| Time: 10 A.M., Thursday, June 16, 1904 Scene: Bloom has traveled approximately one and a quarter miles southeast from his home in Eccles Street to Sir John Rogerson's Quay on the south bank of the Liffey near its mouth. He circles south toward West- land Row post office where he receives a love letter from one'Martha Clifford' addressed to his pseudonym, 'Henry Flower'. He meets an acquaintance, and while they chat, Bloom attempts to ogle a woman wearing stockings, but is prevented by a passing tram. He wanders into a Catholic church service and muses on theology. Finally, Bloom heads towards the Leinster Street baths. Organ: genitals Art: botany-chemistry Colors: none Symbol: the Eucharist Technique: narcissm Correspondences: Lotus-Eaters-the cabhorses, communicants, soldiers, eunuchs, bather, watchers of cricket. Background: After Odysseus escapes from Calypso's island and from the sea, he lands on Scheria (Book 6) and is entertained at King Alcinous's court (Books 7 and 8); in Book 9 he reveals himself to Alcinous and begins to recount the adventures of his voyage from Troy, "years of rough adventure, weathered under Zeus". Early in his voyage he and his men were driven by a storm to the land of the Lotus-Eaters, "who live upon that flower", and Odysseus disembarked to take on water. Some of Ody- sseus's men met the friendly Lotus-Eaters, ate the Lotus, and longed "to stay forever, brow-sing on that native bloom, forgetful of their homeland". Odys-seus drove the infected men back to the ships and set sail. |
By lorries1 along sir John Rogerson's quay2 Mr Bloom walked soberly, past
Windmill lane,3 Leask's the linseed crusher,4 the postal telegraph office.5
Could have given that address too.6 And past the sailors' home.7 He turned
from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street.8
By Brady's cottages9 a boy for the skins10 lolled, his bucket of offal linked,11
smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her fore-
head eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop.12 Tell him if he
smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses. Wait-
ing outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't
be many there. He crossed Townsend street,13 passed the frowning face of
Bethel.14 El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols' the undertaker.15
At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for
O'Neill's.16 Singing with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park.
In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told
with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap i
n a whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.17
In Westland row18 he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental
Tea Company19 and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend,
finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom Ker-
nan.20 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. Un-
der 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 be-
hind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.
So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and
hair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again: choice
blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it
must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on,
cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like
that. Those Cinghalese21 lobbing22 about in the sun in Dolce far niente,23
not doing a hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve.24 Too hot to
quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air
feeds most. Azotes.25 Hothouse in Botanic gardens.26 Sensitive plants.27
Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on
rose-
leaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw
in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea28 floating on his back,
reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick
with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in
the water is equal to the weight of the what? Or is it the volume is equal
to the weight? It's a law29 something like that. Vance in High school crack-
ing his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum.30 Cracking curriculum.
What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per
second.31 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.32
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 Freeman33 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.34
Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.
He handed the card through the brass grill.
--Are there any letters for me? he asked.
While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting
poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his
baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer
probably. Went too far last time.
The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter.
He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.
Henry Flower Esq, 35
c/o P. O. Westland Row,
City.
Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, review-
ing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff
soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier.36 Point-
ed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats.37 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 street38 at night: dis-
grace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper39 is on the same tack now: an
army rotten with venereal disease:40 overseas or halfseasover empire.41 Half
baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able.
Bed: ed.42 The King's own.43 Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a
bobby. A mason, yes.44
He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if
that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger
felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks.
Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the
letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something
pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.
M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when
you.
--Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?
--Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.
--How's the body?
--Fine. How are you?
--Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.
His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:
--Is there any . . . no trouble I hope? I see you're . . .
--O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.
--To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?
A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.45
--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.46 You know Hoppy?
--I know.
Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider47 drawn up before the door of
the Grosvenor.48 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.49 Reserved about
to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man.50 Possess her
once take the starch out of her.
--I was with Bob Doran,51 he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do
you call him Bantam Lyons.52 Just down there in Conway's53 we were.
Doran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came
Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his
vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the braided
drums.54 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: Broadstone55 probably. High brown boots with laces dang-
ling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering56 over that change for? Sees me
looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two strings to
her bow.57
--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.58 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.59 Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace
street60 hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering
the display of. Esprit de corps.61 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,62 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.63
--My missus64 has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.
Valise tack65 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 swagger66 affair in the
Ulster Hall, Belfast,67 on the twenty-fifth.
--That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?
Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and.68
No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady
and fair man.69 Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.
Love's
Old
Sweet
Song
Comes lo-Ove's old . . .70
--It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Sweeeet
song. There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.
M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.
--O, well, he said. That's good news.
He moved to go.
--Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.
--Yes, Mr Bloom said.
--Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral,
will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a drown-
ing case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself71 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.72 The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd like
my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners,
rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley73 lent him his for the
Wicklow regatta74 concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that
good day to this.
Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street,75 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 there76
doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again.
Your wife and my wife.77
Wonder is he pimping after me?
Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured
hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's78 Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's79 Summer
Sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. Leah tonight. Mrs Bandmann Pal-
mer.80 Like to see her again in that. Hamlet she played last night.81 Male
impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide.82
Poor papa!83 How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Outside the Adel-
phi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before I was born84
that was: sixtyfive.85 And Ristori in Vienna.86 What is this the right name
is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel,87 is it? No. The scene he was always talk-
ing 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.88
Every word is so deep, Leopold.
Poor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his
face. That day! O, dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best for
him.
Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the haz-
ard.89 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 champ-
ing teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the
sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses!90 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 haun-
ches. 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 car-
ried. Might just walk into her here. The lane91 is safer.
He passed the cabman's shelter.92 Curious the life of drifting cabbies. All
weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non.93
Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables
as they pass. He hummed:
La ci darem la mano 94
La la lala la la.
He turned into Cumberland street95 and, going on some paces, halted in the
lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard.96 Piled balks. Ruins
and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with
its forgotten pickeystone.97 Not a sinner.98 Near the timberyard a squatted
child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb.99 A wise tab-
by, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them.
Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her.100 Open it. And once
I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked mign-
onette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr?101 He opened the letter within the newspap-
er.
A flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not an-
noyed 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 beauti-
ful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so
often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a
man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and
tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you
know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote. O
how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my
patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty
darling, I have such a bad headache. today. and write by return to your
longing
Martha
P. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use.102 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.103 They like it be-
cause no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then walk-
ing 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 nightstalk104 wife Martha's perfume. Having
read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.
Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she
wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me, respect-
able character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary.105 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 voices106 bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the
Coombe,107 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.108
It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses109 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.110
Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there:
quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been,
strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper:
fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole
in
the wall at Ashtown.111 Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the
trottingmatches.112 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 arch113 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 Iveagh114 once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for
a million in the bank of Ireland.115 Shows you the money to be made out of
porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun116 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 por-
ter, 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.117 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.118
on saint Peter Claver S.J.119 and the African Mission.120 Prayers for the
conversion of Gladstone121 they had too when he was almost unconscious.
The protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D.122 to the
true religion. Save China's millions.123 Wonder how they explain it to the
heathen Chinee.124 Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials.124 Rank heresy for
them. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum.125 Taking it easy
with hand under his cheek. Josssticks126 burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown
of thorns and cross.127 Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock.128 Chop-
sticks? Conmee: Martin Cunningham129 knows him: distinguishedlooking.
Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir130 instead of
that Father Farley131 who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that.132
He's not going out in bluey specs133 with the sweat rolling off him to bap-
tise 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.134
Something going on: some sodality.135 Pity so empty. Nice discreet place
to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour?136 Jammed by the hour to slow
music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven.137 Women knelt in the
benches with crimson halters138 round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt
at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the
thing139 in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop
or two (are they in water?)140 off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her
hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her hat sank at once. Then the next
one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth,
murmuring all the time. Latin.141 The next one. Shut your eyes and open your
mouth.142 What? Corpus: body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them
first. Hospice for the dying.143 They don't seem to chew it:144 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.145 Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel
happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels146 it's called. There's a big
idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First communi-
cants. Hokypoky147 penny a lump. Then feel all like one family party, same
in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so
lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit spreeish.148 Let off steam.
Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion,149
and the Knock apparition,150 statues bleeding.151 Old fellow asleep near that
confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the arms of king-
dom come.152 Lulls all pain. Wake this time next year.
He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an in-
stant 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?153 No: I.H.S.154 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.155 Do not deny my request. Turn up with a
veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her.156 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 invinci-
bles157 he used to receive the, Carey158 was his name, the communion every
morning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver159 I am think-
ing of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home.160 And
plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers,161 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:162 then he tossed off the dregs
smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank
what they are used to Guinness's163 porter or some temperance beverage
Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters164 or Cantrell and Cochrane's165 ginger ale
(aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine:166 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 Glynn167 he knew how to make
that instrument talk, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year168 they say he had
in Gardiner street.169 Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater
of Rossini.170 Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate?171
Christ, but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill
stopped.172 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.173
Some of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last words.174 Mo-
zart's twelfth mass: Gloria175 in that. Those old popes keen on music, on art
and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina176 for example too. They had
a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting, regular hours,177 then
brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse.178 Still, having eunuchs in their
choir179 that was coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is it? Must be cur-
ious to hear after their own strong basses. Connoisseurs. Suppose they woul-
dn't feel anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh,180 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.181 All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glanced about
him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up at the gospel182
of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat back quiet-
ly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar, holding the thing out
from him,183 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 . . .184
Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw
them the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass?185
Glorious and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul.186 More
interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation
certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession.187 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.188 Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep.
Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary.189 Flowers,
incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant
imitation.190 Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the
Lord. Squareheaded191 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.192 for
the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to
be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in
that Fermanagh will case in the witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had
his answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the
church. The doctors of the church:193 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.194
The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women
remained behind: thanksgiving.
Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz.195 Come around with the plate perhaps.
Pay your Easter duty.196
He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all
the time? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a
(whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked.
Glimpses of the moon.197 Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me
before. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south. He
passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door
into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl
while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the
low tide of holy water.198 Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks:199 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.200 Chemists
rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars201 too heavy to stir. Hamilton
Long's,202 founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard202 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.203 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.204 Smell almost cure
you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor Whack.205 He ought to physic himself a
bit. Electuary206 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.207 Chloroform. Overdose
of laudanum.208 Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for
cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm.209 Poisons the only cures. Remedy
where you least expect it. Clever of nature.
--About a fortnight ago, sir?
--Yes, Mr Bloom said.
He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the
dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs.210 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.211 Skinfood. One of
the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin. Leopold,
yes.212 Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you
want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau d'Espagne.213 That
orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Pure curd soap.
Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam. Turkish.214 Massage. Dirt
gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I.
Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine business with
pleasure. Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be
rather glum.
--Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a
bottle?
--No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and
I'll take one of these soaps. How much are they?
--Fourpence, sir.
Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.215
--I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.
--Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you come
back.
--Good, Mr Bloom said.
He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the
coolwrappered soap in his left hand.
At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:
--Hello, Bloom. What's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute.
Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look
younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.
Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants
a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears'
soap?216 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.217 Better leave him the paper and get
shut of him.
--You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.
--Ascot. Gold cup.218 Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the
second.
--I was just going to throw it away,219 Mr Bloom said.
Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.
--What's that? his sharp voice said.
--I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away that
moment.
Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back
on Mr Bloom's arms.
--I'll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.
He sped off towards Conway's corner.220 God speed scut.221
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.222 Raffle for large tender
turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to
gamble then smuggled off to America.223 Keeps a hotel now. They never come back.
Fleshpots of Egypt.224
He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths.225 Remind you
of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports226 today I see. He
eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up
like a cod in a pot.227 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 Hornblower228 standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on
hands:229 might take a turn in there on the nod.230 How do you do, Mr
Hornblower? How do you do, sir?
Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.231
Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out.232 They can't play it here.233
Duck for six wickets.234 Still Captain Culler235 broke a window in the Kildare
street club236 with a slog to square leg.237 Donnybrook fair238 more in their
line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor.239
Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the
stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.240
Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid
stream. This is my body.241
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.242