Close

Close

II

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.

He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart,

liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all

he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of

faintly scented urine.

Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting

her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the

kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel

a bit peckish.

The coals were reddening.

Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didn't like

her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off

the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat,

its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked

stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.

—Mkgnao!

—O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.

The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the

table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my

head. Prr.

Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to see:

the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her

tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his

knees.

—Milk for the pussens, he said.

—Mrkgnao! the cat cried.

They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we

understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too.

Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder

what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.

—Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the

chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.

Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.

—Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively

and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits

narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to

the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him,

poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.

—Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.

He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped

three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they

can't mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or

kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.

He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with this

drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for a

mutton kidney at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better

a pork kidney at Dlugacz's. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped

slower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough?

To lap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round

him. No.

On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by

the bedroom door. She might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter

she likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way.

He said softly in the bare hall:

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

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

—You don't want anything for breakfast?

A sleepy soft grunt answered:

—Mn.

No. She didn't want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer,

as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled.

Must get those settled really. Pity. All the way from Gibraltar.

Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for

it. Old style. Ah yes! of course. Bought it at the governor's auction.

Got a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. At

Plevna that was. I rose from the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it.

Still he had brains enough to make that corner in stamps. Now that was

farseeing.

His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat

and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback

pictures. Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too. Course they do.

The sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's

high grade ha. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. White slip

of paper. Quite safe.

On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there.

In the trousers I left off. Must get it. Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe.

No use disturbing her. She turned over sleepily that time. He pulled

the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped

gently over the threshold, a limp lid. Looked shut. All right till I

come back anyhow.

He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number

seventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Be a

warm day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Black

conducts, reflects, (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldn't go in

that light suit. Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as

he walked in happy warmth. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our

daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot.

Makes you feel young. Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at

dawn. Travel round in front of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep

it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Walk along a strand,

strange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old

Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning on a long kind of a spear. Wander

through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves of carpet

shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled

pipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink water scented with fennel,

sherbet. Dander along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well,

meet him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques among the

pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal,

the evening wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A mother watches me from

her doorway. She calls her children home in their dark language. High

wall: beyond strings twanged. Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's

new garters. Strings. Listen. A girl playing one of those instruments

what do you call them: dulcimers. I pass.

Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read: in the track

of the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He smiled, pleasing himself. What

Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the Freeman leader: a

homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank

of Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that: homerule

sun rising up in the north-west.

He approached Larry O'Rourke's. From the cellar grating floated up the

flabby gush of porter. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out

whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however: just the

end of the city traffic. For instance M'Auley's down there: n. g. as

position. Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from

the cattlemarket to the quays value would go up like a shot.

Baldhead over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for an

ad. Still he knows his own business best. There he is, sure enough, my

bold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching

the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. Simon Dedalus takes him

off to a tee with his eyes screwed up. Do you know what I'm going to

tell you? What's that, Mr O'Rourke? Do you know what? The Russians,

they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese.

Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor

Dignam, Mr O'Rourke.

Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the

doorway:

—Good day, Mr O'Rourke.

—Good day to you.

—Lovely weather, sir.

—'Tis all that.

Where do they get the money? Coming up redheaded curates from the county

Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo and behold,

they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then thin of the

competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without

passing a pub. Save it they can't. Off the drunks perhaps. Put down

three and carry five. What is that, a bob here and there, dribs and

drabs. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with the

town travellers. Square it you with the boss and we'll split the job,

see?

How much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten barrels

of stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more. Fifteen. He passed Saint

Joseph's National school. Brats' clamour. Windows open. Fresh air

helps memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee

doubleyou. Boys are they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At

their joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom.

He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the hanks of sausages,

polonies, black and white. Fifteen multiplied by. The figures whitened

in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links,

packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the

lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood.

A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last. He

stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it too, calling

the items from a slip in her hand? Chapped: washingsoda. And a pound and

a half of Denny's sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips.

Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. New blood.

No followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the

clothesline. She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt

swings at each whack.

The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with

blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Sound meat there: like a stallfed heifer.

He took a page up from the pile of cut sheets: the model farm at

Kinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Can become ideal winter

sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall round

it, blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting:

read it nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle, the page

rustling. A young white heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket, the

beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the

breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm

on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in

their hands. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and

his will, his soft subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt swinging,

whack by whack by whack.

The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime

sausages and made a red grimace.

—Now, my miss, he said.

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

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

please?

Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and walk behind her if she went

slowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the

morning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines. She stood

outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He

sighed down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted

toenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways.

The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For

another: a constable off duty cuddling her in Eccles lane. They like

them sizeable. Prime sausage. O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the

wood.

—Threepence, please.

His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket.

Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them

on the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid,

disc by disc, into the till.

—Thank you, sir. Another time.

A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his gaze

after an instant. No: better not: another time.

—Good morning, he said, moving away.

—Good morning, sir.

No sign. Gone. What matter?

He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely. Agendath Netaim:

planters' company. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish

government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for shade, fuel

and construction. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa.

You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives,

oranges, almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial

irrigation. Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered

for life as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten down and the

balance in yearly instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15.

Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it.

He looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silverpowdered

olivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Olives are packed in

jars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows

the taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons

too. Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky

with the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in Citron's

basketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it

to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild

perfume. Always the same, year after year. They fetched high prices too,

Moisel told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times.

Must be without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar,

Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa,

chap ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in

soiled dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you? Doesn't

see. Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore. His back is like that

Norwegian captain's. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Watering cart. To

provoke the rain. On earth as it is in heaven.

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

No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead

sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind could lift those

waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it

raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead

names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the

oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a

naggin bottle by the neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over

all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born

everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more. Dead: an old

woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world.

Desolation.

Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he turned

into Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his veins,

chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here

now. Yes, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of

the bed. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down.

Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that?

Valuation is only 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 stooped and gathered

them. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened heart slowed at once. Bold hand.

Mrs Marion.

—Poldy!

Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm

yellow twilight towards her tousled head.

—Who are the letters for?

He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly.

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

a letter for you.

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

knees.

—Do you want the blind up?

Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her

glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow.

—That do? he asked, turning.

She was reading the card, propped on her elbow.

—She got the things, she said.

He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back

slowly with a snug sigh.

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

—The kettle is boiling, he said.

But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled

linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed.

As he went down the kitchen stairs she called:

—Poldy!

—What?

—Scald the teapot.

On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the spout. He scalded and

rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the

kettle then to let the water flow in. Having set it to draw he took off

the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the lump

of butter slide and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed

hungrily against him. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Say they

won't eat pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to

her and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He

sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup.

Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over. Thanks:

new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: young student: Blazes Boylan's

seaside girls.

The tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown

Derby, smiling. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Only five she was then. No,

wait: four. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Putting pieces

of folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. He smiled, pouring.

O, Milly Bloom, you are my darling.

You are my lookingglass from night to morning.

I'd rather have you without a farthing

Than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden.

Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still he was a courteous

old chap. Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the platform. And

the little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought it into

the parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! All we

laughed. Sex breaking out even then. Pert little piece she was.

He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the

teapot on the tray. Its hump bumped as he took it up. Everything on

it? Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes. He carried it

upstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.

Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it on

the chair by the bedhead.

—What a time you were! she said.

She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on

the pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft

bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. The warmth

of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the

tea she poured.

A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the

act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.

—Who was the letter from? he asked.

Bold hand. Marion.

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

—What are you singing?

—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 vorrei. Wonder if she pronounces

that right: voglio. Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped

and lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of

the orangekeyed chamberpot.

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

ask you.

She swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by nothandle and,

having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to search the

text with the hairpin till she reached the word.

—Met him what? he asked.

—Here, she said. What does that mean?

He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail.

—Metempsychosis?

—Yes. Who's he when he's at home?

—Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It's Greek: from the Greek. That

means the transmigration of souls.

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

He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. The same young eyes.

The first night after the charades. Dolphin's Barn. He turned over

the smudged pages. Ruby: the Pride of the Ring. Hello. Illustration.

Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor

naked. Sheet kindly lent. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his

victim from him with an oath. Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals.

Trapeze at Hengler's. Had to look the other way. Mob gaping. Break your

neck and we'll break our sides. Families of them. Bone them young so

they metamspychosis. That we live after death. Our souls. That a man's

soul after he dies. Dignam's soul...

—Did you finish it? he asked.

—Yes, she said. There's nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the

first fellow all the time?

—Never read it. Do you want another?

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

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

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to

Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that's the word.

—Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in another body

after death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That

we all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other

planet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past

lives.

The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Bette remind

her of the word: metempsychosis. An example would be better. An example?

The Bath of the Nymph over the bed. Given away with the Easter number

of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. Tea before you

put milk in. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Three and six

I gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed. Naked

nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the people that lived then.

He turned the pages back.

—Metempsychosis, he said, is what the ancient Greeks called it. They

used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for

instance. What they called nymphs, for example.

Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her,

inhaling through her arched nostrils.

—There's a smell of burn, she said. Did you leave anything on the fire?

—The kidney! he cried suddenly.

He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes

against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping

hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork's legs. Pungent smoke shot

up in an angry jet from a side of the pan. By prodding a prong of the

fork under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back.

Only a little burnt. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the

scanty brown gravy trickle over it.

Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf.

He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Then he put a

forkful into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant

meat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread,

sopped one in the gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that about

some young student and a picnic? He creased out the letter at his side,

reading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the

gravy and raising it to his mouth.

Dearest Papli

Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. It suits me

splendid. Everyone says I am quite the belle in my new tam. I got

mummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing. They are lovely. I am

getting on swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of me

and Mrs. Will send when developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair day

and all the beef to the heels were in. We are going to lough Owel on

Monday with a few friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to

mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano

downstairs. There is to be a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday.

There is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his

cousins or something are big swells and he sings Boylan's (I was on the

pop of writing Blazes Boylan's) song about those seaside girls. Tell him

silly Milly sends my best respects. I must now close with fondest love

Your fond daughter, MILLY.

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

Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first

birthday away from home. Separation. Remember the summer morning she

was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old

woman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew from

the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Well, God is good, sir. She

knew at once. He would be eleven now if he had lived.

His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse bad writing.

Hurry. Piano downstairs. Coming out of her shell. Row with her in the

XL Cafe about the bracelet. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look.

Saucebox. He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after

piece of kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still, she might do

worse. Music hall stage. Young student. He drank a draught of cooler tea

to wash down his meal. Then he read the letter again: twice.

O, well: she knows how to mind herself. But if not? No, nothing has

happened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does. A wild

piece of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny.

Ripening now.

Vain: very.

He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window. Day I caught

her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. Anemic a little.

Was given milk too long. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the Kish.

Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf

loose in the wind with her hair. All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your

head it simply swirls.

Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers' pockets,

jarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says.

Pier with lamps, summer evening, band,

Those girls, those girls,

Those lovely seaside girls.

Milly too. Young kisses: the first. Far away now past. Mrs Marion.

Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling,

braiding.

A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will happen,

yes. Prevent. Useless: can't move. Girl's sweet light lips. Will happen

too. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move now.

Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey woman's lips.

Better where she is down there: away. Occupy her. Wanted a dog to pass

the time. Might take a trip down there. August bank holiday, only two

and six return. Six weeks off, however. Might work a press pass. Or

through M'Coy.

The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper,

nosed at it and stalked to the door. She looked back at him, mewing.

Wants to go out. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Let her wait.

Has the fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her ear

with her back to the fire too.

He felt heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his bowels. He stood up,

undoing the waistband of his trousers. The cat mewed to him.

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

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

landing.

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

I'm.

In the tabledrawer he found an old number of Titbits. He folded it

under his armpit, went to the door and opened it. The cat went up in

soft bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed.

Listening, he heard her voice:

—Come, come, pussy. Come.

He went out through the backdoor into the garden: stood to listen

towards the next garden. No sound. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry.

The maid was in the garden. Fine morning.

He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall.

Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to

manure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur.

All soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this

that is? The hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top

dressing. Best of all though are the cattle, especially when they are

fed on those oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid

gloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in

that corner there. Lettuce. Always have fresh greens then. Still gardens

have their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.

He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the

peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I don't remember that. Hallstand

too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters.

Drago's shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown

brillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder

have I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox

there got away James Stephens, they say. O'Brien.

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

Enthusiast.

He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get

these trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head

under the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy

limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he

peered through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. The king was in his

countinghouse. Nobody.

Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over

on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a

bit. Our prize titbit: Matcham's Masterstroke. Written by Mr Philip

Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea

a column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds

three. Three pounds, thirteen and six.

Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but

resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he

allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still

patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's

not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive. One

tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or touch

him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly

season. He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat

certainly. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won the

laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in hand. Smart.

He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water

flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and

received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six.

Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story for

some proverb. Which? Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she

said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting

her nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her. 9.l5.

Did Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What

possessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. I'm swelled after that cabbage. A

speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot.

Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf. Morning

after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the

hours. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then

night hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night. Her head

dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money.

Why? I noticed he had a good rich smell off his breath dancing. No use

humming then. Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night. The

mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen

vest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it. Lines in her eyes.

It wouldn't pan out somehow.

Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then: black with daggers

and eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink, then golden, then grey, then black.

Still, true to life also. Day: then the night.

He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it.

Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled

back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom

into the air.

In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his

black trousers: the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time

is the funeral? Better find out in the paper.

A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells of George's

church. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron.

Heigho! Heigho!

Heigho! Heigho!

Heigho! Heigho!

Quarter to. There again: the overtone following through the air, third.

Poor Dignam!

By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past

Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office.

Could have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned

from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street.

By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal

linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema

on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell

him if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of

roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da.

Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed

the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past

Nichols' the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny

Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut.

Corny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout.

Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay.

O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my

tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.

In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental

Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend,

finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom

Kernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still read

blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his

right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning.

Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather

headband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down

into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the

headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.

So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and

hair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again: choice

blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it

must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on,

cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like

that. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in dolce far niente,

not doing a hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot

to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The

air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants.

Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on

roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap

I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his

back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so

thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of

the body in the water is equal to the weight of the what? Or is it the

volume is equal to the weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in

High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum.

Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight?

Thirtytwo feet per second per second. Law of falling bodies: per second

per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's the force of

gravity of the earth is the weight.

He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her

sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman

from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and

tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air:

just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every second

it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of

the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.

He handed the card through the brass grill.

—Are there any letters for me? he asked.

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting

poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his

baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer

probably. Went too far last time.

The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a

letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.

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

Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket,

reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment?

Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a

grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats.

Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to

enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell

street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on

the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or

halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front.

Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed

up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.

He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if

that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger

felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks.

Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the

letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something

pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.

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

you.

—Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?

—Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.

—How's the body?

—Fine. How are you?

—Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.

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

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

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

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

A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.

—E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.

—I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard

it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?

—I know.

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door

of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She

stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her,

searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll

collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless

stand of her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty

creature at the polo match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot.

Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable

Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch

out of her.

—I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do

you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.

Doran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came

Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath

his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the

braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight

perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will

she get up?

—And he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy? I

said. Poor little Paddy Dignam, he said.

Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces

dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change for?

Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two

strings to her bow.

—Why? I said. What's wrong with him? I said.

Proud: rich: silk stockings.

—Yes, Mr Bloom said.

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

minute.

—What's wrong with him? He said. He's dead, he said. And, faith,

he filled up. Is it Paddy Dignam? I said. I couldn't believe it when I

heard it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in

the Arch. Yes, he said. He's gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow.

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

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and

the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace

street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering

the display of esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping at?

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

—One of the best, M'Coy said.

The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich

gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her

hat in the sun: flicker, flick.

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

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

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:

What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Incomplete With it an

abode of bliss.

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

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

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

—My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the

Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-fifth.

—That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?

Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and.

No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady

and fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.

Love's

Old

Sweet

Song

Comes lo-ove's old...

—It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully.

Sweeeet song. There's a committee formed. Part shares and part

profits.

M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.

—O, well, he said. That's good news.

He moved to go.

—Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.

—Yes, Mr Bloom said.

—Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral,

will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a

drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself

would have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name if

I'm not there, will you?

—I'll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That'll be all right.

—Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly

could. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M'Coy will do.

—That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.

Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd

like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped

corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him

his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of

it from that good day to this.

Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just

got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its

way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you know:

in the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can't

he hear the difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against

my grain somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that

smallpox up there doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be

vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife.

Wonder is he pimping after me?

Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured

hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's Summer

Sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. Leah tonight. Mrs Bandmann

Palmer. Like to see her again in that. Hamlet she played last night.

Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed

suicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Outside

the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before

I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the

right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was

always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice

and puts his fingers on his face.

Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his

father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his

father and left the God of his father.

Every word is so deep, Leopold.

Poor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his

face. That day! O, dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best for

him.

Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the

hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met

that M'Coy fellow.

He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing

teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet

oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they

know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags.

Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss.

Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their

haunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they

look. Still their neigh can be very irritating.

He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he

carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.

He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies.

All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio

e non. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying

syllables as they pass. He hummed:

La ci darem la mano

La la lala la la.

He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the

lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins

and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with

its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted

child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise

tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb

them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open it.

And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She

liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the letter within the

newspaper.

A flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not

annoyed then? What does she say?

Dear Henry

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry

you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am

awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called

you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me

what is the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in your home

you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you.

Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful

name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often

you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as

you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me

more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I

will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote. O how I long to

meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are

exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling, I

have such a bad headache. today. and write by return to your longing

Martha

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

know.

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell

and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it

because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then

walking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and

there a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus

if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses

when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume.

Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his

sidepocket.

Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she

wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me,

respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank

you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners.

Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go

further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course.

Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it.

Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere:

pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses

without thorns.

Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the

Coombe, linked together in the rain.

O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers.

She didn't know what to do

To keep it up

To keep it up.

It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all

day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife

use. Now could you make out a thing like that?

To keep it up.

Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or

faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also

the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.

To keep it up.

Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there:

quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been,

strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper:

fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole

in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the

trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and

more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly

in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered

away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank.

Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the

same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure

cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be

made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change

his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A

million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart,

eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter.

One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions

of barrels of porter.

What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.

An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach.

Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside.

The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing

together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy

pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch

he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again

behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy

for a pass to Mullingar.

Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S.J.

on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the African Mission. Prayers for the

conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The

protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. to the true

religion. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the

heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for

them. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy

with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown

of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks?

Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry I

didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that

Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that. He's

not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to baptise

blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see

them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still

life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.

The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps,

pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.

Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place

to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow

music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the

benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch

knelt at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring,

holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a

communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it

neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her hat

sank at once. Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down

to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one.

Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus: body. Corpse. Good

idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They

don't seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a

corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by

one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in

its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear.

We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here

and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for

it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that

sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes

them feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called.

There's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel.

First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family

party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of

that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit spreeish.

Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes cure,

waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Old

fellow asleep near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind faith.

Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next

year.

He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an

instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace

affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what

to do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No: I.H.S.

Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have

suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with

a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here

with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the

sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the

invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion

every morning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am

thinking of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children

at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers,

now that's a good name for them, there's always something shiftylooking

about them. They're not straight men of business either. O, no, she's

not here: the flower: no, no. By the way, did I tear up that envelope?

Yes: under the bridge.

The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs

smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank

what they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage

Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale

(aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine: only the other.

Cold comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old

booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the

whole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.

Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Pity.

Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make that

instrument talk, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say he had in

Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater

of Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate?

Christ, but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted.

Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice

against that corner. I could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the

people looking up:

Quis est homo.

Some of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last words.

Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that. Those old popes keen on music,

on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example

too. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting,

regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still,

having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind

of voice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses.

Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Kind of a

placid. No worry. Fall into flesh, don't they? Gluttons, tall, long

legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it.

He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and

bless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom

glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand

up at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again

and he sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the

altar, holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered

each other in Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a

card:

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

Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them

the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Glorious

and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More

interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful

organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants

to. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon

in their hands. More than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I

schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look

down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears.

Husband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes.

Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy

Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation

army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting.

How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they

work the whole show. And don't they rake in the money too? Bequests

also: to the P.P. for the time being in his absolute discretion.

Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors.

Monasteries and convents. The priest in that Fermanagh will case in the

witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything.

Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the

church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.

The priest prayed:

—Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be

our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God

restrain him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly

host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those

other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.

The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women

remained behind: thanksgiving.

Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate

perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.

He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the

time? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a

(whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked.

Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me

before. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south.

He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main

door into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble

bowl while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in

the low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow

in her weeds. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. He covered himself.

How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion

made up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place.

Chemists rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir.

Hamilton Long's, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard

near there. Visit some day.

He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other

trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair.

O well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When was it I got it made up

last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must

have been or the second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions book.

The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems

to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher's stone. The

alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why?

Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character.

Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his

alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid.

Smell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor Whack. He

ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow

that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want to

be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue

litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts.

Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the

phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever

of nature.

—About a fortnight ago, sir?

—Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the

dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling

your aches and pains.

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

orangeflower water...

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

—And white wax also, he said.

Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to

her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my

cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the

teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk.

Skinfood. One of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only

one skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to

make it worse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau

d'Espagne. That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps

have. Pure curd soap. Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam.

Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice

girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing

I. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time for

massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather glum.

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

bottle?

—No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and

I'll take one of these soaps. How much are they?

—Fourpence, sir.

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

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

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

come back.

—Good, Mr Bloom said.

He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the

coolwrappered soap in his left hand.

At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:

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

Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look

younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.

Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a

wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears'

soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.

—I want to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam

Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?

He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar.

Barber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the

paper and get shut of him.

—You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.

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

second.

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

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

—What's that? his sharp voice said.

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

that moment.

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread

sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.

—I'll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.

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

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap

in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it

lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large

tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming

embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now.

They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.

He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a

mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He

eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled

up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round

like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big:

college. Something to catch the eye.

There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on hands:

might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How

do you do, sir?

Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.

Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it

here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the

Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more

in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the

floor. Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which

in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.

Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid

stream. This is my body.

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of

warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his

trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward,

lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of

his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of

thousands, a languid floating flower.

Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking

carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power stepped in after

him, curving his height with care.

—Come on, Simon.

—After you, Mr Bloom said.

Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying:

Yes, yes.

—Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.

Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to

after him and slammed it twice till it shut tight. He passed an arm

through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriagewindow

at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an old woman

peeping. Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she

was passed over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad

to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them.

Huggermugger in corners. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd

wake. Then getting it ready. Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making

the bed. Pull it more to your side. Our windingsheet. Never know who

will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails and

the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grows all the same after. Unclean

job.

All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am

sitting on something hard. Ah, that soap: in my hip pocket. Better shift

it out of that. Wait for an opportunity.

All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front, turning: then nearer:

then horses' hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking and

swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds of

the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At

walking pace.

They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were

passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels

rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook

rattling in the doorframes.

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

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

Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.

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

out.

All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by

passers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the

smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man,

clad in mourning, a wide hat.

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

—Who is that?

—Your son and heir.

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

The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway

before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving back

to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. Mr Dedalus

fell back, saying:

—Was that Mulligan cad with him? His fidus Achates!

—No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.

—Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding

faction, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump

of dung, the wise child that knows her own father.

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

bottleworks: Dodder bridge.

Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding, Collis and Ward he calls

the firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great card he was. Waltzing

in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the

landlady's two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night.

Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing

his back. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are.

About six hundred per cent profit.

—He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a

contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks

all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I'll

make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother

or his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a gate.

I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.

He cried above the clatter of the wheels:

—I won't have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counterjumper's

son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Not likely.

He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power's mild

face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Noisy

selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to hand on. If

little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house.

Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange

feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance. Must have been that morning

in Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the two dogs at it by

the wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up. She had

that cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch,

Poldy. God, I'm dying for it. How life begins.

Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her.

I could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent. Learn

German too.

—Are we late? Mr Power asked.

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

Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy oaths. O jumping

Jupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, she's a dear girl. Soon be a

woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman too.

Life, life.

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

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

—He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Do

you follow me?

He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away

crustcrumbs from under his thighs.

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

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

said.

All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless

leather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward

and said:

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

—It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet quite

clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.

Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.

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

—Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of

his beard gently.

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

—And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked.

—At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said.

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

The carriage halted short.

—What's wrong?

—We're stopped.

—Where are we?

Mr Bloom put his head out of the window.

—The grand canal, he said.

Gasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good job Milly never got

it. Poor children! Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. Shame

really. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Only measles. Flaxseed

tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. Don't miss

this chance. Dogs' home over there. Poor old Athos! Be good to Athos,

Leopold, is my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey them in the grave.

A dying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men's

dogs usually are.

A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an instant of shower

spray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a colander.

I thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now.

—The weather is changing, he said quietly.

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

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

out.

Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a

mute curse at the sky.

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

—We're off again.

The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed

gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.

—Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking

him off to his face.

—O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear

him, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy.

—Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His singing of that simple

ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the

whole course of my experience.

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

retrospective arrangement.

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

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

—In the paper this morning.

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

for her.

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

Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the

deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what

Peake is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? no, Sexton,

Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper.

Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief of

his. Aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Month's mind: Quinlan. On

whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.

It is now a month since dear Henry fled To his home up above in the sky

While his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day to meet him

on high.

I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it

in the bath? He patted his waistcoatpocket. There all right. Dear Henry

fled. Before my patience are exhausted.

National school. Meade's yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nodding.

Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round

with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their

hats.

A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a

tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window. Couldn't they invent something

automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow

would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job

making the new invention?

Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a

crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law

perhaps.

They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the railway

bridge, past the Queen's theatre: in silence. Hoardings: Eugene

Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Could I go to see LEAH tonight, I wonder.

I said I. Or the Lily of Killarney? Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big

powerful change. Wet bright bills for next week. Fun on the Bristol.

Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the Gaiety. Have to stand a

drink or two. As broad as it's long.

He's coming in the afternoon. Her songs.

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

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

salute.

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

—Who? Mr Dedalus asked.

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

Just that moment I was thinking.

Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the

white disc of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed.

Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right

hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him that they she sees?

Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes

feel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I

am just looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone. Body

getting a bit softy. I would notice that: from remembering. What causes

that? I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh

falls off. But the shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders.

Hips. Plump. Night of the dance dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks

behind.

He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant

glance over their faces.

Mr Power asked:

—How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?

—O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It's a good

idea, you see...

—Are you going yourself?

—Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to go down to the

county Clare on some private business. You see the idea is to tour the

chief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other.

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

Have you good artists?

—Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes, we'll have all

topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in

fact.

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

Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped

them. Smith O'Brien. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. Woman.

Must be his deathday. For many happy returns. The carriage wheeling by

Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.

Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his

mouth opening: oot.

—Four bootlaces for a penny.

Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume street.

Same house as Molly's namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford.

Has that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning too.

Terrible comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at a wake.

O'Callaghan on his last legs.

And Madame. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. Doing

her hair, humming. voglio e non vorrei. No. vorrei e non. Looking at

the tips of her hairs to see if they are split. Mi trema un poco

il. Beautiful on that tre her voice is: weeping tone. A thrush. A

throstle. There is a word throstle that expresses that.

His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. Greyish over

the ears. Madame: smiling. I smiled back. A smile goes a long way.

Only politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is that true about the

woman he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it

told me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played

out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her

a pound of rumpsteak. What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury's. Or the

Moira, was it?

They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.

Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.

—Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.

A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round the corner

of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his spine.

—In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.

Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly:

—The devil break the hasp of your back!

Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window as the

carriage passed Gray's statue.

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

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

—Well, nearly all of us.

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

—That's an awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J and

the son.

—About the boatman? Mr Power asked.

—Yes. Isn't it awfully good?

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

—There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined to

send him to the Isle of Man out of harm's way but when they were both

...

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

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

to drown...

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

Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.

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

Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely:

—Reuben and the son were piking it down the quay next the river on

their way to the Isle of Man boat and the young chiseller suddenly got

loose and over the wall with him into the Liffey.

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

—Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A boatman got a pole and fished

him out by the slack of the breeches and he was landed up to the father

on the quay more dead than alive. Half the town was there.

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

—And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for

saving his son's life.

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

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

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

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

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

Nelson's pillar.

—Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny!

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

Mr Dedalus sighed.

—Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a laugh.

Many a good one he told himself.

—The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his

fingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week ago when I saw him last and

he was in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like this. He's

gone from us.

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

very suddenly.

—Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.

He tapped his chest sadly.

Blazing face: redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red nose.

Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent

colouring it.

Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.

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

—The best death, Mr Bloom said.

Their wide open eyes looked at him.

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

No-one spoke.

Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land agents,

temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college,

Gill's, catholic club, the industrious blind. Why? Some reason. Sun or

wind. At night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the

late Father Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart.

White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner,

galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A mourning

coach. Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for

a nun.

—Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.

A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarf's body,

weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society

pays. Penny a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant

nothing. Mistake of nature. If it's healthy it's from the mother. If not

from the man. Better luck next time.

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

The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his

bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.

—In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.

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

life.

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

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

—Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We

must take a charitable view of it.

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

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

Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham's

large eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent.

Like Shakespeare's face. Always a good word to say. They have no mercy

on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive

a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn't broken

already. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Found in the riverbed

clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wife

of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the

furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the

damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning. Start

afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight

that night Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and

capering with Martin's umbrella.

And they call me the jewel of Asia,

Of Asia,

The Geisha.

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

That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The

room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through

the slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and

hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like

yellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed.

Verdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son

Leopold.

No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.

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

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

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

—I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race tomorrow

in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.

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

As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent

over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has anybody

here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead March from Saul. He's

as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The Mater

Misericordiae. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for

incurables there. Very encouraging. Our Lady's Hospice for the dying.

Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look

terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the

spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student

that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. He's gone over to the

lying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other. The

carriage galloped round a corner: stopped.

—What's wrong now?

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching

by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony

croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their

fear.

—Emigrants, Mr Power said.

—Huuuh! the drover's voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks.

Huuuh! out of that!

Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold them

about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for old

England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter

lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a

year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries,

soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off

the train at Clonsilla.

The carriage moved on through the drove.

—I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the

parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken

in trucks down to the boats.

—Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. Quite

right. They ought to.

—Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought, is to have

municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line

out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage

and all. Don't you see what I mean?

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

diningroom.

—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.

—Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn't it be more decent

than galloping two abreast?

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

—And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn't have scenes like that when

the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the road.

—That was terrible, Mr Power's shocked face said, and the corpse fell

about the road. Terrible!

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

—Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.

Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy Dignam

shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large

for him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what's up now.

Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose

quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax.

The sphincter loose. Seal up all.

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

Dunphy's corner. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. A

pause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up

here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation.

Elixir of life.

But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him

in the knocking about? He would and he wouldn't, I suppose. Depends on

where. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery. It

would be better to bury them in red: a dark red.

In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted

by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.

Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.

Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his

dropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a

slacktethered horse. Aboard of the Bugabu.

Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his

raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of

reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar,

Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or

cycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day at

the auction but a lady's. Developing waterways. James M'Cann's hobby

to row me o'er the ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats.

Camping out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will without

writing. Come as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by

lock to Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his

brown straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam.

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

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

—Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.

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

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

The carriage steered left for Finglas road.

The stonecutter's yard on the right. Last lap. Crowded on the spit of

land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands,

knelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white silence:

appealing. The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and

sculptor.

Passed.

On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the sexton's, an old tramp sat,

grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of his huge dustbrown

yawning boot. After life's journey.

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

Mr Power pointed.

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

—So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got him off.

Murdered his brother. Or so they said.

—The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said.

—Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham added. That's the maxim of the

law. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person

to be wrongfully condemned.

They looked. Murderer's ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered, tenantless,

unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell. Wrongfully condemned. Murder.

The murderer's image in the eye of the murdered. They love reading about

it. Man's head found in a garden. Her clothing consisted of. How she met

her death. Recent outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still at large.

Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed. Murder will out.

Cramped in this carriage. She mightn't like me to come that way without

letting her know. Must be careful about women. Catch them once with

their pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen.

The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Dark poplars,

rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the

trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain

gestures on the air.

The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin Cunningham put

out his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with

his knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed.

Change that soap now. Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly

and transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket.

He stepped out of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand

still held.

Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. It's all the same.

Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Pomp of death.

Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and

fruit. Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the dead.

Dogbiscuits. Who ate them? Mourners coming out.

He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert followed, Hynes

walking after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took

out the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy.

Where is that child's funeral disappeared to?

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread,

dragging through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a

granite block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted.

Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse looking round at it

with his plume skeowways. Dull eye: collar tight on his neck, pressing

on a bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cart out here

every day? Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then Mount

Jerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every

minute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands

every hour. Too many in the world.

Mourners came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed harpy,

hard woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl's face stained with dirt

and tears, holding the woman's arm, looking up at her for a sign to cry.

Fish's face, bloodless and livid.

The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So

much dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath. First

the stiff: then the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the

boy followed with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the

brother-in-law.

All walked after.

Martin Cunningham whispered:

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

—What? Mr Power whispered. How so?

—His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had the

Queen's hotel in Ennis. You heard him say he was going to Clare.

Anniversary.

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

He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed

towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Speaking.

—Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.

—I believe so, Mr Kernan answered. But the policy was heavily

mortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.

—How many children did he leave?

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

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

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

—Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.

Has the laugh at him now.

He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had

outlived him. Lost her husband. More dead for her than for me. One must

outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the

world. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you'll soon follow

him. For Hindu widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet who

knows after. Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn on

a guncarriage. Victoria and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. But

in the end she put a few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her heart of

hearts. All for a shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the

substance. Something new to hope for not like the past she wanted back,

waiting. It never comes. One must go first: alone, under the ground: and

lie no more in her warm bed.

—How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven't

seen you for a month of Sundays.

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

—I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert

said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.

—And how is Dick, the solid man?

—Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.

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

—Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said,

pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep them going till the

insurance is cleared up.

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

—Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is

behind. He put down his name for a quid.

—I'll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought

to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.

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

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

They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr Bloom stood behind

the boy with the wreath looking down at his sleekcombed hair and at the

slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he there

when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment

and recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe three

shillings to O'Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffin

into the chapel. Which end is his head?

After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened

light. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow

candles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a

wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners

knelt here and there in prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the

font and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper

from his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black

hat gently on his left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.

A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out through a

door. The whitesmocked priest came after him, tidying his stole with one

hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad's belly.

Who'll read the book? I, said the rook.

They halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book

with a fluent croak.

Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. Domine-namine. Bully

about the muzzle he looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe

betide anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Thou art Peter. Burst

sideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With a belly on

him like a poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn:

burst sideways.

—Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine.

Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem mass.

Crape weepers. Blackedged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist. Chilly

place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in the

gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too.

What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of

the place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot

of bad gas round the place. Butchers, for instance: they get like raw

beefsteaks. Who was telling me? Mervyn Browne. Down in the vaults of

saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a

hole in the coffins sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it

rushes: blue. One whiff of that and you're a goner.

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

The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's

bucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and

shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you

were before you rested. It's all written down: he has to do it.

—Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.

The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be

better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that, of course

...

Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed

up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up.

What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal

day a fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in

childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls

with little sparrows' breasts. All the year round he prayed the same

thing over them all and shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam

now.

—In paradisum.

Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over

everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.

The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Corny

Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the

coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny Kelleher

gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All followed

them out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last

folding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the ground

till the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the

gravel with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed the

trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres.

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

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

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

—He's at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But

his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here,

Simon!

—Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I'll soon be stretched

beside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.

Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little

in his walk. Mr Power took his arm.

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

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

heaven if there is a heaven.

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

plod by.

—Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely.

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

—The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we can

do so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place.

They covered their heads.

—The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think?

Mr Kernan said with reproof.

Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret

eyes, secretsearching. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We

are the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say something else.

Mr Kernan added:

—The service of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more

impressive I must say.

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

Mr Kernan said with solemnity:

—I am the resurrection and the life. That touches a man's inmost

heart.

—It does, Mr Bloom said.

Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two

with his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat of the affections.

Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood

every day. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots of

them lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damn

the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are

dead. That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come

forth, Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day!

Then every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and the

rest of his traps. Find damn all of himself that morning. Pennyweight of

powder in a skull. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure.

Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.

—Everything went off A1, he said. What?

He looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman's shoulders. With

your tooraloom tooraloom.

—As it should be, Mr Kernan said.

—What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.

Mr Kernan assured him.

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

know his face.

Ned Lambert glanced back.

—Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the

soprano. She's his wife.

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

time. He was a finelooking woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen

seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. And a good

armful she was.

He looked behind through the others.

—What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn't he in the stationery

line? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at bowls.

Ned Lambert smiled.

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

—In God's name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a coon like

that for? She had plenty of game in her then.

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

John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead.

The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the

grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps.

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

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

—I am come to pay you another visit.

—My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don't want

your custom at all.

Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin

Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his back.

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

—I did not, Martin Cunningham said.

They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The

caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watchchain and spoke

in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.

—They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy

evening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for

Mulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was buried. After

traipsing about in the fog they found the grave sure enough. One of the

drunks spelt out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking

up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up.

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

resumed:

—And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, Not a bloody bit like

the man, says he. That's not Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it.

Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting

the dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as he walked.

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

—I know, Hynes said. I know that.

—To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure

goodheartedness: damn the thing else.

Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on good

terms with him. Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys:

like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. No passout checks.

Habeas corpus. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I

write Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me

writing to Martha? Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter office. Be

the better of a shave. Grey sprouting beard. That's the first sign when

the hairs come out grey. And temper getting cross. Silver threads among

the grey. Fancy being his wife. Wonder he had the gumption to propose to

any girl. Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that before her. It

might thrill her first. Courting death... Shades of night hovering

here with all the dead stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when

churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant I suppose

who is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the

same like a big giant in the dark. Will o' the wisp. Gas of graves.

Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women especially are so

touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you ever

seen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a pitchdark night. The clock was on

the stroke of twelve. Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up.

Whores in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken young. You might

pick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones.

Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both

ends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to

the starving. Gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting

to do it at the window. Eight children he has anyway.

He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field

after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing.

Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. Standing? His head might come up some

day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed

the ground must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too: trim

grass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well,

so it is. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant

poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic

Gardens are just over there. It's the blood sinking in the earth gives

new life. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Every

man his price. Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable

for fruit garden. A bargain. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor

and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and six. With

thanks.

I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh,

nails. Charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink decomposing. Rot

quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy

kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, black treacle oozing out of

them. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they

are go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing to

feed on feed on themselves.

But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply

swirling with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little

seaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of

power seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life.

Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one about

the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 11 p.m.

(closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men

anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what's in

fashion. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep

out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way.

Gravediggers in Hamlet. Shows the profound knowledge of the human

heart. Daren't joke about the dead for two years at least. De mortuis

nil nisi prius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral.

Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you live

longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.

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

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

The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to

trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping

with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its

nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.

Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June. He

doesn't know who is here nor care. Now who is that lankylooking galoot

over there in the macintosh? Now who is he I'd like to know? Now I'd

give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never

dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he

could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after he died though he

could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No, ants too. First

thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to

life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you

come to look at it.

O, poor Robinson Crusoe!

How could you possibly do so?

Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of

them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could

invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let it down that

way. Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's.

They're so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from

the holy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one

coffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible

even in the earth. The Irishman's house is his coffin. Embalming in

catacombs, mummies the same idea.

Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads.

Twelve. I'm thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death's

number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that

I'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.

Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I had

one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was

once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit

of mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot he's not

married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.

The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by