoits  and pendent viper radii loose and  tremulous under
stress and strain: prudently, as entering a lair or ambush of lust or adder:
lightly, the  less to  disturb:  reverently,  the bed  of  conception and of
birth, of consummation of marriage and of breach of  marriage,  of sleep and
of death.

     What did his limbs, when gradually extended, encounter?
     New  clean bedlinen,  additional odours, the  presence of a human form,
female, hers, the imprint of a human form, male, not his, some  crumbs, some
flakes of potted meat, recooked, which he removed.

     If he had smiled why would he have smiled?
     To reflect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to
enter whereas he is always the last  term of a preceding series  even if the
first term of a  succeeding  one,  each imagining himself to be first, last,
only and alone, whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a
series originating In and repeated to infinity.

     What preceding series?
     Assuming Mulvey  to be the first  term of his series, Penrose,  Bartell
d'Arcy, professor  Goodwin,  Julius Mastiansky, John  Henry  Menton,  Father
Bernard Corrigan, a farmer  at the Royal Dublin Society's Horse Show, Maggot
O'Reilly, Matthew  Dillon, Valentine Blake Dillon  (Lord  Mayor  of Dublin),
Christopher Callinan, Lenehan, an Italian organgrinder, an unknown gentleman
in  the Gaiety Theatre,  Benjamin Dollard,  Simon  Dedalus,  Andrew (Pisser)
Burke, Joseph Cuffe, Wisdom  Hely,  Alderman John Hooper, Dr Francis  Brady,
Father Sebastian of Mount Argus, a bootblack at  the  General  Post  Office,
Hugh E. (Blazes) Boylan and so each and so on to nolast term.

     What were his reflections concerning the last member of this series and
late occupant of the bed?
     Reflections  on  his   vigour  (a  bounder),  corporal   proportion  (a
billsticker), commercial ability (a bester), impressionability (a boaster).

     Why for the observer impressionability  in addition to vigour, corporal
proportion and commercial ability?
     Because he had  observed  with  augmenting frequency  in the  preceding
members  of the same series the same concupiscence,  inflammably transmitted
first  with alarm, then  with understanding, then with  desire, finally with
fatigue,   with   alternating   symptoms   of  epicene   comprehension   and
apprehension.

     With  what  antagonistic  sentiments were  his  subsequent  reflections
affected?
     Envy, jealousy, abnegation, equanimity.

     Envy?
     Of  a  bodily  and  mental  male  organism  specially adapted  for  the
superincumbent  posture of  energetic human  copulation and energetic piston
and cylinder  movement necessary for the complete satisfaction of a constant
but not acute concupiscence resident in a bodily and mental female organism,
passive but not obtuse.

     Jealousy?
     Because  a nature full  and volatile in its free state, was alternately
the  agent  and reagent  of  attraction.  Because action  between agents and
reagents at all instants varied,  with  inverse  proportion of increase  and
decrease, with incessant  circular extension and radial  reentrance. Because
the  controlled contemplation of the fluctuation of  attraction produced, if
desired, a fluctuation of pleasure.

     Abnegation?
     In  virtue  of  a)  acquaintance initiated  in September  1903  in  the
establishment of George Mesias, merchant  tailor and outfitter, 5 Eden Quay,
b)   hospitality   extended   and   received   in  kind,   reciprocated  and
reappropriated in  person,  c) comparative  youth  subject  to  impulses  of
ambition  and  magnanimity,  colleagual  altruism  and  amorous  egoism,  d)
extraracial attraction,  intraracial inhibition, supraracial prerogative, e)
an  imminent provincial musical tour, common current  expenses, net proceeds
divided.

     Equanimity?
     As 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 as
calamitous as  a cataclysmic  annihilation  of the planet in consequence  of
collision  with  a  dark  sun.  As less  reprehensible than  theft,  highway
robbery,  cruelty  to children  and  animals,  obtaining  money under  false
pretences, forgery, embezzlement, misappropriation of public money, betrayal
of public trust, malingering,  mayhem, corruption of minors, criminal libel,
blackmail,  contempt of  court, arson,  treason, felony, mutiny on  the high
seas,   trespass,   burglary,  jailbreaking,  practice  of  unnatural  vice,
desertion  from  armed  forces  in  the  field,  perjury,  poaching,  usury,
intelligence  with  the  king's  enemies,  impersonation,  criminal assault,
manslaughter,  wilful and premeditated murder. As not more abnormal than all
other altered 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 witness),  not yet. Suit  for
damages  by  legal  influence  or  simulation of  assault  with evidence  of
injuries  sustained  (selfinflicted),  not  impossibly.  If any, positively,
connivance, introduction of emulation (material, a  prosperous rival  agency
of publicity:  moral, a successful  rival agent of  intimacy), depreciation,
alienation, humiliation,  separation protecting  the one separated from  the
other, protecting separator from both.

     By  what  reflections  did he, a  conscious  reactor  against  the void
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
self abbreviating 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  onomatopic transitive verb  with direct  feminine
object)  from  the  active  voice  into  its  correlative  aorist  preterite
proposition   (parsed   as    feminine    subject,   auxiliary    verb   and
quasimonosyllabic   onomatopic   past   participle   with  complementary
masculine agent) in the passive  voice: the continued product  of seminators
by  generation:  the continual  production  of  semen  by distillation:  the
futility  of  triumph or  protest  or  vindication: the inanity of  extolled
virtue: the lethargy of nescient matter: the apathy of the stars.

     In  what  final  satisfaction  did  these antagonistic  sentiments  and
reflections, reduced to their simplest forms, converge?
     Satisfaction  at  the  ubiquity  in  eastern  and  western  terrestrial
hemispheres, in all habitable lands  and islands explored or unexplored (the
land of the  midnight sun, the  islands of the blessed, the isles of Greece,
the land of promise)  of  adipose posterior female hemispheres,  redolent of
milk and honey and of excretory sanguine and seminal warmth, reminiscent  of
secular   families  of  curves  of  amplitude,  insusceptible  of  moods  of
impression  or of contrarieties of expression, expressive  of mute immutable
mature animality.

     The visible signs of antesatisfaction?
     An approximate erection: a solicitous adversion: a gradual elevation: a
tentative revelation; a silent contemplation.

     Then?
     He kissed the  plump mellow yellow smellow melons of  her rump, on each
plump melonous  hemisphere,  in their  mellow  yellow  furrow, with  obscure
prolonged provocative melonsmellonous osculation.

     The visible signs of postsatisfaction?
     A  silent contemplation: a tentative  velation: a gradual abasement:  a
solicitous aversion: a proximate erection.

     What followed this silent action?
     Somnolent invocation, less somnolent recognition, incipient excitation,
catechetical interrogation.

     With what modifications did the narrator reply to this interrogation?
     Negative: he omitted  to mention the clandestine correspondence between
Martha Clifford and Henry  Flower,  the public altercation at, in and in the
vicinity of the licensed premises  of Bernard Kiernan and Co,  Limited, 8, 9
and  10 Little  Britain street, the erotic provocation and response  thereto
caused by the exhibitionism of Gertrude  (Gerty), surname unknown. Positive:
he included mention of  a  performance by Mrs Bandman 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  entitled  Sweets  of Sin,  anonymous,
author  a gentleman of  fashion, a temporary concussion caused by  a falsely
calculated movement in the course of postcenal gymnastic display, the victim
(since completely recovered) being  Stephen  Dedalus,  professor and author,
eldest  surviving  son  of  Simon  Dedalus,  of  no   fixed  occupation,  an
aeronautical feat executed by  him (narrator) in  the presence of a witness,
the  professor  and author  aforesaid,  with  promptitude  of  decision  and
gymnastic flexibility.

     Was the narration otherwise unaltered by modifications?
     Absolutely.

     Which event or person emerged as the salient point of his narration?
     Stephen Dedalus, professor and author.

     What limitations  of activity and inhibitions  of conjugal rights  were
perceived by  listener and narrator concerning themselves during  the course
of this intermittent and increasingly more laconic narration?
     By the listener a limitation of fertility inasmuch as marriage had been
celebrated 1 calendar  month  after  the 18th anniversary  of  her birth  (8
September 1870),  viz. 8 October, and  consummated  on the  same  date  with
female  issue born  15 June 1889, having  been anticipatorily consummated on
the 10  September  of the same  year  and  complete carnal intercourse, with
ejaculation  of  semen  within the natural female organ, having  last  taken
place  5 weeks previous, viz. 27 November 1893, to the birth  on 29 December
1893 of second (and only male) issue, deceased 9 January 1894, aged 11 days,
there  remained  a period  of  10 years, 5  months and 18 days during  which
carnal intercourse had been incomplete, without ejaculation of semen  within
the natural female organ. By  the  narrator a limitation of activity, mental
and corporal,  inasmuch as  complete mental intercourse between  himself and
the  listener  had not  taken  place  since  the  consummation  of  puberty,
indicated  by  catamenic  hemorrhage, of the female  issue  of narrator  and
listener, 15 September  1903, there remained a period of 9  months and 1 day
during  which in consequence  of a  preestablished natural  comprehension in
incomprehension  between  the  consummated  females  (listener  and  issue),
complete corporal liberty of action had been circumscribed.

     How?
     By  various reiterated  feminine interrogation concerning the masculine
destination whither, the  place  where, the time at which, the  duration for
which, the object with which in the case of temporary absences, projected or
effected.

     What  moved visibly above the listener's and the  narrator's  invisible
thoughts?
     The upcast reflection  of a lamp  and shade,  an  inconstant  series of
concentric circles of varying gradations of light and shadow.

     In what directions did listener and narrator lie?
     Listener, S. E. by E.;  Narrator, N. W. by W.: on the 53rd parallel  of
latitude, N. and  6th meridian of longitude, W.: at an  angle of 45ь  to the
terrestrial equator.

     In what state of rest or motion?
     At rest  relatively  to themselves  and to each  other. In motion being
each  and  both carried westward, forward and  rereward respectively, by the
proper  perpetual  motion  of  the  earth  through  everchanging  tracks  of
neverchanging space.
     In what posture?
     Listener: reclined semilaterally, left, left hand under head, right leg
extended in a straight line and resting on left leg, flexed, in the attitude
of Gea-Tellus,  fulfilled,  recumbent,  big  with seed.  Narrator:  reclined
laterally,  left, with right and left legs flexed, the indexfinger and thumb
of the  right  hand resting  on  the bridge of  the  nose,  in the  attitude
depicted on a snapshot photograph made  by Percy Apjohn, the childman weary,
the manchild in the womb.

     Womb? Weary?
     He rests. He has travelled.

     With?
     Sinbad the  Sailor  and Tinbad  the Tailor and  Jinbad  the  Jailer and
Whinbad the  Whaler  and  Ninbad the Nailer and Finbad the Failer and Binbad
the Bailer and Pinbad the Pailer and Minbad the Mailer and Hinbad the Hailer
and Rinbad  the  Railer and  Dinbad the  Kailer and Vinbad the  Quailer  and
Linbad the Yailer and Xinbad the Phthailer.

     When?
     Going to  a 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?



    Ulysses 18: Penelope


     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  to that old faggot Mrs  Riordan that he thought he
had  a great leg of and she never  left  us a farthing  all for  masses  for
herself and her soul greatest  miser ever  was actually afraid to lay out 4d
for her methylated spirit telling me all her ailments she had  too  much old
chat in her about politics and earthquakes and  the end  of the world let us
have a bit of  fun first God  help the world if  all the women were her sort
down on bathing-suits  and lownecks  of  course  nobody wanted her to wear I
suppose  she was pious because no man  would look  at  her twice I hope I'll
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 go into
a hospital where everything is clean but I suppose Id have to dring  it into
him  for a month yes and then wed have a  hospital nurse  next  thing on the
carpet have him staying there till  they throw  him out  or a nun maybe like
the  smutty photo he has shes as much a nun  as Im not yes because theyre so
weak and puling when theyre sick they want a  woman to get well if his  nose
bleeds  youd  think it was O tragic and that dyinglooking one  off the south
circular  when  he  sprained  his  foot at the choir party at the  sugarloaf
Mountain the day I wore that dress Miss Stack bringing him flowers the worst
old ones  she could find at the bottom of the basket anything at  all to get
into a mans bedroom with her old maids voice trying to imagine he  was dying
on account of her  to never see thy face again though he looked  more like a
man with his beard a bit grown in the bed father was the same besides I hate
bandaging and  dosing when he  cut  his toe with the razor  paring his corns
afraid hed get blood poisoning but if it was a thing I was sick then wed see
what attention only of course the woman hides it not to give all the trouble
they do yes he came somewhere Im sure by his appetite anyway love its not or
hed be off  his feed thinking  of her so  either it  was one  of those night
women if it was  down there  he was really and the hotel  story he made up a
pack of lies to hide it planning it Hynes kept me who  did I meet  ah yes  I
met do you remember  Menton and who else who let me see that big babbyface I
saw  him  and he  not long  married  flirting with  a young  girl at  Pooles
Myriorama  and  turned  my back on  him  when he  slinked  out looking quite
conscious what harm but he had the impudence  to make up to me one time well
done to him mouth almighty and his boiled eyes of all the big stupoes I ever
met and thats  called a solicitor only for I hate  having a long wrangle  in
bed  or else  if its not that its some little bitch or other he  got in with
somewhere or picked up on the sly if they only knew him as well as I do  yes
because the day before yesterday he was scribbling something a letter when I
came into the front room for the matches 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 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 I woman is not enough for them it was all his fault of course
ruining servants then proposing that she could eat at our table on Christmas
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 I  saw too that her face swelled up on
her  with temper when I gave  her her weeks  notice better  do without  them
altogether  do out the rooms  myself  quicker only for  the damn cooking and
throwing out the dirt I gave  it  to him  anyhow either she or me leaves the
house I couldnt even touch him  if I thought he was  with  a dirty barefaced
liar and sloven like that one denying it up to my face and singing about the
place in the W  C too because she knew she was too  well off yes because  he
couldnt possibly do without it that long so he must  do it somewhere and the
last time he came on my bottom when was it the  night Boylan  gave my hand a
great  squeeze going along  by the  Tolka in my hand there steals another  I
just pressed the back of his like that with my thumb to squeeze back singing
the young May Moon shes beaming love because he has an idea about him and me
hes not  such a fool he said Im dining out and going to the Gaiety though Im
not going to give him the satisfaction in any case God knows hes change in a
way  not  to  be always and ever wearing the same old hat unless] paid  some
nicelooking boy to do it since I cant do it myself a young boy would like me
Id confuse him a little alone with him if we were Id let him  see my garters
the new ones and  make him turn  red looking at him seduce him  I know  what
boys feel with  that down on their cheek doing that frigging drawing out the
thing by the hour question  and answer would you  do this that and the other
with the coalman yes with a bishop yes I would because I told him about some
Dean or Bishop  was sitting beside me in the jews Temples gardens when I was
knitting that woollen thing a stranger to Dublin what place was it and so on
about the monuments and he tired me out with statues  encouraging him making
him worse than he is who is in your mind now tell me who are you thinking of
who is it tell  me his name who  tell me  who the German  Emperor is it  yes
imagine Im him think  of  him can you feel  him trying to make a whore of me
what he never will he ought to give it up now at this age of his life simply
ruination for any woman and no satisfaction in it pretending to like it till
( he comes and then finish it off myself anyway and  it makes your lips pale
anyhow its done now once and for all with all the talk of the world about it
people make its only  the first time after that its just  the ordinary do it
and think  no  more  about it why  cant you kiss  a  man  without going  and
marrying him first you sometimes love to  wildly when you  feel that way  so
nice all over you you cant help yourself I wish some man or other would take
me  sometime when hes  there  and kiss me in his arms theres nothing  like a
kiss  long and hot down to  your soul almost paralyses  you then I hate that
confession when I  used  to go to Father  Corrigan he touched me father  and
what harm  if  he did  where and I  said on the  canal bank like a  fool but
whereabouts on  your  person my  child on the leg  behind high up was it yes
rather high up  was it where  you sit down yes  O Lord couldnt he say bottom
right out and have done with it what has that got to do with it and  did you
whatever way he put it I forget no  father  and I always think of  the  real
father  what did he  want to know for when I already  confessed it to God he
had a  nice fat hand the palm moist always I wouldnt mind feeling it neither
would he Id say by the bullneck  in his horsecollar  I wonder did he know me
in the box I could see his face he couldnt see mine of course hed never turn
or let on still his eyes were red  when his  father died theyre lost  for  a
woman of course must  be terrible when a man cries let alone them Id like to
be embraced by one in  his vestments and the smell of  incense off him  like
the pope besides theres no danger with  a  priest if  youre married hes  too
careful about himself then give something to  H H the  pope for  a penance I
wonder was  he  satisfied  with me one thing I  didnt  like his slapping  me
behind  going away so familiarly in the hall though I laughed Im not a horse
or an ass am I I  suppose he was thinking of his father 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 liquor Id like to
sip those richlooking  green  and yellow  expensive  drinks those  stagedoor
johnnies drink with the opera hats I tasted one 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 we took the
port and potted meat it had a fine salty taste yes because I felt lovely and
tired myself and fell asleep as sound as a top the moment I popped  straight
into bed till  that thunder  woke me up as if the world was coming to an end
God  be  merciful to us I thought the heavens were coming  down about  us to
punish  when  I  blessed  myself  and  said  a Hail Mary  like  those  awful
thunderbolts  in Gibraltar  and  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  yes 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
like a Stallion driving it  up into  you because thats all they  want out of
you  with that determined vicious look in his eye  I had to halfshut my eyes
still he hasnt such a tremendous amount of spunk in him when I made him pull
it 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 ear
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 I m sure hed have a fine strong child but  I
dont know  Poldy has more spunk in him yes thatd be  awfully jolly I suppose
it was meeting Josie Powell and the funeral and thinking about me and Boylan
set him off well he can think what he likes now if thatll do him any good  I
know they  were spooning a  bit  when I came on the scene he was dancing and
sitting out with her the night of Georgina Simpsons housewarming and then he
wanted to  ram it  down  my neck  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 mixed up things especially about the body and
the insides 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 on a  coolness 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 aid over to  Floey  and he made  me the
present of  lord Byrons poems and the three pairs of gloves so that finished
that I could quite easily get him  to make it up any time I know how Id even
supposing he got in with her again and was going out to see her somewhere Id
know if he refused to eat the onions I know plenty of  ways ask  him to tuck
down the collar  of my blouse or touch him with  my veil and gloves on going
out 1 kiss then would send them all spinning however alright  well seen 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 with  his plabbery kind of a
manner to her 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 did you wash possible the women are  always egging on to
that  putting it on thick when hes there they know by his sly eye blinking a
bit putting on the indifferent when they come out with something the kind he
is what spoils him  I dont wonder in the least  because he was very handsome
at that time trying to look like lord Byron I said I liked though he was too
beautiful for  a man and  he was  a little  before we got engaged afterwards
though she didnt like it so much the  day I was in fits of laughing with the
giggles I couldnt stop about all my hairpins falling 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
anyway whatever he does always  wipes his feet on the mat  when he  comes in
wet or shine and always blacks his own boots too and he always takes off his
hat when he  comes up in the street like that and now hes going about in his
slippers to look for #10000 for a postcard up 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 yet it was found out on her wasnt she the downright villain to go and do
a thing like that of course some men can be dreadfully aggravating drive you
mad and always the worst word in the world what do they ask us to marry them
for if were so bad as all that comes to yes because they cant get on without
us white Arsenic she put in his  tea off flypaper wasnt it I wonder why they
call it that if I asked him  hed say its from the Greek  leave us as wise as
we were before she must have been madly in love with the other fellow to run
the  chance  of  being hanged O she didnt  care if that was  her nature what
could she do besides  theyre not brutes enough to go and hang a woman surely
are they
     theyre all  so different Boylan talking about the shape of my  foot  he
noticed at once even before he was introduced when I  was in the D B  C with
Poldy laughing and trying to listen I was waggling my foot we both ordered 2
teas and plain bread and butter I saw him looking  with his two old maids of
sisters when I stood up and asked the girl where it was  what do I care with
it dropping out  of me and  that black closed breeches he made me  buy takes
you half an hour  to let  them  down  wetting all myself  always  with  some
brandnew fad every other week such a long one I did I forgot my suede gloves
on the  seat behind that I  never got after some  robber  of a  woman and he
wanted  me to put  it in the  Irish Times lost in the ladies lavatory  D B C
Dame street finder return to Mrs Marion Bloom and I saw his eyes on my  feet
going out through the turning  door he was looking when  I looked back and I
went  there for tea 2 days after in  the  hope but he wasnt now how did that
excite him because I was  crossing them when we were in the other room first
he meant the shoes that are too tight to walk  in my hand is  nice like that
if I only had a ring with the stone for my month a nice aquamarine Ill stick
him for one and a gold bracelet I dont like my foot so much still I made him
spend  once with my foot  the night after Goodwins botchup  of a  concert so
cold and windy it was well we had that rum in the house to mull and the fire
wasnt black out  when  he  asked to  take  off  my stockings  lying  on  the
hearthrug in Lombard street well  and another time it was my muddy boots hed
like  me to walk in all the horses dung I could  find but of  course hes not
natural like the  rest of the world  that I what  did he say I  could give 9
points  in 10 to Katty Lanner and beat her what does that mean I asked him I
forget  what he said because the  stoppress edition just passed and the  man
with the  curly hair in  the Lucan dairy thats so polite I  think I saw  his
face  before somewhere I noticed him when I was tasting the butter so I took
my  time Bartell dArcy too that  he used to make  fun  of when he  commenced
kissing me  on the choir stairs after  I sang Gounods Ave Maria  what are we
waiting for O  my heart kiss  me  straight on the brow and part which  is my
brown part he was pretty hot for all his tinny voice too my low notes he was
always raving about if you can believe him I liked the way he used his mouth
singing then he said wasnt it terrible to do that there in a place like that
I  dont see anything so terrible about it Ill  tell him about that  some day
not  now and surprise  him  ay and Ill take him there and show him  the very
place too we did  it  so  now  there  you are  like it or lump it he  thinks
nothing can happen without him knowing he hadnt an idea about my mother till
we were engaged otherwise hed never have got me so cheap as he did he was 10
times worse himself anyhow  begging me  to give him  a tiny bit cut  off  my
drawers that  was the evening coming along Kenilworth square he kissed me in
the eye  of my glove and  I  had to take it off  asking me  questions  is it
permitted to  inquire the shape of  my bedroom  so I let him keep it as if I
forgot it  to think of  me when  I saw him slip it into his pocket of course
hes mad on the subject of drawers thats plain to be seen  always skeezing at
those brazenfaced things on  the bicycles  with  their  skirts blowing up to
their  navels  even when Milly and I  were out with him at the open air fete
that one in the cream  muslin standing right against the sun so he could see
every atom she had on when he saw me from behind following in the rain I saw
him before he  saw me however standing at  the corner  of the Harolds  cross
road with a new  raincoat on him with the muffler in the  Zingari colours to
show off his complexion-and the brown hat looking slyboots as usual what was
he doing  there where hed no business they can go and get whatever they like
from  anything at all with a skirt on it  and were not to ask  any questions
but  they want to know  where were you where are you going I could  feel him
coming along skulking after me his eyes  on my neck he had been keeping away
from the house he felt it was getting too warm for  him so I half turned 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 santissima 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 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 if it
and father waiting all  the time for his dinner he told me  to say I left my
purse in  the  butchers and had to  go back  for  it what a Deceiver then he
wrote me that letter  with all those words in it how  could he have the face
to any woman after  his company  manners making it so  awkward after when we
met asking me have  I offended you with my  eyelids down of  course he saw I
wasnt he had a few brains not like that other fool Henry 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 a
letter every morning sometimes twice a day I liked the way he made love then
he knew the way to take a woman when he  sent me the 8 big  poppies  because
mine was the 8th then I wrote the night he kissed my heart at Dolphins  barn
I  couldnt describe it simply it makes you feel like nothing on earth but he
never knew how to embrace well like Gardner I hope hell come on Monday as he
said at the same  time  four I hate people who come at all  hours answer the
door you think its the vegetables then its somebody and you all undressed or
the door of the  filthy  sloppy  kitchen blows  open the day  old frostyface
Goodwin called about  the concert in Lombard  street and I just after dinner
all flushed and tossed with boiling old stew dont look at me professor I had
to  say Im a  fright  yes  but he  was a real old gent  in his  way  it  was
impossible to  be more respectful nobody to  say youre out you  have to peep
out through the blind  like the messengerboy today I thought it was a putoff
first him sending the port and the peaches first and I was just beginning to
yawn with nerves thinking he was trying to make a fool of me when I knew his
tattarrattat at  the door he must have been  a  bit late because it  was 1/4
after 3 when  I saw  the 2 Dedalus girls coming from school I never know the
time even that watch he gave me never seems to go properly Id want to get it
looked after when I threw the penny to that lame sailor for England home and
beauty when I was whistling there is a charming girl I love and I hadnt even
put on  my clean shift or powdered myself or a thing then this day week were
to go to Belfast just as well he has  to go to Ennis his fathers anniversary
the 27th  it wouldnt  be  pleasant if  he did suppose our rooms at the hotel
were beside each other and any fooling went on in the new bed I couldnt tell
him to stop  and not bother me  with him in  the next room  or perhaps  some
protestant  clergyman  with  a  cough knocking on  the wall then he  wouldnt
believe next day we didnt do something its all very well a  husband  but you
cant fool a lover  after me telling him  we  never did anything of course he
didnt  believe  me no its  better  hes  going where  he is besides something
always happens with him the time going  to the Mallow Concert at Maryborough
ordering boiling soup for the two of us then the bell rang out he walks down
the platform  with the soup  splashing about taking spoonfuls of it hadnt he
the nerve and  the waiter after him  making a holy show of us screeching and
confusion for the engine to start but he wouldnt pay till he finished it the
two gentlemen in the 3rd class Carriage  said  he  was quite right so he was
too hes so pigheaded sometimes when he gets a thing into his head a good job
he was able to open the carriage door  with his knife or theyd have taken us
on to Cork I  suppose that was done out of revenge on him O  I love jaunting
in a  train  or a car with lovely soft cushions  I wonder will he take a 1st
class for me he might want to do it in the train by tipping the guard well O
I suppose therell be the usual idiots of men gaping at us with their eyes as
stupid as ever they can possibly be that was an exceptional  man that common
workman  that  left us alone in the carriage that day going to Howth Id like
to find out something about him 1 or 2 tunnels perhaps then you have to look
out of the window all the nicer then coming back  suppose  I never came back
what would they say eloped with  him that gets you on  on the stage the last
concert I sang  at where its  over a  year ago when was it St  Teresas  hall
Clarendon St little chits of missies they have now singing Kathleen  Kearney
and  her like on account of father  being  in  the army and my  singing  the
absentminded beggar and wearing a brooch for lord Roberts when I had the map
of  it  all  and Poldy not  Irish  enough was it him managed it this time  I
wouldnt put  it past him like he got me on to  sing in the  Stabat Mater  by
going around saying he  was putting Lead Kindly Light to music I put  him up
to that till the jesuits  found out he  was  a  freemason thumping the piano
lead Thou me on  copied from some old opera yes and he was going  about with
some of them Sinner Fein lately or whatever they call themselves talking his
usual trash and  nonsense he says that little man he showed  me  without the
neck is very intelligent the coming man Griffith  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  politics  after the  war  that Pretoria and
Ladysmith and Bloemfontein  where  Gardner  Lieut Stanley G 8th Bn 2nd  East
Lancs Rgt of enteric  fever  he  was a lovely  fellow in khaki and just  the
right  height over me Im sure  he was brave  too he  said I  was lovely  the
evening we kissed goodbye at the canal lock my Irish beauty he was pale with
excitement about going  away or wed be  seen from  the road he couldnt stand
properly  and I  so hot as I never felt they could  have made their peace in
the beginning or old oom Paul and the rest of the  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 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 around with him shopping buying those things
in a new city better leave this ring behind want to keep turning and turning
to get it over the knuckle there or they  might bell  it round  the  town in
their papers or tell the police on  me  but theyd  think were married O  let
them all go and  smother themselves for the fat lot I care  he has plenty of
money and hes not a marrying  man so somebody better get it  out of him if I
could find out  whether he likes me I  looked a  bit  washy of course when I
looked  close  in  the  handglass powdering a  mirror  never  gives you  the
expression besides scrooching down on me like that all the time with his big
hipbones hes heavy  too with his hairy chest  for this heat always having to
lie down  for them  better for him put it  into me from behind  the way  Mrs
Mastiansky told me  her husband  made her like the dogs do it  and stick out
her  tongue  as far as  ever she could  and he  so  quiet and  mild with his
tingating either  can you  ever be up  to men the  way  it takes them lovely
stuff in that blue suit he had on and stylish tie and socks with the skyblue
silk things on them hes certainly welloff I know by the cut his clothes have
and his heavy watch but he was like a perfect devil for a few  minutes after
he came back with the stop press tearing  up the tickets and swearing blazes
because he lost 20 quid he said he lost over that outsider that won and half
he put on for me  on account of Lenehans tip cursing him to  the lowest pits
that  sponger  he was  making free with me after  the Glencree dinner coming
back  that long  joult  over the featherbed mountain  after the  lord  Mayor
looking at me  with  his dirty  eyes  Val  Dillon  that big heathen I  first
noticed him at dessert when I was cracking the nuts with my teeth I wished I
could have picked every morsel of that  chicken out of  my fingers it was so
tasty and browned and  as tender as anything only  for  I didnt  want to eat
everything  on my plate those forks and  fishslicers  were hallmarked silver
too I wish I had some I could easily have slipped a couple into my muff when
I  was playing  with  them then  always hanging out of  them for money in  a
restaurant for the bit you put down your throat we have  to be  thankful for
our mangy cup of tea itself as a great compliment to be  noticed the way the
world is divided in any case if its going to go on I want at least two other
good  chemises  for  one thing  and but  I dont know what kind of drawers he
likes  none at all I think didnt he say yes and half the girls in  Gibraltar
never wore them either  naked as God  made them  that Andalusian singing her
Manola she didnt make much secret of what she hadnt  yes and the second pair
of silkette stockings  is  laddered after one days wear I could have brought
them  back to Lewers this morning and kick up a row and made that one change
them  only  not to upset  myself and run the  risk of  walking  into him and
ruining  the  whole thing  and  one  of  those  kidfitting  corsets  Id want
advertised  cheap in the Gentlewoman with elastic gores on the hips he saved
the one I have but  thats no  good what did they say  they give a delightful
figure  line 11/6 obviating that unsightly broad appearance across the lower
back to reduce  flesh my  belly is  a bit too big Ill have  to knock off the
stout  at  dinner or am I  getting too fond  of it the  last they  sent from
ORourkes was as flat as a pancake  he makes his money easy  Larry  they call
him  the  old mangy parcel  he sent at Xmas a cottage  cake and a  bottle of
hogwash he tried to palm off as claret that he couldnt get  anyone to  drink
God  spare his  spit  for fear  hed die  of  the drouth or I must do  a  few
breathing exercises  I wonder is that antifat  any good might overdo it thin
ones are  not  so much the fashion now garters  that much I have  the violet
pair  I  wore today thats  all he bought me out of the cheque he got on  the
first O no there was the face lotion I  finished the last  of yesterday that
made my skin like new I told him over and over again get that made up in the
same place and dont forget it God only knows whether he did after all I said
to him  Ill know by the bottle anyway if not I suppose Ill only have to wash
in my piss like beeftea or chickensoup with some of that opoponax and violet
I thought  it was beginning  to look coarse or old a bit the skin underneath
is much finer where it  peeled  off  there on my finger after the burn its a
pity it isnt all like that and  the four paltry handkerchiefs  about 6/-  in
all sure  you cant get on in this world without style all  going in food and
rent when I get it Ill lash it around I tell you in fine style I always want
to throw a handful of tea into the pot measuring and mincing if I buy a pair
of old brogues itself do you like those new shoes yes how much were they Ive
no clothes at all the brown  costume and the skirt and jacket and the one at
the cleaners 3 whats that for any woman cutting up this old hat and patching
up the other  the men wont look at you and women try to  walk on you because
they know youve no man then with all the things getting dearer every day for
the 4 years more I have of life up to 35 no Im what am I at all Ill be 33 in
September will I what O well look at that Mrs Galbraith shes much older than
me  I saw  her when I was out last  week  her beautys on the wane  she was a
lovely woman magnificent head  of hair on her down to her  waist  tossing it
back  like that like Kitty OShea  in Grantham street  1st thing I did  every
morning to look across see her combing it as if she loved it and was full of
it pity I  only got to know her the day before we left and that Mrs  Langtry
the Jersey Lily the prince of Wales was in love with  I suppose hes like the
first man going the roads only  for the name of a  king  theyre all made the
one  way  only  a black mans Id like to try a beauty up  to what  was she 45
there was some funny story about the jealous old husband what was it all and
an oyster knife he went no he made her wear a kind of a tin thing around 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 the old blackguards face on him anybody  can see  its not true and that
Ruby and Fair Tyrants  he  brought me that twice I remember when  I  came to
page  50  the part about  where she  hangs him up out of a hook with  a cord
flagellate sure  theres nothing for  a woman in  that all  invention made up
about he drinking the champagne  out of her slipper after  the ball was over
like the infant Jesus In  the crib at Inchicore in the Blessed  Virgins arms
sure no woman could have  a  child that big taken out  of her  and I thought
first it came out of her side because how  could  she go to the chamber when
she  wanted to and  she  a rich lady of course she felt honoured H. R. H. he
was in Gibraltar  the year I gas born I bet he  found lilies there too where
he planted the tree  he planted more  than that  in his time  he might  have
planted me too if  hed  come a bit sooner then I wouldnt be here as I  am he
ought to chuck that Freeman with the  paltry  few shillings he knocks out of
it  and go into an  office or something where hed get regular pay or  a bank
where they could put him up  on a throne  to count the money  all the day of
course he prefers  plottering about the house so you cant  stir with him any
side whats your programme today I wish hed even smoke a pipe like father  to
get the smell of a man or pretending to be mooching about for advertisements
when he could have been in Mr Cuffes still only for what he did then sending
me to try and patch it up  I could have  got  him promoted  there to  be the
manager he gave me a great mirada once or twice first he was as stiff as the
mischief really and  truly Mrs Bloom only  I felt rotten simply with the old
rubbishy dress that I lost the leads out  of the tails with no cut in it but
theyre coming into fashion again I bought it simply  to please him I knew it
was no good by the  finish pity I changed my mind of going to Todd and Burns
as  I said and not Lees it was just like the shop itself  rummage sale a lot
of  trash  I  hate those  rich  shops  get on your  nerves nothing kills  me
altogether  only  he thinks he knows a great lot  about  a  womans dress and
cooking mathering everything he can scour off  the shelves into it if I went
by his  advices every blessed hat I put  on does that suit  me yes take that
thats alright the  one like a wedding cake 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  shop  girl 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 whats she 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 be
made me  thirsty titties he  calls them  I  had to laugh yes this one anyhow
stiff  the nipple gets for the  least thing Ill get him to keep  that up and
Ill take  those eggs beaten up with marsala fatten them out for him what are
all  those veins and things curious  the way its made 2 the same in case  of
twins theyre supposed to represent beauty placed up there like those statues
in  the  museum one of them pretending to hide  it with her hand are they so
beautiful of course compared with what a man looks  like  with his  two bags
full  and his other thing hanging down out of him or sticking up at you like
a hatrack no  wonder they hide it with a cabbageleaf 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 the nymphs used they go about like
that I asked him 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 or if it was 1 of the 7 wonders of the world O and the stink of those
rotten places the night coming  home with Poldy  after the  Comerfords party
oranges and lemonade to  make you feel nice and watery I went into 1 of them
it was  so biting  cold I  couldnt  keep it when was that 93  the canal  was
frozen yes  it was a few months after a pity a couple of the Camerons werent
there to see  me  squatting in  the mens  place  meadero I tried to  draw  a
picture  of  it before  I tore it up like  a  sausage or something  I wonder
theyre not afraid going about of getting a kick or a bang or something there
and that word met  something with  hoses  in  it and he came  out with  some
jawbreakers about the incarnation he  never  can explain  a thing simply the
way a  body can understand then  he goes and burns the bottom out of the pan
all for his Kidney  this one not so  much theres the mark of his teeth still
where  he tried to bite the  nipple I had  to scream  out arent they fearful
trying to hurt you I had a great  breast of  milk with Milly enough for  two
what was the reason of that he said I could have got a pound a week as a wet
nurse all swelled out the morning that delicate looking student that stopped
in  No 28 with the  Citrons Penrose  nearly  caught  me washing through  the
window  only for I snapped up the towel to  my face that was his  studenting
hurt me they used to weaning  her  till he got doctor Brady to  give  me the
Belladonna prescription I had to get him  to suck them they were so hard  he
said it was sweeter and thicker than cows then he wanted to milk me into the
tea well hes  beyond everything  I declare somebody ought  to put him in the
budget if I only could remember the one half  of the things and write a book
out of it the works of Master  Poldy yes  and its so much smoother the  skin
much  an  hour he was at them Im sure  by  the clock like some kind of a big
infant  I  had  at me they  want everything  in their mouth all the pleasure
those  men get out of a  woman  I  can feel his mouth O  Lord I must stretch
myself I wished he was here or somebody to let myself go with and come again
like that I feel all fire inside  me or  if I could dream it when he made me
spend the 2nd time tickling me behind with his finger I was coming for about
5 minutes with my legs round  him I had to hug him after O Lord  I wanted to
shout  out all sorts  of things fuck or shit  or anything at all only not to
look ugly or those lines from the  strain who knows the way hed take it  you
want to feel your way with  a  man theyre not all like him thank God some of
them want you to be so nice  about it I noticed  the contrast he does it and
doesnt  talk I  gave my  eyes that look with  my hair a bit  loose  from the
tumbling and my tongue between my lips up to him  the  savage brute Thursday
Friday one Saturday two Sunday three O Lord I cant wait till Monday
     frseeeeeeeefronnnng  train  somewhere   whistling  the  strength  those
engines have in them like big giants and the water rolling all over and  out
of them all  sides like the end of Loves old sweet synnnng 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  around hes getting
very careless and threw the rest  of them up in the W  C Ill get  him to cut
them tomorrow for me instead of having them there for the next year to get a
few pence for them have him asking wheres last Januarys paper and all  those
old overcoats  I bundled  out of the hall making the place hotter than it is
the rain was lovely just after my beauty sleep I thought it was going to get
like Gibraltar my goodness the heat there before the levanter  came on black
as  night  and the glare  of  the rock  standing up in it  like  a big giant
compared  with  their 3 Rock mountain  they think is so  great  with the red
sentries here and there the poplars and  they all whitehot and  the mosquito
nets 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 what 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 in  old  Madrid  or Waiting
Concone is the name  of those exercises he bought  me  one of those new some
word Icouldn't make out shawls amusing  things but tear for the least  thing
still theyre 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 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 clothes we  have to wear  whoever  invented them expecting you to
walk  up Killiney hill then for example at that picnic  all staysed  up  you
cant do a blessed  thing in them in a crowd run or jump out of the way thats
why  I  was  afraid when that other  ferocious old Bull began  to charge the
banderillos with the sashes and the 2 things in their hats and the brutes of
men shouting bravo  toro  sure the women  were  as bad in  their  nice white
mantillas ripping  all  the  whole insides out of those  poor horses I never
heard of such a thing in  all my  life yes he  used to break his heart at me
taking off the dog barking in bell lane poor  brute and  it sick what became
of them ever  I suppose  theyre dead long ago  the  2 of them its  like  all
through  a  mist makes you  feel  so old  I made the scones of  course I had
everything all to myself then a girl Hester we used to compare our hair mine
was thicker than hers she showed me how  to settle it at the back when I put
it up and whats this  else how to make a knot on a thread with the  one hand
we were like cousins what age was I then the night of  the storm I  slept in
her bed she had her arms round me then we were fighting in  the morning with
the pillow what fun he was watching me whenever he got an opportunity at the
band  on the Alameda esplanade  when I  was with father and Captain  Grove I
looked up at the church first and then at the windows then down and our eyes
met I felt something go through me like  all needles my  eyes were dancing I
remember after when I looked at myself in the glass hardly recognised myself
the change I had a splendid skin from the sun and the excitement like a rose
I didn't 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 this blanket is too heavy on me thats better
I havent even one decent nightdress this  thing gets all rolled  up under me
besides him and his fooling thats better I used to be  weltering then in the
heat my  shift drenched with the  sweat stuck in the cheeks of my bottom  on
the chair when I stood up they were so fattish and firm when I got up on the
sofa  cushions to see with my clothes  up and the bugs tons of them at night
and  the mosquito  nets I  couldnt  read a  line Lord  how long ago it seems
centuries of course they never come 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 swell of  the ship those Officers  uniforms  on
shore leave made me seasick he  didnt say anything he was very serious I had
the high buttoned boots on  and  my skirt was blowing she  kissed me six  or
seven times  didnt I cry  yes  I believe  I  did  or  near  it my  lips were
taittering when I said goodbye she had a Gorgeous wrap  of some special kind
of blue  colour on her for the voyage made  very peculiarly to one side like
and it was extremely  pretty  it got  as dull as the devil after they went I
was  almost planning to run away  mad  out of  it somewhere were never  easy
where  we are father or  aunt or marriage waiting always waiting to guiiiide
him toooo me  waiting nor speeeed his flying feet  their damn guns  bursting
and booming  all  over the  shop especially the Queens birthday and throwing
everything down in all directions if you didnt open the windows when general
Ulysses  Grant whoever he was or did supposed to be some great fellow landed
off the ship and old Sprague the consul that was there from before the flood
dressed up  poor  man  and  he in  mourning for the  son  then the same  old
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 supposed he
died  of galloping drink ages ago the  days like years not  a  letter from a
living soul except the odd few I posted to myself with bits of paper in them
so bored sometimes I could  fight with  my  nails listening to that old Arab
with the one eye and his heass of an instrument  singing his heah heah aheah
all my compriments on your hotchapotch of your heass as  bad as now with the
hands hanging  off me looking out of the window if there  was a nice  fellow
even in the opposite house that medical in Holles street the nurse was after
when I put on my gloves and hat at the window  to show I was going out not a
notion what I meant arent they thick never understand what you say even youd
want to print it up on  a  big poster for them  not even if you shake  hands
twice with the left  he didnt recognise me either when I half frowned at him
outside Westland row chapel  where  does their great intelligence come in Id
like to know grey matter they have it all in their tail if you ask  me those
country gougers up in the City Arms intelligence they had a damn  sight less
than the bulls  and cows they  were selling  the meat  and the coalmans bell
that noisy  bugger trying  to swindle me with the wrong bill  he took out of
his hat what a pair of paws and pots and pans and kettles to mend any broken
bottles for a poor man today and no visitors or post ever except his cheques
or  some advertisement like that wonderworker they  sent  him addressed dear
Madam  only his letter and the card  from Milly this morning see she wrote a
letter to  him who  did I get the last letter from O Mrs  Dwenn now whatever
possessed her to  write after  so  many years  to know the recipe I  had for
pisto madrileno Floey Dillon  since  she wrote to  say  she was married to a
very rich architect if Im to believe all I hear with a villa and eight rooms
her father  was an awfully nice man he  was near  seventy always good humour
well now Miss Tweedy or  Miss Gillespie theres the pyannyer 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 pneumonia
well  I didnt  know her  so well as all that she was Floeys friend more than
mine 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  sympathy 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 love-letter his  wasnt much and I told
him he could write what he  liked yours ever Hugh Boylan in Old Madrid silly
women  believe  love is sighing I am dying  still  if he wrote it I  suppose
thered be some truth in it true or  no it fills up  your  whole day and life
always something to think about every moment and see it all  around 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 precipit precipitancy with equal candour
the greatest earthly happiness answer to a gentlemans proposal affirmatively
my goodness theres nothing else its all very fine  for them but as for being
a woman as soon  as youre old they might as well throw you out in the bottom
of the ash pit.
     Mulveys was  the  first when I  was in bed that  morning  and Mrs Rubio
brought it  in with the coffee  she stood there standing when I asked her to
hand me and I pointing at them I couldnt think of the word a hairpin to open
it  with ah horquilla disobliging old thing  and it  staring her in the face
with  her switch of false  hair on her and vain about her appearance ugly as
she was near 80 or a 100  her  face a mass of wrinkles with all her religion
domineering because  she  never could get over the Atlantic fleet  coming in
half  the  ships  of  the  world  and  the  Union  Jack flying with  all her
carabineros  because 4 drunken  English  sailors took all the rock from them
and because I didnt  run into mass often enough in Santa Maria to please her
with  her shawl up on  her except when there was a  marriage on with all her
miracles of the saints and  her black blessed virgin with  the silver  dress
and the sun dancing 3 times on Easter Sunday morning and when the priest was
going by  with the bell bringing the vatican  to the  dying blessing herself
for his Majestad an admirer  he  signed  it I near  jumped out of my  skin I
wanted to pick him up when  I saw him following me along  the  Calle Real in
the shop window then he tipped me  just in passing 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 fun
to  the son  of  a  Spanish  nobleman named Don Miguel de  la  Flora and  he
believed  that I was to be married to him in 3 years time theres many a true
word spoken  in jest there is a flower that bloometh a few things I told him
true about myself just for him  to be imagining the  Spanish girls he  didnt
like I suppose one of them wouldnt have him I got him excited he crushed all
the flowers on my bosom he brought me he couldnt  count the pesetas and  the
perragordas  till I  taught  him Cappoquin  he  came  from  he  said  on the
Blackwater 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 at the front to
encourage him as much as I could without too openly they were just beginning
to be plump  I  said I was tired we lay over the firtree cove a wild place I
suppose it must be the highest rock in existence the galleries and casemates
and those  frightful  rocks  and  Saint Michaels  cave  with the  icicles or
whatever they call them hanging down and  ladders all  the  mud plotching my
boots Im sure thats the way down the monkeys go under the sea to Africa when
they die the ships out far  like chips that was  the Malta boat  passing Yes
the  sea  and the  sky you could  do  what you liked lie there  for  ever he
caressed  them outside  they love doing that  its the roundness  there I was
leaning over him with my white ricestraw hat  to take the newness  out of it
the  left  side  of  my face  the  best  my  blouse open for  his  last  day
transparent  kind of shirt  he had I could see  his chest pink he  wanted to
touch mine with his for a moment  but  I wouldn't let him he was awfully put
out first for  fear  you  never know consumption  or leave  me  with a child
embarazada that old servant Ines told me  that one drop  even if it got into
you at all after I tried with the Banana but I was afraid it might break and
get lost up in me somewhere yes 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 get far
enough  up and then  theyre  done with you in a way  till the next  time yes
because theres a wonderful feeling there all the  time so tender 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 I had a  skirt opening up the side  I tortured the life out of him
first  tickling  him  I  loved  rousing  that  dog  in  the  hotel  rrrsssst
awokwokawok his eyes shut and a bird flying below us he was shy all the same
I liked him like that  morning 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  around  to the  whatyoucallit everything  was
whatyoucallit moustache  had he he said hed  come back  Lord its  just  like
yesterday to me  and if I was married hed do it to me and I promised him yes
faithfully Id let  him block me now flying perhaps  hes  dead or killed or a
Captain or admiral its nearly 20 years if I said firtree cove he would if he
came up  behind me and  put his  hands  over my eyes to  guess  who  I might
recognise him hes young still about 40 perhaps hes married some girl  on the
black water and is quite changed they all do  they havent half the character
a woman has she little knows what  I did with her  beloved husband before he
ever dreamt of her in broad daylight too in the sight of the whole world you
might say they could  have put an  article about it in the Chronicle I was a
bit wild after when I blew out the old  bag the biscuits were in from Benady
Bros  and  exploded  it Lord  what  a bang all  the  woodcocks  and  pigeons
screaming  coming back the same  way that we  went over middle hill round by
the old guardhouse  and the  jews burial place  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 peaked cap on  that  he always wore crooked
as often as I settled  it straight  H M  S Calypso swinging my  hat that old
Bishop that  spoke  off  the  altar his  long  preach  about  womans  higher
functions  about girls now riding the bicycle and wearing peak  caps and the
new woman bloomers  God send  him sense and  me more money  I suppose theyre
called after him I never thought that would be my name Bloom when  I used to
write it in print to see how it looked on a visiting card  or practising for
the  butcher  and  oblige  M Bloom youre  looking blooming Josie used to say
after I married him well its  better than Breen or Briggs does brig or those
awful names with  bottom  in them  Mrs Ramsbottom or some other  kind  of  a
bottom  Mulvey I  wouldnt go  mad about either or suppose I divorced him Mrs
Boylan my mother whoever she was might have given me a  nicer  name the Lord
knows after the lovely one she had  Lunita  Laredo the  fun  we had  running
along  Willis 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 Tangierwhite  and the At!as  mountain with  snow on it and
the straits like  a river so clear Harry Molly Darling I was thinking of him
on the sea all the time after  at mass when my  petticoat began to slip down
at the elevation weeks and weeks I kept the handkerchief under my pillow for
the smell of him there  was no decent perfume  to be got  in that  Gibraltar
only that  cheap peau despagne that faded and left a stink on  you more than
anything else I wanted to give him a memento he gave me that clumsy Claddagh
ring  for luck that I gave Gardner  going to South Africa where those  Boers
killed him with  their war and fever but they were well  beaten all the same
as if it  brought its  bad luck with it like an opal or pearl must have been
pure 16 carat gold because it was very heavy I can see his face clean shaven
Frseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeefrong that train again weeping  tone once in the dear
deaead days beyond recall 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 ssooooooong  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 ay and  whose are you bootmakers and publicans I beg your pardon
coach I thought you were a wheelbarrow theyd die down dead off their feet if
ever they got a chance  of walking down the Alameda  on an officers arm like
me on the bandnight my eyes flash  my bust that they havent passion God help
their poor head I knew more about men and life when I was 15 than theyll all
know at 50 they dont know how  to sing  a song like that Gardner said no man
could look at my mouth and teeth smiling like that end 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 loooves 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 vaulted rooms yes Ill sing  Winds that blow
from the south that  he gave after the choirstairs  performance  Ill  change
that lace  on my  black dress to show off my bubs and Ill yes by God Ill get
that  big fan mended make them burst  with envy my hole is itching me always
when I  think of him I feel  I want to I feel some wind in me better go easy
not wake  him  have  him at it again  slobbering after washing every bit  of
myself  back belly and  sides  if we had even a bath  itself or  my own room
anyway I wish hed sleep in some bed by himself with his cold feet on me give
us room even to  let a  fart  God or do the least thing better yes hold them
like that a bit on my side piano quietly sweeeee theres that  train far away
pianissimo eeeeeeee one more song that was a relief wherever you be let your
wind go free who knows if that pork chop I took with my cup of tea after was
quite  good with the  heat I couldnt  smell anything  off  it  Im  sure that
queerlooking man in the porkbutchers  is a great rogue I  hope that  lamp is
not smoking fill my nose up with  smuts better  than having  him leaving the
gas on all night I couldnt rest easy in my bed  in Gibraltar even getting up
to see  why am I so damned nervous about that though I like it in the winter
its more company O Lord it was rotten cold  too that winter  when I was only
about  ten was I yes I had the big doll  with all the funny clothes dressing
her up and undressing that icy wind skeeting across from those mountains the
something Nevada sierra nevada standing at the fire with the little bit of a
short shift I had  up to heat myself I loved dancing about in it then make a
race back  into bed Im sure that fellow opposite used to  be there the whole
time  watching  with the lights out  in the summer and  I in my skin hopping
around I  used  to love myself then  stripped  at the washstand  dabbing and
creaming  only when it came to the chamber performance I  put  out the light
too so then there were 2 of us Goodbye to my sleep for  this night anyhow  I
hope hes not going to get  in  with  those  medicals  leading  him astray to
imagine hes young again coming in at 4 in the morning it must be if not more
still he had the manners not to wake  me what do they  find  to gabber about
all  night squandering  money and getting drunker  and drunker couldnt  they
drink  water  then he starts giving us  his orders for eggs  and tea  Findon
haddy  and hot buttered toast I  suppose well have him sitting  up like  the
king of the country pumping  the wrong end of  the  spoon up and down in his
egg wherever he  learned that from and  I love to  hear him  falling up  the
stairs  of a morning with  the cups rattling on  the tray and then play with
the cat she rubs up against you for her own sake I wonder has she fleas shes
as bad as a woman always licking and lecking but I hate their claws I wonder
do they see anything that we cant staring like that when she sits at the top
of the stairs so  long and listening as I wait always what a robber too that
lovely fresh plaice I bought I think Ill get a bit of fish tomorrow or today
is it Friday  yes I  will with some blancmange  with black  currant jam like
long  ago not  those 2 lb pots of  mixed plum and apple from the London  and
Newcastle Williams and Woods goes twice as  far only for  the  bones I  hate
those eels cod yes Ill get a nice piece  of cod Im always getting enough for
3 forgetting anyway Im sick  of that everlasting butchers meat from Buckleys
loin  chops and leg beef  and rib steak and scrag of mutton  and calfs pluck
the very name is enough or a picnic suppose we  all gave 5/- each and or let
him pay and invite some other woman for him who Mrs Fleming and drive 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 boatmen he knew how to row if  anyone asked could he
ride  the steeplechase for the gold cup hed say  yes then it came  on to get
rough the old thing crookeding about and the weight all down my side telling
me to pull the right  reins now  pull the left and  the tide all swamping in
floods  in  through  through  the  bottom  and his oar  slipping  out of the
stirrupits 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 you vomit a
better  face there was no love lost between us thats  I consolation I wonder
what kind is that book he brought me Sweets of Sin by a gentleman of fashion
some other Mr de Kock I suppose  the  people gave him  that  nickname  going
about with his tube from one woman to another I couldnt  even  change my new
white shoes  all  ruined  with  the  saltwater and  the hat  I had with that
feather all  blowy  and tossed on me how annoying  and provoking because the
smell of  the sea excited me of course the sardines and the bream in Catalan
bay round the back of the  rock  they were fine all silver in the fishermens
baskets old  Luigi near a hundred they said came from Genoa and the tall old
chap with the earrings I dont like a man you have to climb up to go 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  you 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 mofley imagine his  poor wife or mother or whoever  she
is such a face  youd run  miles  away from I couldnt rest easy till I bolted
all the doors and  windows to make sure but its worse again being locked  up
like in a prison or a madhouse they ought to be all shot or the cat of  nine
tails a big brute like that that would attack a poor old woman to murder her
in her bed Id cut them off so I would not that hed  be much use still better
than nothing the night I  was sure  I heard  burglars  in the kitchen and he
went down in his shirt with a candle and a poker as if  he was looking for a
mouse as white as a sheet frightened out of his wits making as much noise as
he  possibly could for the burglars benefit there isnt  much to steal indeed
the Lord knows still its the feeling especially now with Milly  away such an
idea for him to send the girl  down there  to learn to  take  photographs on
account of his grandfather instead of sending her to  Skerrys  academy where
shed have to learn not  like me  getting all at  school only hed do a  thing
like that all  the same on account of me  and Boylan thats why he  did it Im
certain the way he plots and plans  everything out I couldnt turn round with
her in the place lately unless I  bolted the  door first gave me the fidgets
coming in without  knocking first when I put the chair against the door just
as I was washing myself there below with the  glove get  on your nerves then
doing the loglady all day put her in a glasscase with two at a time  to look
at her  if he knew she broke off the  hand off that  little  gimcrack statue
with her roughness and carelessness before she left that I  got that  little
Italian boy to  mend so that you cant  see  the join for 2 shillings wouldnt
even teem the potatoes for you of course shes right not to  ruin her hands I
noticed he was  always talking to her lately at the table explaining  things
in the paper and she pretending to understand sly of course  that comes from
his  side of  the  house  and  helping her  into her  coat but if there  was
anything wrong with  her its me  shed tell  not  him  he Cant say I  pretend
things can he  Im  too honest  as a matter  of  fact I suppose  he thinks Im
finished out and laid on the shelf well Im  not no nor anything like it well
see  well  see now shes well on  for flirting too  with Tom Devans two  sons
imitating me whistling with those romps of  Murray girls calling for her can
Milly come out please shes in great demand to pick what they can out  of her
round in Nelson street  riding Harry Devans  bicycle at night its as well he
sent her  where she  is she  was just getting out of bounds wanting to go on
the skatingrink  and smoking their cigarettes through their nose I  smelt it
off her dress when I was  biting off the thread of the button I sewed  on to
the bottom  of her jacket  she couldnt hide much from me I  tell  you only I
oughtnt to have stitched it  and it on her it  brings a parting and the last
plumpudding too split  in 2 halves see it  comes out no matter what they say
her tongue is  a  bit too long for my taste your blouse is  open too low she
says to me the  pan calling the kettle blackbottom and I had to tell her no!
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 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 stylish dressed ladies outside Switzers window at the same little game I
recognised him on the moment the face and  everything but he didn't remember
me and she didnt even want me to  kiss her at the Broadstone going away well
I hope shell get someone to dance attendance on her  the  way I did when she
was  down with the mumps 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 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  always making love to  my things too the  few old rags I have
wanting to put her  hair up at 15 my powder too only  ruin her  skin  on her
shes time enough for that all her life after of course shes restless knowing
shes  pretty  with her lips so red a pity they wont stay that way I  was too
but theres no use going  to  the fair  with  the  thing answering me like  a
fishwoman when I asked to go for  a half a stone  of potatoes the day we met
Mrs Joe Gallaher at the trottingmatches and she  pretended  not to see us in
her trap with  Friery the solicitor we werent grand enough till I gave her 2
damn fine  cracks across the  ear for herself take that now for answering me
like that and that for your impudence  she had me that exasperated of course
contradicting I was badtempered too because how was it there  was a  weed in
the tea or I didnt sleep the night before cheese I ate was it and I told her
over  and over  again not  to leave knives crossed like that because she has
nobody  to  command her as she said herself  well if  he doesnt correct  her
faith  I will that was the last  time she  turned on the teartap  I was just
like that myself  they darent  order me  about the  place its  his fault  of
course having the two of us slaving here instead of getting in a woman  long
ago am I ever  going  to have a proper servant again of course then shed see
him coming Id have to let her know or shed revenge it  arent they a nuisance
that  old  Mrs Fleming you  have to be walking  round after her  putting the
things into her hands sneezing and farting into the pots well of course shes
old she cant help  it a good job  I  found that rotten old smelly  dishcloth
that got lost behind the dresser I knew there was  something  and opened the
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 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 wasn't washing day my old pair of drawers might have been
hanging up too on  the line on  exhibition  for all hed ever  care  with the
ironmould mark  the  stupid  old  bundle burned  on them  he might think was
something  else  and she never even rendered down the fat I told her and now
shes going such as she was on account of her paralysed husband getting worse
theres always something wrong with  them disease or they have to go under an
operation or if its not that its drink and he  beats  her Ill  have  to hunt
around again for someone every  day I  get up theres some new thing on sweet
God sweet God well when Im stretched out dead in my grave I suppose Ill have
some peace  I want to get  up  a minute if Im let wait O Jesus wait yes that
thing  has come  on me yes now wouldnt that afflict  you of  course  all the
poking and rooting and ploughing he had up in me now what am I to do  Friday
Saturday Sunday wouldnt that pester the soul out of a  body  unless he likes
it some men do God knows theres always something wrong with  us 5 days every
3 or  4 weeks usual monthly auction  isnt it simply  sickening that night it
came on me like that the  one and only time  we were  in a box  that Michael
Gunn gave him to see Mrs  Kendal and her  husband at the Gaiety something he
did about insurance for him Drimmies  I was  fit to be tied though I wouldnt
give in with that gentleman  of fashion staring down at me with his  glasses
and him the other side of me talking about Spinoza and his soul thats dead I
suppose millions of  years  ago I smiled the  best  I  could  all in a swamp
leaning forward as if I was interested having to sit it out then to the last
tag I wont forget that wife of Scarli in a hurry supposed to  be a fast play
about adultery that idiot in the gallery  hissing  the  woman  adulteress he
shouted I suppose he went and had a woman in the next lane running round all
the back ways after to make up for it I wish he had what I  had then hed boo
I bet the cat itself is better  off than us have we too much blood up  in us
or  what O patience above its pouring out of me like the sea anyhow he didnt
make me  pregnant as big as he is I dont want to  ruin the clean  sheets the
clean linen I wore brought it on too damn it damn it and they always want to
see a stain on the  bed  to know youre a virgin for them all thats troubling
them theyre such  fools too you could be a widow or divorced 40 times over a
daub  of  red ink would  do or blackberry juice no thats too purply O Jamesy
let me up out of this pooh sweets of sin whoever suggested that business for
women what between clothes and cooking and  children this damned old bed too
jingling like the dickens  I suppose they could hear us away  over the other
side of  the  park till I suggested to put  the quilt on the floor with  the
pillow under my bottom I wonder is it  nicer in the day I think it is easy I
think  Ill  cut all this hair off  me there scalding  me I might look like a
young girl wouldnt  he get the great suckin  the next time  he turned up  my
clothes on me Id give anything to see his face wheres  the chamber gone easy
Ive a  holy horror of its breaking under me after that old  commode I wonder
was  I too  heavy  sitting  on his knee  I  made him sit  on  the  easychair
purposely when I took off only my blouse  and skirt first  in the other room
he was  so busy where he oughtnt to be he never felt me I hope my breath was
sweet after those kissing comfits easy God I remember one time I could scout
it  out straight whistling like  a man  almost easy O Lord how noisy  I hope
theyre bubbles on it for a wad of money from some fellow Ill have to perfume
it in the morning  dont  forget I bet  he never saw a better pair of  thighs
than that look how white they are the smoothest place is right there between
this bit here how soft like a peach easy God I wouldnt mind being a man  and
get up on a lovely woman O Lord what a row youre making like the jersey lily
easy O how the waters come down at Lahore
     who  knows is  there  anything the  matter  with my  insides or have  I
something growing in me getting that thing like that every  week when was it
last I Whit  Monday yes  its only about 3 weeks I  ought to go to the doctor
only it would  be like  before  I  married him  when I had that white  thing
coming from me and  Floey  made me go to that dry old  stick Dr  Collins for
womens diseases  on Pembroke  road  your vagina he called it I suppose thats
how he got all  the gilt  mirrors and carpets getting round those  rich ones
off  Stephens green running up  to  him  for  every little fiddlefaddle  her
vagina  and her cochinchina  theyve  money  of course  so theyre all right I
wouldnt marry him not  if he  was  the  last man  in the world besides there
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 compriment 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 puts it thats a very  nice invention
too by the way only I like letting myself down after in the hole as far as I
can squeeze and pull  the chain then to flush  it nice cool pins and needles
still theres something in it  I suppose I always used to know by Millys when
she was a child whether she  had worms or not still  all the same paying him
for  that  how much is that  doctor one  guinea please  and asking me  had I
frequent omissions  where do those  old fellows get all  the words they have
omissions with his shortsighted eyes on  me cocked sideways I  wouldnt trust
him  too far to give me chloroform or God knows what else  still I liked him
when  he  sat  down  to write  the thing  out frowning so  severe  his  nose
intelligent like that you be damned you lying strap O anything no matter who
except an idiot  he was clever enough to spot that of course  that  was  all
thinking of him and  his  mad  crazy  letters  my  Precious  one  everything
connected with your glorious  Body everything underlined that comes  from it
is  a thing  of  beauty and  of joy  for ever something he got  out  of some
nonsensical book that  he  had  me  always  at myself 4  or  5 times  a  day
sometimes  and I said I hadnt are you sure O yes I said I am quite sure in a
way  that shut him  up I knew what was coming next  only natural weakness it
was  he excited me I  dont know  how the first night ever we met when I  was
living in Rehoboth  terrace  we stood  staring  at one another  for about 10
minutes as if  we  met somewhere  I suppose on  account  of  my being jewess
looking after my mother he used to amuse me the things he said with the half
sloothering smile on him and all the Doyles said he was going to stand for a
member  of  Parliament O  wasnt I the born fool to  believe  all his blather
about home  rule and  the land league  sending me that long strool of a song
out of the Huguenots to sing in French to be  more classy O beau pays de  la
Touraine  that  I  never  even  sang once explaining  and  rigmaroling about
religion and persecution he wont let you enjoy anything naturally then might
he as a  great favour the very 1st  opportunity he got a chance  in Brighton
square running into my bedroom pretending the ink got on his  hands to  wash
it off with the Albion milk and sulphur soap I used to use  and the gelatine
still round it O I laughed myself sick at him that day Id better not make an
all  night 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 ashes always imitating everybody I suppose he used to sleep at
the foot of the bed too with  his big square feet up in his wifes mouth damn
this stinking thing  anyway wheres this  those napkins are ah yes  I know  I
hope the old press doesnt creak ah I knew it  would hes sleeping hard had  a
good time somewhere still she must have given him great value for his  money
of course he has  to pay for it from her O  this nuisance of  a thing I hope
theyll  have  something better for us in  the other world tying ourselves up
God help us thats  all right for tonight now the lumpy old jingly bed always
reminds me of old  Cohen I suppose  he  scratched himself in it often enough
and he thinks father bought it from Lord Napier that I used to admire when I
was a  little girl because I told him easy piano O I like my bed God here we
are as bad as ever after 16  years how many houses were we in at all Raymond
Terrace and Ontario terrace and Lombard street and Holles street and he goes
about whistling every  time were on the run again his huguenots or the frogs
march pretending to help the men with our 4 sticks of furniture and then the
City  Arms hotel worse and worse says Warden Daly that charming place on the
landing always somebody inside  praying then leaving all  their stinks after
them always know who was in there last every time were just getting on right
something  happens or he puts his  big foot  in it Thoms and  Helys  and  Mr
Cuffes and Drimmies  either  hes going  to  be  run into prison over his old
lottery  tickets  that was  to  be all our salvations  or he  goes and gives
impudence well have him  coming home with the sack  soon out  of the Freeman
too  like the rest  on account of those  Sinner Fein or  the Freemasons then
well see if  the little man he showed me  dribbling along  in the wet all by
himself round by Coadys  lane will give him much consolation that he says is
so  capable and sincerely Irish he is indeed judging by the sincerity of the
trousers  I saw on him wait theres Georges church  bells wait 3 quarters the
hour wait 2 oclock well thats a nice hour of the night for him  to be coming
home  at to anybody climbing down into the area if anybody saw him Ill knock
him off that little habit tomorrow first Ill look at his shirt to see or Ill
see if he has that French letter still in his pocketbook I suppose he thinks
I dont know deceitful men  all their 20 pockets arent enough for  their lies
then  why should  we  tell them even if  its the truth they dont believe you
then tucked up in  bed like those babies in  the Aristocrats  Masterpiece he
brought  me another time as if we hadnt enough  of that in real life without
some old Aristocrat or whatever his name  is disgusting you  more with those
rotten pictures  children with  two heads  and  no  legs thats  the kind  of
villainy theyre always dreaming about with not another thing in  their empty
heads they ought to get slow poison the half  of them then tea and toast for
him buttered on  both  sides and newlaid eggs I suppose Im nothing any  more
when I wouldnt let him lick me in Holles street one night man man  tyrant as
ever  for the one thing he slept on the floor half the  night naked  the way
the jews  used when  somebody  dies  belonged  to  them  and wouldnt eat any
breakfast  or speak a word  wanting to  be petted so I thought  I  stood out
enough for one time and let him he  does it all  wrong too thinking  only of
his own pleasure his tongue is too flat or I dont know what  he forgets that
we then 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
couldn't 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 on 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 Bloom and Tom Kernan that  drunken little barrelly
man that bit his tongue off falling down the mens W C drunk in some place or
other  and Martin Cunningham and  the two Dedaluses and Fanny  MCoys husband
white head of cabbage skinny  thing with a turn in her eye trying to sing my
songs shed want to  be born all over again and her old green dress  with the
lowneck as she cant attract them any other way  like dabbling on a rainy day
I  see it  all now plainly and they call that  friendship killing  and  then
burying one another and they all  with their wives and families at home more
especially Jack Power keeping that barmaid he does of course his wife always
sick or going to be sick or just getting better of it and hes a good-looking
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
wasn't he  yes he was at the Glencree dinner and Ben Dollard base barreltone
the night  he  borrowed  the swallowtail to sing out  of  in  Holles  street
squeezed and squashed into them  and  grinning  all over his big  Dolly face
like a wellwhipped childs botty didnt  he look a  balmy ballocks sure enough
that  must have  been a  spectacle on  the stage imagine paying  5/- in  the
preserved  seats for that  to see him 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  Phbe dearest goodbye
sweetheart he always sang  it not  like Bartell dArcy  sweet tart goodbye of
course he had the  gift of the voice  so there was no art in it all over you
like a warm showerbath O Maritana  wildwood flower we sang splendidly though
it was a bit too high for my register even  transposed and he was married at
the  time to May Goulding but then hed say or do something to knock the good
out of it hes a widower  now I wonder  what sort  is his son he  says hes an
author and  going to be a university  professor  of Italian and  Im  to take
lessons what is he driving  at now showing him my photo its not good of me I
ought to have got it taken in drapery that never  looks out of fashion still
I look young in it I wonder he didnt make him a present of it altogether and
me too after all why not I saw him driving down to  the Kingsbridge  station
with his father and mother I was in mourning  thats 11 years ago now yes hed
be 11  though what was the good in going into mourning for what  was neither
one  thing nor the other 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  spaces for a Journey by land  then there was  a
letter on its way  and scandals too the 3 queens and the 8 of diamonds for a
rise in society yes wait it all came out and 2 red 8s for new garments  look
at that and didnt I dream something too yes there was something about poetry
in it I hope he  hasnt long greasy hair hanging into his eyes or standing up
like  a  red  Indian  what  do  they  go  about like that  for only  getting
themselves  and their poetry laughed at I always liked poetry  when  I was a
girl first I thought he was a  poet like 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 stuck up  university  student sort no
otherwise  he  wouldnt go sitting  down in  the  old kitchen with him taking
Eppss cocoa  and taking 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 patent 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 never go back  there again all
new faces two  glancing  eyes a lattice hid Ill sing that for  him theyre my
eyes  if hes anything of a poet two eyes as darkly bright as loves own  star
arent those beautiful words  as loves young star  itll be  a change the Lord
knows  to have an intelligent person  to  talk to about yourself not  always
listening to him and Billy Prescotts ad  and Keyess ad and Tom the Devils ad
then, if anything goes wrong in their business we have to suffer Im sure hes
very distinguished Id like to meet a man like that God not those other  ruck
besides  hes  young those fine young men  I could see down in Margate strand
bathing place 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 simply 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 looked with his
boyish face I would  too in 1/2  a minute even if some  of it went down what
its only like gruel or the dew theres  no  danger  besides  hed be  so clean
compared  with those pigs of men I suppose never dream of  washing it from 1
years end to the other the most of them only thats what gives  the women the
moustaches Im sure itll be grand if I can only get in with a  handsome young
poet at my age Ill throw them the 1st thing in the morning till I see if the
wishcard comes out or Ill try  pairing the  lady herself and see if he comes
out Ill read and study all I can find or  learn a bit off by heart if I knew
who he likes so he wont think me stupid if he thinks  all women are the same
and I  can teach him  the other part Ill make him  feel all over him till he
half faints under  me  then  hell write about me lover and mistress publicly
too  with our 2 photographs in  all the papers when he becomes famous O  but
then what am I going to do about him though
     no thats  no  way for him has he  no manners nor no refinement  nor  no
nothing in his nature slapping  us  behind like  that on my bottom because I
didn't call him  Hugh  the ignoramus that doesnt know poetry  from a cabbage
thats what you get for notkeeping them in their proper place pulling off his
shoes and trousers there on the  chair  before me so barefaced  without even
asking permission  and standing  out that vulgar way  in the half of a shirt
they wear to be admired like a priest or a  butcher or  those old hypocrites
in  the  time of Julius Caesar of course hes right enough in his way to pass
the time  as a joke sure you might as well be in bed with  what  with a lion
God Im sure hed have something better to say for himself an old Lion would O
well I  suppose its because  they were  so plump and  tempting  in my  short
petticoat he couldnt resist  they excite myself  sometimes its  well for men
all the  amount of pleasure  they  get off  a  womans body were so round and
white for them  always I wished I was one  myself  for a change  just to try
with that thing they have swelling upon 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 corner 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 stupid husbands jealousy why cant we all remain friends over it
instead  of quarrelling her husband found it out what they did together well
naturally and if he  did can he undo it hes coronado anyway whatever he does
and then he going to the other mad extreme about the wife in Fair Tyrants of
course the man never even  casts a 2nd thought on the husband or wife either
its the  woman he wants and he gets her what else were we  given  all  those
desires  for Id like to know I cant help it if  Im young still can  I  its a
wonder Im not an old shrivelled hag before  my time living with him  so cold
never embracing me except sometimes when hes asleep the wrong end of me  not
knowing  I suppose who he has any man thatd kiss a womans bottom Id throw my
hat at him after that hed kiss anything unnatural where we havent  1 atom of
any kind of expression in us all of us the same 2 lumps of lard  before ever
I 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 to do it off up in a gate  somewhere or one
of those wildlooking gipsies in Rathfarnham had  their camp pitched near the
Bloomfield  laundry  to try and  steal our  things if they could I only sent
mine there a few  times for the name model laundry sending me back over  and
over some old ones old stockings that blackguardlooking fellow with the fine
eyes peeling a switch attack me in the dark and ride  me up against the wall
without  a  word or  a murderer  anybody  what they do  themselves  the fine
gentlemen in their silk hats that K C lives up somewhere this way coming out
of Hardwicke lane the night he gave us the fish supper on account of winning
over the boxing match of course  it was for me he gave it I knew  him by his
gaiters and the walk  and when I turned round  a minute  after  just  to see
there was a woman after coming out of it too some  filthy prostitute then he
goes  home  to his  wife after that only I suppose the half of those sailors
are rotten again with  disease  O move over your big carcass out of that for
the love of Mike listen to him the  winds that waft my sighs to thee so well
he  may sleep and sigh  the great Suggester Don Poldo de la Flora if he knew
how he came out on the cards this  morning hed have something to sigh  for a
dark  man in some perplexity between 2 7s too in prison  for Lord knows what
he  does that I dont know and Im to be slooching around down in  the kitchen
to get his lordship his breakfast while  hes  rolled up  like a mummy will I
indeed  did you  ever see  me running Id just like to see myself at  it show
them  attention and  they treat you like dirt  I dont care what anybody says
itd  be much  better for the world  to be  governed by the  women  in it you
wouldnt see women going and killing one another and slaughtering when do you
ever see  women rolling  around  drunk like  they do or gambling every penny
they have and losing it on horses yes because a woman  whatever she does she
knows where to stop  sure they wouldn't 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 rowdy
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
was but give it to some poor child but I knew well Id never have another our
1st death too it was we were never the same since O Im  not going  to  think
myself into the glooms about that any more I wonder why he wouldnt stay  the
night I felt all the time it was somebody strange  he  brought in instead of
roving around the city  meeting God knows who  nightwalkers and  pickpockets
his poor  mother wouldnt like that if she was alive ruining himself for life
perhaps still  its a lovely hour so silent I  used to love coming home after
dances the  air of  the night they have friends  they can talk  to weve none
either he wants what he wont get or its  some woman ready to stick her knife
in you I hate that in women no wonder they treat us the way they do we are a
dreadful lot of bitches I suppose its all the troubles we have  makes us  so
snappy Im not like that he could easy have slept in there on the sofa in the
other room 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 Vial plana  of  Santa Maria that gave me the
rosary Rosales  y OReilly  in the Calle las  Siete Revueltas and Pisimbo and
Mrs Opisso in Governor street O  what a name  Id go and drown myself  in the
first river if  I  had a  name  like her  O my and  all the  bits of streets
Paradise ramp and  Bedlam  ramp and Rodgers ramp and Crutchetts ramp and the
devils gap steps well small blame to me if  I am a harumscarum I know I am a
bit  I declare to God I dont feel a day older than then I wonder could I get
my  tongue round any of the Spanish como esta usted muy bien gracias y usted
see I haven't forgotten it all I thought I had  only for the  grammar a noun
is the name of any person place  or  thing pity I never tried  to  read that
novel cantankerous Mrs Rubio lent  me by Valera with the questions in it all
upside down the two ways I always knew wed go away in the end I can tell him
the Spanish and he tell me the Italian then hell see Im not so ignorant what
a pity he  didnt stay  Im sure the poor fellow was dead  tired  and wanted a
good sleep badly I could have brought him in his breakfast in bed with a bit
of toast so long as I didnt do it on the knife for bad luck or if the  woman
was going her rounds with  the watercress and something nice and tasty there
are a few olives in the kitchen he might like I never could bear the look of
them  in  Abrines I  could do the  criada the room looks all right  since  I
changed it the  other  way you see something was telling  me all the time Id
have to introduce myself not knowing me from Adam very funny  wouldnt  it Im
his wife  or  pretend  we were in Spain  with him half awake without a  Gods
notion where he is dos huevos estrellados senor Lord the cracked things come
into my head sometimes itd be  great fun supposing he stayed with us why not
theres the room upstairs empty and Millys bed in  the back room he could  do
his writing and studies at the table in there for all the scribbling he does
at it  and if he wants to read in bed in the morning like me  as  hes making
the breakfast for  I he can make it for 2  Im sure Im not going  to  take in
lodgers off  the street for him if he takes a gesabo of a house like this Id
love to have a long talk with an intelligent well-educated person Id have to
get a nice pair of red slippers like those Turks  with the fez  used to sell
or  yellow  and a nice  semitransparent morning gown that I badly  want or a
peachblossom dressing jacket like  the one long  ago in Walpoles only 8/6 or
18/6 Ill just give him one  more chance  Ill  get up early in the morning Im
sick of Cohens old bed in any case I might go over to the markets to see all
the  vegetables and cabbages  and  tomatoes  and carrots and  all  kinds  of
splendid fruits all coming in lovely and fresh who knows whod be the 1st man
Id meet theyre out looking for it in  the  morning  Mamy Dillon used  to say
they are and the night too that was her massgoing Id  love a big  juicy pear
now to melt in your mouth like when I used to be in the longing way then Ill
throw him up his eggs and  tea in the moustachecup she gave him to  make his
mouth bigger I suppose hed like my nice cream too I know what Ill  do Ill go
about rather gay not too much singing a bit now and then mi fa pieti Masetto
then Ill start dressing myself to go out presto  non  son pill forte Ill put
on my best  shift and drawers let him have a good eyeful out of that to make
his micky stand for him Ill let  him  know if thats  what he wanted that his
wife is fucked yes and damn well fucked  too up to my neck nearly not by him
5  or 6 times handrunning theres  the mark of his spunk on the clean sheet I
wouldnt bother to even iron it  out that  ought  to satisfy him if  you dont
believe me feel  my belly unless I made him stand there and put him into  me
Ive a mind to  tell him every scrap and make him do it  in front of me serve
him right its all his own fault  if  I am an adulteress as  the thing in the
gallery said O much about it if thats all the harm ever we  did in this vale
of tears God knows its not much doesnt everybody only they hide it I suppose
thats what a woman is supposed to be  there for or He  wouldnt have  made us
the  way He did so attractive to  men then if he wants to kiss my bottom Ill
drag open my drawers and bulge it right out in his face as large as  life he
can stick his tongue 7 miles up my hole as hes there my brown part  then Ill
tell him I want #1  or  perhaps 30/- Ill tell him I want to buy underclothes
then if he gives me  that well he wont be too bad I dont want to soak it all
out of  him like other women do I could often have written out a fine cheque
for myself and write his name on it  for a couple of  pounds a few  times he
forgot to lock  it up besides  he wont spend it  Ill let him do it off on me
behind provided he doesnt smear all my good drawers O I suppose that cant be
helped Ill do the indifferent  I 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 wouldn't 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 nor 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 eyeing up at the  ceiling where is she  gone now make  him  want me
thats the only way a quarter after  what an unearthly hour I  suppose theyre
just getting  up in China now combing out their  pigtails  for the  day well
soon have  the nuns ringing the  angelus theyve nobody  coming  in  to spoil
their sleep except an odd priest or two for his  night office the alarmclock
next door at cockshout  clattering the brains out of itself  let me see if I
can dose 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 71/2d a
lb or the  other ones with the cherries in  them  and the pinky sugar lid  a
couple of lbs of course 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 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 was a flower of the mountain  yes so we are flowers all a womans
body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines  for
you today yes that was why I liked him  because I saw he  understood or felt
what a woman is and  I knew  I could always get round him and I gave him all
the pleasure  I could leading him on till he  asked me  to  say  yes  and  I
wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking
of so many things he didnt  know  of Mulvey and Mr  Stanhope and Hester  and
father  and old captain Groves  and the sailors playing all  birds fly and I
say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in
front of the  governors  house with the thing round  his  white  helmet poor
devil half roasted and  the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their
tall combs and the auctions in the  morning the Greeks and  the jews and the
Arabs  and the  devil knows  who else from all the ends of  Europe  and Duke
street and  the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharans 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 glancing eyes  a lattice hid
for her lover to kiss the iron and the  wineshops half open at night and the
castanets and the night we  missed  the boat at Algeciras the watchman going
about serene with his lamp and O  that awful deepdown  torrent O and the sea
the  sea crimson sometimes  like fire  and  the  glorious  sunsets  and  the
figtrees in  the Alameda  gardens  yes  and all the queer little streets and
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  Jo 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-Zэrich-Paris, 1914--1921



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