(The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o'-the wisps and danger signals. Rows of grimy houses with gaping doors. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fans. Round a halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. Sucking, they scatter slowly, children. The swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the murk, white and blue under a lighthouse. Whistles call and answer.
Wait, my love, and I'll be with you.
Round behind the stable.
(An idiot with goggle eyes, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance. A chain of children's hands imprisons him)
(lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles) Ghahute!
Where's the great light?
(They release him. He jerks on. A pigmy woman swings on a rope
slung between two railings, counting. A form sprawled against a dustbin and
muffled by its arm and hat snores. On a step a gnome totting among rubbish
crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A crone standing by with a smoky
oillamp rams her last bottle in the maw of his sack. He heaves his booty, tugs
askew his peaked cap and hobbles off mutely. The crone makes back for her lair,
swaying her lamp. A bandy child, asquat on the doorstep with a paper
shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in spurts, clutches her skirt, scrambles
up. A drunken navvy grips with both hands the railings
of an area, lurching heavily. At a corner two night watch in shoulder capes, their hands upon their staff holsters, loom tall. A plate crashes: a woman screams: a child wails. Oaths of a man roar, mutter, cease. Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens. In a room lit by a candle stuck in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the hair of a scrofulous child. Cissy Caffrey's voice, still young, sings shrill from a lane.
I gave it to Molly
Because she was jolly,
The leg of the duck,
The leg of the duck.
(Private Carr and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their oxters, as they march |4unsteadily4| rightaboutface and burst together from their mouths a volleyed fart. Laughter of men from the lane. A hoarse virago retorts.)
Signs on you, hairy arse. More power the Cavan girl.
More luck to me. Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet. (she sings)
I gave it to Nelly
To stick in her belly,
The leg of the duck
The leg of the duck.
(Private Carr and Private Compton turn and counterretort, their tunics bloodbright in a lampglow, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped polls. Stephen Dedalus & Lynch pass through the crowd close to the redcoats
(jerks his finger) Way for the parson.
(turns and calls) What ho, parson!
(her voice soaring higher,)
She has it, she got it,
Wherever she put it,
The leg of the duck.
(Stephen flourishing the ashplant in his left hand,
chants with joy the introit for paschal time.
Lynch, his jockeycap low on his brow, attends him, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face)
Vidi aquam egredientem de templo a latere dextro. Alleluia.
(The famished snaggletusks of an elderly bawd protrude from a doorway)
(her voice whispering huskily) Sst! Come here till I tell you. Maidenhead inside. Sst!
(altius aliquantulum) Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista.
(spits in their trail her jet of venom) Trinity medicals. Fallopian tube. All prick and no pence.
(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with Bertha Supple, draws her shawl across her nostrils)
(bickering) And says the one: I seen you up Faithful place with your squarepusher in the come-to-bed hat. Did you, says I. That's not for you to say, says I. You never seen me in the mantrap with a married highlander, says I. The likes of her! Stag that one is! Stubborn as a mule! And her walking with two fellows the one time, Kilbride, the enginedriver, and lancecorporal Oliphant.
(triumphaliter) Salvi facti sunt.
(He flourishes his ashplant, shivering the lamp image, shattering light over the world.
(A retriever on the prowl slinks after him, growling. Lynch scares it with a kick)
(looks behind) So that gesture would be a universal language, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first entelechy, the structural rhythm.
Pornosophical philotheology. Metaphysics in Mecklenburg street!
Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and a
jug? This movement illustrates the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. Hold
Damn your yellow stick. Where are we going?
To find Georgina Johnson, light of love, |4ad deam qui laetificat juventutem meam4|.
(Stephen thrusts the ashplant on him and slowly holds out his hands, his head going back till both hands are a span from his breast, down turned, in planes intersecting, the fingers about to part, the left being higher)
Which is the jug of bread? It skills not. That or the customhouse. Illustrate thou. Here take your crutch and walk.
(They pass. Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a gaslamp and, clasping, climbs in spasms. From the top spur he slides down. Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb. The navvy lurches against the lamp. The twins scuttle off in the dark. The navvy, swaying, presses a forefinger against a wing of his nose and ejects from the farther nostril a long liquid jet of snot. Shouldering the lamp he staggers away through the crowd with his flaring cresset.
Snakes of river fog creep slowly. From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes. A glow leaps in the south |4beyond the seaward reaches of the river4|. The navvy, staggering forward, cleaves the crowd and lurches towards the uncobbled tramsiding. On the farther side under the railway bridge Bloom appears, flushed, panting, |4|v+crushing crammingv+| bread & chocolate into |v+his sidepockets a sidepocketv+|4|. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a composite portrait shows him |4gallant4| Nelson's image. A concave mirror at the side presents to him lovelorn long lost lugubru Booloohoom. Grave Gladstone sees him level., Bloom for Bloom. He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
At Antonio Rabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the bright arclamp. He disappears. In a moment he reappears |4and hurries on4|.
Fish and taters. N.g. Ah!
(He disappears into Olhausen's, the pork butcher's, under the downcoming roll shutter. A few moments later he emerges from under the shutter, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. In each hand he holds a parcel, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the other a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper. He gasps, standing upright. Then bending to one side he presses a parcel against his ribs and groans)
Stitch in my side. Why did I run?
(He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards the lampset siding. The glow leaps again)
What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.
(He stands at Cormack's corner, watching)
Aurora borealis or a steel foundry?º Ah, the brigade, of course. South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar's bush. We're safe. (he hums cheerfully) London's burning, London's burning! On fire, on fire! (he catches sight of the navvy lurching through the crowd at the farther side of Talbot street) I'll miss him. Run. Quick. Better cross here.
(He darts to cross the road. Urchins shout)
Mind out, mister!
(Two cyclists, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him, grazing him, their bells rattling)
(halts |4erect4|, stung by a spasm) Ow!
(He looks round, darts forward suddenly. Through rising fog a dragon sandstrewer slews heavily down upon him, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the wire. The motorman bangs his footgong.)
Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.
(The brake cracks violently. Bloom, raising a policeman's whitegloved hand, blunders stifflegged, out of the track. The motorman thrown forward, pugnosed, on the guidewheelº, yells as he slides past.)
Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?
(Bloom trickleaps to the curbstone and halts again. He brushes a mudflake from his cheek with a parcelled hand)
Close shave that but cured the stitch. Must take up
Sandow's exercises again. On the hands down. Insure against street accident
too. The Providential (he feels his trouser pocket) Poor mamma's panacea.
Heel easily catch in
track or bootlace in a cog. Day the wheel of the black Maria peeled off my
shoe at Leonard's corner.
time is the
Shoe trick. Insolent driver. I ought to report him. Tension makes them nervous.
Might be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman.
Same style of
beauty. Quick of him all the same. The stiff walk. True word spoken in jest.
That awful cramp in Lad lane. Something poisonous I ate.
of luck. Why? Probably lost cattle. Mark of the
beast.4| (he closes
his eyes an instant) Bit light in the head
I feel. Monthly or
effect of the other. Brainfogfag.
tired feeling.4| Too much for me now. Ow!
(A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against O'Beirne's wall, a visage unknown, injected with dark mercury. From under a wide leaved sombrero the figure regards him with evil eye)
Bueñas noches, señorita. Que calle es esta?
(impassive, raises a signal arm) Sraid Mabbot.
Haha. Merci. Esperanto. Slan leath. (he mutters) Gaelic league spy, sent by that fire eater.
(He swerves, sidles, |4stepaside,4| slips past and on)
Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a |4signpost fingerpost4| planted by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon? I who lost my way and contributed to the columns of the Irish Cyclist the letter headed In darkest Stepaside. Keep, keep, keep to the right. Rags and bones at midnight. A fence more likely. First place murderer makes for. Wash off his sins of the world
(Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey, runs full tilt against Bloom)
Beware of pickpockets. Old thieves' dodge. Collide. Then snatch your purse.
(The retriever approaches sniffing. A stooped bearded figure appears garbed in the long caftan of an elder in Zion. and a smokingcap with magenta tassels. Horned spectacles hang down at the wings of the nose. Yellow poison streaks are on the drawn face)
Second halfcrown waste money today. I told you not go with drunken goy ever.
(hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back and, crestfallen, feels warm and cold feetmeat) Ja, ich weiss, papachi.
What you making down this place? (With feeble vulture talons he feels the silent face of Bloom) Are you not my son Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? Are you not my dear son Leopold who left the house of his father and left the god of his fathers Abraham and Jacob?
(with precaution) I suppose so, father. Mosenthal. All that's left of him.
(severely) One night they bring you home drunk as dog after spend your good money. What you call them running chaps?
(in youth's smart blue Oxford suit with white vestslips, narrow shouldered, in brown Alpine hat, wearing gent's sterling silver Waterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with seal attached, one side of him |4mudcoated coated with stiffening mud4|) Harriers, father. Only that once.
Once. Mud head to foot. Cut your hand open. Lockjaw. They make you kaputt. You watch them chaps.
(weakly) They challenged me to a sprint. It was muddy. I slipped.
(with contempt) Goim nachez! Nice spectacles for your poor mother!
dame's stringed mobcap, crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg
sleeves buttoned behind, grey
mittens and cameo
plaitedx| in a crispine
banisters, a slanted candlestick in her
hand. and cries out
in shrill alarm) O blessed Redeemer, what have they done to him! My smelling
salts! (she hauls up a reef of skirt and ransacks the pouch of her striped blaey
petticoat. A phial, an Agnus Dei, a shrivelled potato and a celluloid doll fall out.
Sacred Heart of Mary, where were you at all |4at all4|?
(Bloom, mumbling, his eyes downcast, begins to bestow his parcels in his filled pockets but desists, muttering)
Who? (he wards off a blow clumsily) At your service.
(He looks up. Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in Turkish costume stands before him. Opulent curves fill out her scarlet trousers and jacket. A white yashmak, violet in the night, covers her face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and raven hair)
Welly? Mrs Bl Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me. (satirically) Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?
(shifts from foot to foot). No, no. Not the least little bit.
(He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her supper, things to tell her, excuse, desire, spellbound. A coin gleams on her forehead. Her ankles are linked by a slender fetterchain. Beside her a camel, hooded with a turreting turban, waits. A silk ladder of innumerable rungs climbs to his bobbing howdah. He ambles near with disgruntled hindquartersº. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, scolding him in Moorish)
(The camel droops his head and fumbles to kneel. Bloom stoops his back for leapfrog)
I can give you … I mean as your business menagerer.. Mrs Marion …..if you ….
So you notice some change? (A slow friendly mockery in her
eyes) O Poldy, Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud! Go and
see life. See the
the |4wide4| world.
I was just going back for that lotion whitewax, orangeflower water. Shop closes early on Thursday. But the first thing in the morning.
(He points to the south, then to the east. A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume)
We're a capital couple are Bloom and I.
He brightens the earth, I polish the sky.
(The face of Sweny, the druggist, appears in the disc of the soapsun)
Three and a penny, please.
Yes. For my wife |4Mrs Marion4|. Special recipe.
Ti trema un poco il cuore?
(In disdain she saunters away |4humming the duet from Don Giovanni4|, plump as a |4pampered4| poulter pigeon.
Are you sure about that Voglio? I mean the pronunciati ….4|
|4(4| He follows, followed by the sniffing terrier. The elderly |4procuress bawd4| seizes his sleeve, the bristles of her chinmole glittering.)
The |4procuress Bawd4|
Ten shillings a maidenhead. Fresh thing that was never touched. Fifteen.
(She points. In the gap of her dark den furtive, rain bedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands)
Hatch street. Any good in your mind?
(With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. A burly rough pursues with booted strides. He stumbles on the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom. Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker)
The |4procuress Bawd4|
(her wolfeyes shining) He's getting
his pleasure. You won't get a virgin in the flash houses. Ten shillings. Don't be all night before the polis in plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is a bitch.
(Leering, Gerty MacDowell limps forward. She draws from behind, ogling, and shows coyly her bloodied clout)
With all my worldly goods I thee and thou (she murmurs) You did that. I hate you.
I? When? I never saw you.
Leave the gentleman alone. Streetwalking and soliciting. Better for your mother take the strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you.
(to Bloom) When you saw all the secrets of my bottom drawer (she paws his sleeve, slobbering) Dirty married man! I love you for doing that to me.
(She glides away crookedly. Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, stands in the causeway, her roguish eyes wideopen, smiling in all her herbivorous buckteeth)
(coughs gravely) Madam, when we last had this pleasure on the sixteenth instant ….
Mr Bloom! You down here in the haunts of sin!
(hurriedly) Not so loud my name. Don't give me away. Walls have ears. How do you do? It's ages since I. Seasonable weather we are having this time of year. Black refracts heat. Short cut home here. Interesting quarter. Rescue of fallen women. I am the secretary …..
|4Now, don't tell a story!4| O just wait till I see Molly! (slily) Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!
(looks behind) She often said she'd like to visit. The exotic, you see. Negro servants too if she had money. Othello. Black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the bones and cornerman at the Livermore christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter.
(Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits,
scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their buttonholes
leap out. Each has his banjo slung. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires. Flashing white kaffir eyes and tusks they rattle through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back to back, toe heel, heel toe, with smackfatclackingº nigger lips.
Tom and Sam
There's someone in the house with Dina,
There's someone in the house, I know,
There's someone in the house with Dina
Playing on the old banjo.
(They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, twanging they diddle diddle |4cakewalk4| dance away)
(screams gaily) O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself!
For old sake' sake. I only meant a mixed marriage mingling of our different little conjugials. You know I had a soft corner for you. (gloomily) 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the dear gazelle.
Glory Alice, you do look a holy show! Killing simply. (she puts out her hand inquisitively) What are you hiding behind your back? Tell us, there's a dear.
(seizes her wrist with his free hand) Josie Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember, harking back in a retrospective arrangement, old Old Christmas night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this snuffbox?
(in dinner jacket with watered silk facings, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his hand) Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ireland, home and beauty.
The dear dead days beyond recall. Love's old sweet song.
(meaningfully dropping his voice) I confess I'm teapot |4with curiosity4| to find out whether some person's something is a little teapot at present.
(gushingly) Tremendously teapot! London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me! (she rubs sides with him) After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman. Under the mistletoe. Two is company.
(wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an amber halfmoon, his fingers and thumb passing slowly down to her soft moist meaty palm which she surrenders gently) I took the splinter out of this hand, carefully, slowly.
(in a onepiece evening frock
frock |4of executed in4| moonlight blue, a tinsel sylph's |4crown diadem4| on her brow with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, breathing quickly) You're hot! You're scalding! The left hand nearest the heart.
When you made your present choice they said it was beauty and the beast.
(Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with Wisdom Hely's sandwichboards, shuffles past them in carpet slippers, his dull beard thrust out, muttering to right and left. Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the pall of the ace of spades, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter)
(points jeering at the sandwich boards) U.p: up.
(shocked) Molly's best friend! Could you?
(her pulpy tongue between her lips) Hnhn. The answer is a lemon. Have you a little present for me there?
(offhandedly) Kosher. A snack for supper. The home without potted meat is incomplete. I was at Leah, Mrs Bandmannº Palmer. Trenchant exponent of Shakespeare. Unfortunately threw away the programme. Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. Feel.
(Richie Goulding, three ladies' hats pinned on his head, appears weighted to one side by the black legal bag of Colles and Ward on which a skull and crossbones are painted in white limewash. He opens it and shows it full of polonies, kippered herring, Findon haddies and tightpacked pills)
Best value in Dub.
(Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands on the curbstone, folding his napkin, waiting to wait.
Steak and kidney. Bottle of lager. Hee hee hee. Wait till I wait.
Goodgod Inev erate inall ….
(With hanging head he marches doggedly forward.
(The navvy, lurching by, gores him with his flaming pronghorn)
(with a cry of pain, his hand to his back) Ah! Bright's! Lights!
(points to the navvy) A spy. Don't attract attention. I hate stupid crowds. I am not on pleasure bent |4down here4|. I am in a grave predicament.
|4You're4| humbugging |4|aand delutheringa| as per usual4|.
I want to tell you a little secret about how I came to be here. But you must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a most particular reason.
(all agog) O, not for worlds.
Let's walk on.
(The |4procuress blank4| makes an unheeded sign. Bloom walks on with Mrs Breen. The terrier follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail)
The |4Procuress blank4|
(in an oatmeal sporting suit, a sprig of woodbine in the lapel, |4tony4| buff shirt, shepherd's plaid |4tie, Saint Andrew's cross scarftie4|, white spats, fawn dustcoat on his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a grey billycock hat) Do you remember a long long time |4years & years4| ago just after Milly |4marionette Marionette we called her,4| was weaned when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it?
|4(in smart Saxe tailormade, white velours hat & spider veil)4| Leopardstown
I mean, Leopardstown. And Molly won seven shillings on a
year old4| named
Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old
of a wagonette. You were in your heyday then and you had on that new hat of white velours with a surround of molefur that Mrs Galbraith advised you to buy because it was marked down to nineteen and eleven, a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and I'll lay what you like unread she did it on purpose ….
She did, of course, the cat! Nice adviser!
Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the other ducky little tammy toque with the bird of paradise wing in it that I admired on you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was a pity to kill it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.
(squeezes his arm, simpers) Naughty cruel I was!
(low, secretly, ever more rapidly) And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. Frankly, though she had her advisers or admirers, I never cared much for her style. She was ….
Yes. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever heard or read or knew or came across ….
(eagerly) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
(She fades from his side. Followed by the whining dog he walks on towards hellsgates. In an archway a standing woman, her feet apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of loiterers listen to a tale which their broken snouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour. An armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in maimed |4sudden sodden4| playfight
(crouches, his voices twisted in his snout) And when Cairns
came down from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was
he after doing it into only into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers.
(guffaw) O jays!
(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Spattered with size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him
Coincidence too. They think it funny |4anything but that4|. Broad daylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman.
Jays, that's a good one. Glauber salts. O jays into the men's porter.
(Bloom passes. Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners)
Are you going far, queer fellow?
How's your middle leg?
Got a match on you?
Eh? Come here till I stiffen it for you.
(He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk. In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy and the two redcoats)
(belching) Where's the bloody house?
Purdon street. Shilling a bottle of stout. Respectable woman.
(gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them) Come on, you British army!
(behind his back) He aint half balmy.
(laughs) What ho!
|4(to the navvy)4| Portobello barracks canteen. You ask for Carr. Just Carr.
(shouts) We are the boys. Of Wexford.
Say! What price the sergeantmajor?
Bennett? He's my pal. I love old Bennett.
(shouts) The |4Galling galling4| chain. And free our native land.
(He staggers forward, dragging them with him. Bloom stops. The dog approaches)
Wildgoose chase this. Disorderly houses. Lord knows where
they are gone. Drunks
cover distance double quick. Nice mixup. Scene at Westland row. Then jump in
first class with third ticket.
Then too far.
Might have taken me to Malahide or a siding for the night or
drink does it. Once is a dose. What am I following him for? Still, he's the best of that lot. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met. Kismet. He'll lose that cash. Relieving office here. Good biz for cheapjacks, organs. What do ye lack? Soon got, soon gone. Might have lost my life too with that mangongwheeltracktrolley glarejuggernaut only for presence of mind. Can't always save you, though. If I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes late would have been shot. Absence of body. Still if bullet only went through my coat get damages for shock, five hundred pounds. What was he? Kildare street club toff. God help his gamekeeper.
(He gazes ahead, reading on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a phallic design.) Odd! Molly drawing on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown. What's that like? (Gaudy dollwomen loll in the lighted doorways, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes. The odour of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in slow round ovalling wreaths)
Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin.
My spine's a bit limp. Go or turn? And this food? Eat it and get all pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste of money. One and eightpence too much. (The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand, wagging his tail) Strange how they like take to me. Even that brute today. Better speak to him first. Like women they like rencontres. Stinks like a polecat. Chacun son goût. He might be mad. Dogdays. Uncertain in his movements. Good fellow! |4Fido!4| Good fellow! (The retriever sprawls on his back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, his long black tongue lolling out) Influence of his surroundings. Give and have done with it. Provided nobody. (Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the retriever into a dark stalestunk corner. He unrolls one parcel and goes to dump the crubeen softly but holds back and feels the trotter) Sizeable for threepence. But then I have it in my left hand. Calls for more effort. Why? Smaller from want of use. O, let it slide. Two and six.
(With regret he lets the unrolled crubeen and trotter slide.
The retriever mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts
with growling greed, crunching the bones. Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant. They murmur together)
Bloom. Of Bloom. For Bloom. Bloom.
(Each lays hand on Bloom's shoulder)
Caught in the act. Commit no nuisance.
(stammers) I am doing good to others.
(A covey of gulls, storm petrels, rise hungrily from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their beaks.)
The friend of man. Trained by kindness.
(He points. Bob Doran, toppling from a high barstool, sways over the munching terrier retriever)
Towser. Give us the paw. Give the paw.
(The dog growls, his scruff standing, a gobbet of pig's knuckle between his molars. Bob Doran falls silently into an area)
(enthusiastically) A noble work! I scolded that tramdriver on Harold's cross bridge for illusing the poor horse with his harness scab. Bad language I got for my pains. Of course it was frosty and the last tram. All tales of circus life are highly demoralising.
(Signor Maffei, passionpale, in liontamer'sº costume with diamond studs in his shirtfront steps forward, holding a curling carriagewhip and a revolver with which he covers the gorging dog.)
(with a sinister smile) Ladies and gentlemen, my educated
greyhound. It was I broke in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked
saddle. Lash under the belly with a knotted thong. Block tackle and a strangling
pulley will bring your lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even Leo ferox
there, the Libyan
maneater. A redhot
crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of
thinking hyena (he glares) I possess the Indian sign. The glint of my eye does it with
these breastsparklers (with a bewitching smile) I now introduce Mademoiselle Ruby, the pride of the ring.
Come. Name and address.
(takes off his high grade hat, saluting) Dr Bloom, Leopold, dental surgeon. You have heard of Blum Pasha. Umpteen millions. Owns half Austria. Egypt. Cousin.
(A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom's hat)
(in red fez, cadi's dress coat with broad green sash, picks up the card hastily and offers it) Allow me.
(reads) Henry Flower. No fixed abode. Unlawfully watching and besetting.
An alibi. You are cautioned.
(produces from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower) This is the flower in question. (plausibly) You know that old joke, rose of Castile. Bloom. The change of name. Virag. (he murmurs privately and confidentially) We are engaged you see. Lady in the case. |4Love entanglement.4| (he shoulders the second watch gently) Dash it all. It's a way we have in the navy. Uniform that does it (he turns gravely to the first watch) Still, of course, you do get your Waterloo sometimes.
(A dark mercurialised face appears, leading a veiled figure)
(thickveiled, a crimson halter round her neck, a copy of the Irish Times in her hand, in tone of reproach, pointing) Henry! Leopold! Lionel, thou lost one! Clear my name.
(sternly) Come to the station.
(scared, makes Masonic signs) No, |4no: no, light of love;4| mistaken identity. The Lyons mail. Lesurques and Dubosc. You remember the Childs fratricide case. We medical men. By striking him dead with a hatchet. I am wrongfully accused. Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned.
(sobbing behind her veil) Breach of promise. He wrote to me that he was miserable. I'll tell my
brother, the footballer, on you, heartless flirt.
(tears in his eyes ), to Bloom) You ought to be thoroughly well ashamed of yourself.
Gentlemen of the jury, let me explain. A pure mare's nest. I am am a man misunderstood. I am being made a scapegoat of. I am a respectable married man, without a stain on my character. I live in Eccles street. My wife, the daughter of a most distinguished commander, Major general Brian Tweedy, one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles.
(turns to the gallery) The royal Dublins, boys, known the world over. With our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our homes, the pluckiest lads and the finest body of men, as physique, in the service.
Turncoat! Up the Boers! Who booed Joe Chamberlain?
(his hand on the shoulder of the first watch) My old dad too was a J.P. I'm as staunch a Britisher as you are, sir. I fought for king and country in the absentminded war at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein was mentioned in dispatches. I did all a white man could (with quiet feeling) Jim Bludso. Hold her nozzle again the bank.
Profession or trade.
Well, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist. In fact we are just bringing out a collection of prize stories of which I am the inventor, something that is an entirely new departure. I am connected with the British and Irish press. If you ring up ….
(Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a quill between his teeth. His scarlet beak blazes within the aureole of his straw hat. He dangles a hank of Spanish onions in one hand and holds with the other hand a telephone receiver |4nozzle4| to his ear)
Hello, seventyseven eightfour. Hello. Freeman's Urinal
and Weekly Arsewipe
Paralyse Europe. You which? Bluebags? Who writes? Is it Bloom?
(Mr Philip Beaufoy, palefaced, stands in the witnessbox, in accurate morning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing, creased lavender trousers and patent boots. He carries a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes)
(drawls) No, you aren't. Not if I know it. I don't see it, that's all. No born gentleman, no-one with the most rudimentary promptings of a gentleman would stoop to such perfectly loathsome conduct. One of those, my lord. A plagiarist. A soapy sneak masquerading as a littérateur. It's perfectly obvious that he has cribbed some of my bestselling copy, really gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem. The Beaufoy books with which your lordship is doubtless familiar are a household word throughout the kingdom.
(murmurs |4with hangdog meekness unread4|) That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may …
(his lip upcurled smiles superciliously on the court) You funny ass, you! I don't think you need over excessively disincommodate yourself in that regard. My literary agent Mr J.B. Pinker is in attendance. I presume, my lord, we shall receive the usual witnesses' fees, shan't we? We are considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny.
(indistinctly) Bad art.
(shouts) It's a damnably foul lie! (he extends his portfolio) We have here the corpus delicti, my lord, a specimen of my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the beast
A Voice from the Gallery
Moses, Moses, king of the jews
Wiped his arse in the Daily News.
You low cad! You ought to be ducked in the horsepond! (to the court) Why look at the man's private life! Leading a double existence! |4Street angel and house devil.4| The archconspirator of the age!
(to the court) And he, a bachelor, how …
Call the woman Driscoll.
Mary Driscoll, scullerymaid!
(Mary Driscoll, a slipshod servant girl approaches. She has a
bucket on the crook of her arm and a scouringbrush in her hand)
Another! Are you of the unfortunate class?
(indignantly) I'm not a bad one. I bear a respectable character. I was in a situation, six pounds a year and my chances with Fridays out and I had to leave owing to his carryings on.
What do you tax him with?
He made a certain suggestion but I thought more of myself as poor as I am.
(in housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, heellessº slippers, |4unshaven4| his hair rumpled): softly) I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station. Incautiously I took your part when you were accused of pilfering. There's a medium in all things. Play cricket.
(excitedly) As |4Gawd God4| is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oylsters!
The offence complained of?
He surprised me in the rere of the premises, Your honour, when the missus was out shopping one morning with a request for a safety pin. He held me and I was discoloured in four places as a result. And he interfered with my clothing.
(scornfully) I had more respect for the scouring brush,º so I had. I remonstrated with him, Your lord, and he remarked: keep it quiet.
(clerk of the crown and peace, resonantly) Order in court! The accused will now make a statement.
(Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a fullblown waterlily, begins a long unintelligibleº speech. They would hear what counsel had to say in his stirring address. He was down and out but, though branded as a black sheep, if he might say so, he meant to reform, to retrieve the past and return to nature as a purely domestic animal. A sevenmonths' child, he had been carefully brought up and nurtured by an aged parent. There might have been lapses but he wanted to lead a homely life, permeated by affectionate surroundings. He had seen that evening through the windows of loveful households in Dublin city, and urban district scenes of happiness of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, youthful scholars grappling with their pensums or reciting the family rosary round the crackling Yulelog while in the boreens and green lanes the colleens with their swains strolled what times the strains of the organtoned melodeon metalbound with four acting stops a sacrifice, greatest bargain ever ….
(Renewed laughter. Reporters complain that they cannot hear)
(from the presstable, coughs and calls)
Cough it up, man. Get it out in bits.
(The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and the bucket. A large bucket. Bloom himself. Bowel trouble. In Beaver street. Quite bad. A plasterer's bucket. By walking stifflegged. Deadly agony. About noon. Love or burgundy. Yes, some spinach. Crucial moment. He did not look in the bucket. Nobody. Rather a mess. Not completely. A Titbits back number.)
(Uproar and catcalls)
(in barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking with a voice of pained protest) This is no place for indecent levity. We are not in a beargarden nor is this a travesty of justice. My client is a poor foreign immigrant trying to turn an honest penny. The misdemeanourº was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on by hallucination, such familiarities being quite permitted in my client's native place the land of the Pharaoh. Intimacy did not occur and the offence complained of was not repeated. There have been cases of shipwreck and sonambulism in my client's family missing is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest. His submission is that he is of Mongolian extraction and irresponsible for his actions. Not all there, in fact.
(barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in lascar's vest and
trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny mole's eyes and looks
about him dazedly, passing a slow hand across his forehead. Then he hitches his
belt sailor fashion and with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court,
pointing one thumb heavenward) Him makee velly muchee fine night. (He begins to lilt simply)
Li li poo lil chile
Blingee pigfoot evly night
Payee two shilly ….
(He is howled down)
populace4|) This is a
lonehand fight. I will not have any client of mine
badgered in this
curs4|. The Mosaic
code has superseded the law of the jungle. I say it and I say it emphatically he
was not accessory
before the act and the girl has not been tampered with. I shall call
rebutting evidence to prove up to the hilt that the hidden hand is again at its
old game. When in doubt persecute Bloom. My client would be the last man in the world to cast a stone at
girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard had worked his own sweet will on her. He wants to go straight. He is down on his luck at present owing to the mortgaging of his extensive property at Agendath Netaim, Asia Minor, slides of which will now be shown. |4He offers a penny in the pound.4|
(The image of the lake of Kinnereth with blurred cattle cropping in silver haze is projected on the wall. Moses Dlugacz, ferreteyed, in blue dungarees, stands up in the gallery, holding in each hand an orange citron and a pork kidney)
(hoarsely) Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W, 13.
(J.J. O'Molloy steps on to a low plinth and holds the lapel of his coat with solemnity. His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with sunken eyes, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John F. Taylor. He applies his handkerchiefº to his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood)
(almost voicelessly) Excuse me, I am suffering from a severe chill. A few wellchosen words (He assumes the avine head, foxy moustache and nasal |4utterance eloquence4| of Seymour Bushe) When the angel's book comes to be opened if aught that the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soul-transfigured and of soul-transfiguring deserves to live I say accord the prisoner at the bar the sacred benefit of the doubt.
Can give best references. Messrs Callan, Coleman. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. Mr V.B. Dillon, ex lord mayor of Dublin. I have moved in the highest circles. (carelessly) I was just chatting this afternoon |4at the viceregal lodge4| to sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal ….
Mrs |4blank Yelverton Barry4|
(in lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength ivory gloves,
wearing a sabletrimmed brick
dolman, a comb of brilliants in her hair) Arrest him, constable. He wrote me an
anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband was on the Leinster
circuit, signed James Lovebirch. He said that he had seen from
the gods my peerless globes as I sat in a box of the Theatre Royal at a |4command4| performance of La Cigale. I deeply inflamed him, he said. He made improper overtures to me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the following Thursday, Dunsink time. He offered to send me through the post a work of fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock, entitled The Girl with the Three Pairs of Stays.
(in cap and seal mantle, wrapped up to the nose, steps out of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she takes from inside her huge opossum muff) |4Also to me.4| Yes, I believe it is the same objectionable person. Because he closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold snap of |4February4| ninetyfive when even the grid of the wastepipe and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen. Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the heights, as he said, in my honour. I had it examined by a botanical expert and elicited the information that it was a blossom of the homegrown potato plant purloined from a forcingcase of the model farm.
Mrs |4blank Yelverton Barry4|
Shame on him!
(A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward)
The Sluts and Ragamuffins
(screaming) Stop thief! Hurrah there, Bluebeard! Three cheers for Ikey Mo!
(produces handcuffs) Here are the darbies.
He addressed me in several
handwritingsº with fulsome compliments as
a Venus in furs and alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman Palmer
while in the same breath he expressed himself as envious of his earflaps and
fleecy sheepskins and of his fortunate proximity to my person. He lauded almost
extravagantly my nether extremities, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up to
the limit and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace
which, he said, he could conjure up. He urged me
that he felt it his mission in life to urge
me)4| to defile the
marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity.
The Honourable Mrs Paget Butler
(in amazon costume, hard hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermillion waistcoat, fawn musketeer gloves gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up and hunting crop with which she strikes her welt constantly) Also me. Because he saw me on the polo ground of the Phoenix park at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland. My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the Inniskillings win the final chukka. This plebeian |4Don Juan4| observed me from behind a hackney car and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, insulting to any lady. I have it still. It represents a partially nude señorita, frail and lovely (his wife, as he solemnly assured me) practising illicit intercourse with a muscular torero, evidently a blackguard. He urged me to do likewise, to misbehave, to sin with officers of the garrison. He implored me to chastise him as he richly deserves, to bestride and ride him, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping.
Mrs |4blank Yelverton Barry4|
The Honourable Mrs Paget Butler
(stamps her jingling spurs in sudden fury) I will, by the God above me. I'll scourge the pigeonlivered cur. I'll flay him alive.
(his eyes closing, quails expectantly) Here? (he squirms) Again!
The Honourable Mrs Paget Butler
Mrs |4blank Yelverton Barry4|
All these people. I meant only the spanking idea. A warm tingling glow without effusion.
The Honourable Mrs Paget Butler
(laughs derisively) O, did you, my fine fellow? Well, you'll get the surprise of your life now, believe me, the most unmerciful hiding a man ever bargained for. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury.
(shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands): with hangdog mien) It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let me off this once (he offers the other cheek)
The Honourable Mrs Paget Butler
I'll do no such thing. Pigdog, to dare address me!
I'll flog him black and blue in the public streets. I'll dig
my spurs in him up to the rowel. He is a wellknown cuckold (she swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the air) Take down his trousers without loss of time. Quick!
(The brass quoits of a bed are heard to jingle)
Jigjag. Jigajiga. Jigjag.
(a panel of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing rapidly in the jury box the faces of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton, Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, McCoy and the featureless face of a Nameless One.)
The Nameless One
Bareback riding. Weight for age. Gob, he organised her.
(all their heads turned to his voice) Really?
The Nameless One
(snarls) Arse over tip. Hundred shillings to five.
(all their heads bowed in assent) Most of us thought as much.
He is a marked man. Another girl's plait cut. Wanted: Jack the Ripper. A thousand pounds reward.
(awed, whispers) And in black. A mormon. Anarchist.
(loudly) Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a wellknown dynamitard, forger, bigamist, bawd and cuckold and a public nuisance to the citizens of Dublin and whereas at this commission of assizes the most honourable ….
(His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin in judicial garb of grey stone rises from the bench, stonebearded. He bears in his arms an umbrella sceptre. From his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns)
I will put an end to this white slave traffic. Scandalous! Let him be taken from the dock where he now stands and detained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty's pleasure and there be hanged by the neck until he is dead and therein fail not at your peril.
(A black skullcap descends upon his head. H. Rumbold, master
barber, in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a rope coiled
over his shoulder mounts the block. A life preserver and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in his belt. He rubs grimly his grappling hands, knobbed with knuckledusters)
(to the recorder with sinister familiarity) Hanging Harry, your Majesty, the Mersey terror. Five guineas a jugular.
(The bells of George's church toll slowly, loud dark iron)
(desperately) Wait. Stop. Gulls. Good heart. I saw. Innocence. Girl in the monkeyhouse. Zoo. Lewd chimpanzee. (breathlessly) Pelvic basin. Her artless blush. Unmanned me. (overcome with emotion) I left the precinctsº.
(points to the corner) The bomb is here.
Infernal machine with a time fuse.
No, no. Pig's feet. I was at a funeral.
(draws his truncheon) Liar!
(The dog lifts his snout, showing the grey scorbutic face of Paddy Dignam. He has gnawed all. He grows to human size and shape. His retriever coat becomes a brown mortuary habit. His green eye flashes bloodshot. Half of one ear, all the nose and both thumbs are ghouleaten)
(in a hollow voice) It is true. It was my funeral. Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes.
(He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously)
(in triumph) You hear?
Bloom, I am Paddy Dignam's spirit List, list, O list!
The voice is the voice of Esau.
Fir Second Watch
(blesses himself) How is that possible
It is not in the penny catechism
By metempsychosis. Spooks.
(earnestly) Once I was in the employ of Mr J.H. Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk. Now I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied. Hard lines. The poor wife was awfully cut up. How is she bearing it? Keep her off that bottle of sherry (sh he looks round him) A lamp. I must satisfy an animal need. That buttermilk didn't agree with me.)
(The portly figure of John O'Connell, caretakerº, stands forth, holding a bunch of keys tied with crape. Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbelliedº, wrynecked, in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding sleepily a staff of twisted poppies.)
(yawns ): then chants. with a hoarse croak) Namine. Jacobs. Vobiscuits. Amen.
(foghorns stormily through his
megaphone) Dignam, Patrick T, deceased.
(|4|awitha| pricked up ears,4| winces) Overtones. |4(he |awriggles forward anda| places an ear to the ground) My master's voice!4|
Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand. Field seventeen. House of Keys. Plot, one hundred and one.
(Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his tail stiffpointed, his ears cocked)
Pray for the repose of his soul.
(He worms down through a coalhole, his brown habit trailing its tether over rattling pebbles. After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a grey carapace). Dignam's voice, muffled, is heard baying under ground: Dignam's dead and gone below. Tom Rochford, robinredbreast, robinredbreasted, in cap and breeches, jumps from his twocolumned machine
(a hand to his breastbone, bows) Reuben J. A florin I find him (he fixes the manhole with a resolute stare) My turn now on. Follow me up to Carlow.
(He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the air and is engulfed in the coalhole. Two discs on the columns wobble eyes of nought. All recedes. Bloom |4goes plodges4| forward again |4through the sump. |aKisses chirp amid the rifts of foga|4|. A piano sounds. He stands before a lighted house, listening. The kisses, winging from their bowers fly about him, twittering, warbling, cooing)
(warbling) Leo! (twittering) Icky licky micky sticky for Leo! (cooing) Coo coocoo! Yummyyum Womwom! (warbling) Big comebig! Pirouette! Leopopold! (twittering) Leeolee! (warbling) O Leo!
(They rustle, flutter upon his garments, alight, bight giddy flecks, silvery sequins)
A man's touch. Sad music. Church
music. Perhaps here.
(Zoe Higgins, a young whore in a sapphire slip, closed with three bronze buckles, |4a slim |avelveta| black |avelveta| fillet round her throat4| nods, trips down the steps and accosts him.)
Are you looking for someone? He's inside with his friend.
Is this Mrs Mack's?
No, eightyone. Mrs Cohen's. You might go farther and fare worse. Mother Slipperslapper. (familiarly) She's on the job herself tonight with |4her the4| vet |4|aher tipstera| that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford4| working overtime |4but her luck's turned today4|. (suspiciously) You're not his father are you?
You both in black. Any tickles tonight?
(His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach. A hand slides over his left thigh)
How's the nuts?
|4Other Off4| side. Curiously they are on the right. |4|aOne heavier Heaviera|, I suppose4| One in a million my tailor, Messias, says.
(in sudden alarm) You've a hard chancre.
I feel it.
(Her hand slides into his left trouser pocket and brings out a hard black shrivelled potato. She regards it and Bloom with dumb moist lips)
A talisman. Heirloom.
May I? For keeps?
(She puts the potato greedily intoº
a pocket, then links his arm, cuddling him supply. He smiles uneasily. Slowly, note by note, oriental music is played. He gazes in the tawny crystal of her eyes, ringed with kohol. His smile softens)
You'll know me the next time.
(forlornly) I never loved a dear gazelle but it was sure to ….
(Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near are lakes. Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves. Aroma rises, a strong hairgrowth of resin. It burns, the orient, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the bronze flight of eagles. Under it lies the womancity, nude, white, still, cool, in luxury. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring)
(murmuring |4singsong with the music4|, her lips lusciously smeared with salve of swinefat and rosewater) Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim.
(fascinated) I thought you were of good |4family stock |aby your accenta|4|.
And you know what thought did?
(She bites his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth, sending |4out on him4| a cloying breath |4of stale o garlic4|. The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones)
(|4draws back,4| unread mechanically caressing her right bub with a flat |4awkward4| hand) Are you a Dublin girl?
(catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her coil) No
bloody fear. I'm English. Have you a swaggerroot?
(as before) Rarely smoke, dear. Cigar now and then. Childish device. (lewdly) The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.
Go on. Make a stump speech out of it.
(in workman's corduroy overalls, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap) Mankind is incorrigible. Sir Walter Ralegh brought from the new world that potato and that weed, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the other a poisoner of the ear, eye, heart, memory, will, understanding, all. That is to say missing the poison a hundred years before another person whose name I forget brought the food. Suicide. Lies. All our habits. Why, look at our public life?
(Midnight chimes from distant steeples)
Turn again, Leopold! Lord mayor of Dublin!
(in alderman's gown and chain) Electors of Arran Quay, Inns Quay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North dock Dock better run a tramline, I say, from the cattle markets to the river. That's the music of the future. That's my programme. Cui bono? But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in their phantom ship of finance …..
|4Three cheers missing4| for our future chief magistrate!
(The aurora borealis of the torchlight procession leaps)
(Several wellknown burgesses, city magnates and freemen of the city shake hands with Bloom and congratulate himº)
(impassionedly) These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as they recline in their upholstered poop, casting dice, what reck they? Machines is their cry, their panacea. Laboursaving apparatuses, supplanters, manufactured monsters for mutual murder, hideous hobgoblins produced by a horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted labour.
Talk away till you're black in the face.
|4(in caubeen with clay pipe stuck in the band, dusty brogues, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his hand)4| All is vanity|4, patriotism. Patriotism,4| sorrow for the dead, music, future of the race. To be or not to be. End it peacefullyº. They can live on (he gazes far away mournfully) A few pastilles of veronal. The blinds drawn. A letter. Then lie back to rest (he breathes softly) No more. |4I have lived.4| Fare. Farewell.
(bitterly) Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and a
bottle. I'm sick of it. Let everythingº
(in sudden sulks) I hate a rotter that's insincere. Give a bleeding whore a chance.
(repentantly) I am very disagreeable. You are a necessary evil. Where are you from? London?
(glibly) Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs. I'm Yorkshire born (she holds his hand which is feeling for her nipple) I say, Tommy Tittlemouse. Stop that and begin worse. Have you cash for a short time? Ten shillings?
(smiles, nods slowly) More, houri, more.
And more's mother? (she pats him offhandedly with velvet paws) Are you coming into the musicroom to new our new pianola? Come and I'll peel off.
(feeling his occiput dubiously with the unparalleled embarrassment of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her peeled pears) Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew. The greeneyed monster (earnestly) You know how difficult it is. I needn't tell you.
(flattered) What the eye can't see the heart can't grieve for. (she pats him) Come.
Laughing witch! The hand that rocks the cradle.
(in babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with a caul of dark hair fixes big eyes on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles with a chubby finger, his moist tongue lolling and lisping) One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone.
Love me. Love me not. Love me.
Silent means consent.
(With little parted talons she captures his hand,
luring him to
doom. He hesitates amid scents, music, temptations. She leads him towards
the steps, drawing him by the odour of her armpits, the vice of her painted
eyes, the rustle of her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all the male brutes that have possessed her)
The Male Brutes
(exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their loosebox, faintly roaring, their drugged heads swaying to and fro) Good!
(Zoe and Bloom reach the doorway where two sister whores are seated. They examine him curiously from under their pencilled brows and smile to his hasty bow. He trips awkwardly)
(her lucky hand instantly saving him) Hoopsa! Don't fall upstairs.
The just man falls seven times (he stands aside at the threshold) After you is good manners.
Ladies first, gentlemen after.
(She crosses the threshold. He hesitates. She turns and,
holding out her hands, draws him over. On the antlered rack of the hall hang a
man's hat and waterproof. Bloom uncovers himself but, seeing them, frowns
then smiles, preoccupied. A door on the return landing is flung open. A man in
purple shirt and grey trousers, brownsocked, passes with an ape's gait, his
bald head and goatee beard upheld,
a full waterjugjar, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels. Averting his
face quickly Bloom bends to examine on the halltable the spaniel eyes of a
running fox: then
follows Zoe into the musicroom. A shade of mauve tissuepaper dims the light of
the chandelier. Round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping. The floor is
stamped with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids.
Footmarks are stamped over it in all senses, heel to heel, heel to hollow, toe
to toe, feet locked, a morris of shuffling foot without body phantoms, all in a
scrimmage higgledypiggledy. The walls are tapestried with a paper of yewfronds
and clear spaces
glades. In the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers. Lynch squats
crosslegged on the hearthrug of matted hair, his cap back to the front. With a
wand he beats time slowly. Kitty Ricketts, a bony pallid
whore, in navy
costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a coral wristlet, a chain purse in her
on the edge of the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the gilt
mirror over the mantelpiece. A tag of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her
jacket. Lynch indicates mockingly the couple at the piano)
(coughs behind her hand) She's a bit imbecillic (she signs with a waggling forefinger) Blemblem. (Lynch lifts up her skirt and white petticoatº with his wand. She settles them down quickly) Respect yourself. (She hiccups, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which her hair glows, red with henna) O, excuse!
More limelight, Charley (she goes to the chandelier and turns the gas full cock)
(peers at the gasjet) What ails it tonight?
(deeply) Enter a ghost|a. anda| Hobgoblins.4|
Clap on the back for Zoe.
(The wand in Lynch's hand flashes: a brass poker. Stephen
stands at the pianola on which sprawl his hat and ashplant. With two fingers he
repeats once more the series of empty fifths. Florrie Talbot, a blond feeble
goosefat whore in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry lolls spreadeagle
in the sofacorner, her limp forearm pendent over the bolster, listening. A heavy stye droops over her
(hiccups again |4with a kick of her horsed foot4|) O, excuse!
(promptly) Your boy's thinking of you. Tie a knot on your shift.
(Kitty Ricketts bends her head. Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over her shoulder, back, arm, chair to the ground. Lynch lifts the curled catterpillar on his wand. She snakes her neck, nestling. Stephen glances behind at the squatted figure with its cap back to the front)
As a matter of fact it is of no importanceº whether Benedetto Marcello found it or made it. The rite is the poet's rest. It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coeli enarrant gloriam Domini. It is susceptible of nodes or|4, what am I saying,4| modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David's that is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the almightness alrightness of his almightinessº. Mais nom d'un nom, that is another pair of trousers. Jetez la gourme. Faut que jeunesse se passe (He stops, points at Lynch's cap, smiles, laughs) Which side is your knowledge bump?
|4(with saturnine spleen)4| Bah! It is because it is. Woman's reason. Jewgreek is greekjew. Extremes meet. Death is the highest form of life. Bah!
You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty? Whetstone!
Here's another for you
(he frowns) The reason is because the fundamentalº and the dominant
are separated by the greatest possible interval which ….
Which? Finish. You can't.
(with an effort) Interval which. Is the greatest possible elipse. Consistent with. The ultimate return. The octave. Which.
|4(Outside the gramophone begins to blare The Holy City)4|
(abruptly) What went forth |4to the ends of the world4| to traverse not itself, God, the sun, Shakespeare, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality |4itself4| becomes that self. Wait a moment. Wait a second. |4Damn that fellow's noise in the street.4| Self which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. Ecco!
(with a mocking whinny of laughter grins at Bloom and Zoe Higgins) What a learned speech, eh?
(briskly) God help your head, he knows more than you have forgotten.
(With obese stupidity Florrie Talbot regards Stephen)
They say the |4end of the world last day4| is coming this summer.
(explodes in laughter) Great unjust God.
(offended) Well, it was in the papers about Antichrist. |4O, my foot's tickling.4|
(Ragged barefoot newsboys |4jogging a wagtail kite,4| patter past, yelling)
Stop press edition. Result of the rocking horse races. Sea serpent in the royal canal. Safe arrival of Antichrist.
(Stephen turns and sees Bloom.)
A time, times and half a time
(Reuben J Antichrist, wandering jew, a clutching hand open on
his spine, stumps forward. Across his loins is slung a
wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills. Aloft over
his shoulder he bears a long boatpole from the hook
of which the sodden huddled mass of his only son, saved from Liffey waters hangs from the slack of its breeches. A hobgoblin in the image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crook backed, hydrocephalic, prognatic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose tumbles in somersaults through the gathering darkness)
(his jaws chattering, capers to and fro, goggling his eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched clutching arms then all at once thrusts his lipless face through the fork of his thighs) Il vient! C'est moi! L'homme qui rit! L'homme primigène! (he whirls round and round with dervish howls) Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux! (he crouches juggling. Tiny roulette planets fly from his hands) Les jeux sont faits! (The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks) Rien va plus (The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and away. He springs off in to vacuum)
(sinking into torpor |4crossing herself secretly4|) The last end of the world!
(A female tepid effluvium leaks out from her. Nebulous obscurity occupies space. Through the drifting fog without the gramophone blares over coughs and feetshuffling.)
Open your gates and sing
(A rocket rushes up the sky and bursts. A white star falls from it, proclaiming the consummation of all things and second coming of Elijah. Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the |4end End4| of the World, a twoheaded octopus in gillie's kilts, busby and tartan filibegs whirls through the murk, head over heels, in the form of the Three Legs of |4man Man4|)
The End Of The World
(with a Scotch accent) Wha'll dance the unread keel row, the keel row, the keel row?
(over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, harsh as a corncrake's, jars on high. Perspiring in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the banner of old glory is draped. He thumps the parapet)
No yapping, if you please,
in this booth. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughing with your mouths shut. Say, I am operating all this trunk line. Boys, do it now. Tell mother you'll be there. Rush your order and you play a slick ace. Join on right here. Book through to eternity junction the nonstop run. Just one word more. Are you a god or a clod? If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Florrie Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, it's up to you to sense that cosmic force. Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the higher self. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Are you all in this vibration? I say you are. I say you are. You once nobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. It's a lifebrightener, sure. It's the whole pie with jam in. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. It is immense, supersumptuous. It restores. It vibrates. I know and I am some vibrator. Joking apart and, getting down to bedrock, A.J. Christ Dowie and the harmonial philosophy have you got that? O.K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street. That's it. You call me up by sunphone any old time. (he shouts) Now then our glory song. All join heartily in the singing. Encore! (he sings) Jeru ….
(drowning his voice) Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh … (the disc rasps gratingly against the needle)
The Three Whores
(covering their ears, squawk) Ahhkkk!
(in rolledup shirtsleeves, black in the face, shouts at the top of his voice, his arms uplifted) Big Brother up there, |4Mister Mr4| President, you hear what I just been saying to you. Certainly, I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President. I certainly am thinking now Miss Higgins and Miss Ricketts got religion way inside them. Certainly seems to me I don't never see no wusser scared female than the way you been, Miss Florrie, just now as I seen you. Mr President, you come long and help me save our sisters dear. (he winks at his audience). Our Mr President, he twig the whole lot and he aint saying nothing.
I let him do it to me for the fun of it.
It was in consequence of a portwine beverage on top of
Hennessy's three star.
In the beginning was the word, in the end the world without end. Blessed be the eight beatitudes.
(incoherently) Beer Beef beef battledog buybull businum barnum buggerum bishop.
(in quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, says discreetly) He is our friend. I need not mention names. Seek thou the light.
(Best enters in hairdresser's attire, shinily laundered, his locks in curlpapers. He leads John Eglinton who wears a mandarin's kimono of Nankeen yellow, lizardlettered, and a high pagoda hat)
(smiling, lifts the hat and displays
a shaven poll from the crown of which bristles a |4pigtail4| toupee tied with an orange topknot) I was just beautifying him, don't you know. A thing of beauty, don't you know, Yeats says, or I mean, Keats says.
(produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it towards a corner: with carping accent) Esthetics and cosmetics are for the boudoir. I am out for truth. Plain truth for a plain man. Tanderagee wants the facts and means to get them.
(In the cone of the searchlight behind the coalscuttle |4rises ollave, holyeyed,4| the bearded figure of Mananaun MacLir |4broods, chin on knees. He rises slowly4|. A cold seawind blows from his druid mantle. a About his head writhe eels and elvers. He is encrusted with weeds and shells His right hand holds a bicycle pump. His left hand grasps a huge crayfish by its two talons)
(with a voice of waves) Aum! Hek! Wal! Ak! Lub! Mor! Ma! White yoghin of the gods. Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. (with a voice of whistling seawind) Punarjanam patsypunjaub! I won't have my leg pulled. It has been said by one: beware the left, the cult of Shakti. (with a cry of stormbirds) Shakti Shiva|4., |agreen darka| hidden Father!4| (he smites with his bicycle pump the crayfish in his left hand. On its cooperative dial glow the |4124| signs of the zodiac. He wails with the vehemence of the ocean) Aum! Baum! Pyjaum! I am the light of the homestead! I am the |4dreamery4| creamery butter.
(|4A skeleton |a|xJudas hand judashandx|a| strangles the light.4| The green light wanes to mauve. The gasjet wails whistling)
|4Pooeeh! Pooah4|! Pfuiiiiiii!
(Zoe runs to the chandelier and, crooking her leg, adjusts the mantle)
Who has a fag as I'm here?
(tossing a cigarette on to the table) Here.
(her head perched aside in mock
pride) Is that the way to hand the pot to a lady? (She stretches up to light the cigarette over the flame, twirling it slowly, showing the brown tufts of her armpits. Lynch with his poker lifts boldly a side of her slip. Bare from her garters up her flesh appears under the sapphire a nixie's green. She puffs calmly at her cigarette.) Can you see the beauty spot of my behind?
I'm not looking.
(makes sheep's eyes) No? You wouldn't do a less thing. Would you suck a lemon?
(Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom, then twists round towards him, pulling her |4gown slip4| free of the poker. Blue fluid again flows over her flesh. Bloom stands, smiling desirously, twirling his thumbs. Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her spittle and, gazing in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the chimneyflue and struts two steps to the left on gawky pink stilts. He is sausaged into several overcoats and wears a brown macintosh under which he holds a roll of parchment. In his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. On his head is perched an Egyptian pshent. Two quills project over his ears)
(heels together, bows) My name is Virag, Lipoti, of Szombathely. (he coughs thoughtfully, drily) Promiscuous nakedness in is much in evidence hereabouts, eh? Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee. The injection mark on the thigh I hope you perceived? Good.
Granpapachi. But …..
Number two on the other hand, she of the cherry rouge and coiffeuse white, whose hair owes not a little to our tribal elixir of gopherwoodº, is in walking costume and tightly staysed by her sit, I should say. |4Backbone in front, so to say.4| Correct me but I always understood that the act so performed with glimpses of lingerie appealed to you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity. In a word. Hippogriff. Am I right?
She is rather lean
(not unpleasantly) Well observed and those pannier pockets of the
skirt and slightly pegtop effect are devised to suggest bunchiness of hip. A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted. Meretricious finery to deceive the eye. Observe the attention to details of dustspecks. Never put on tomorrow what you can wear today. Parallax (with a nervous twitch of his head) Did you hear my brain go snap? Pollysyllabaxº!
(an elbow resting in a hand, a forefinger against his cheek) She seems sad.
(cynically, his weasel teeth bared yellow, barks hoarsely) Hoax! Beware of the flapper and bogus mournful. Lily of the alley. Chameleon. (more genially) Well then, permit me to draw your attention to item number three. There is plenty of her. Observe the mass of oxygenated |4vegetable4| matter on her skull. What ho, she bumps! The ugly duckling of the party …..
(regretfully) When you come out without your gun.
We can do you all brands mild, medium and strong. How happy could you be with either …
Look. Her beam is broad. She is coated with quite a considerable layer of fat. Obviously mammal you remark that she has in front well to the fore two protuberances of very respectable dimensions while on her rere lower down are two additional protuberances which leave nothing to be desired save compactness. Such fleshy parts are the product of careful nurture. When coopfattenedº their livers reach an elephantineº size. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green tea endow them during their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber. That suits your book, eh? Wallow in it. Lycopodium. (his throat twitches) There he goes again.
The stye I dislike.
(arches his eyebrows) Contact with a goldring, they say. For the rest Eve's sovereign remedy. Not for sale. Hire only. Huguenot. (he twitches) It is a funny sound. (he coughs encouragingly) But possibly it is only a wart. I presume you remember what I will teach you on that head? Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg.
(reflecting) This searching
( ordeal. It has
been an unusually fatiguing day, a chapter of accidents. Wait. I mean, wartsblood spreads warts,
you said …
(severely, |4his nose hardhumped4| his side eye winking) Stop twirling your thumbs and have a good old thunk. Exercise your mnemotechnic. La causa è santa. Tara. Tara. He will surely remember.
Rosemary also did I understand you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues. Then nay no I have an inkling. Mnemo?
(excitedly) I say so. I say so. E'en so. Technic. (he taps his parchment roll energetically) This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars. I am going to talk about amputation. Our old friend caustic. They must be starved. Snip off with horsehair under the denned neck. But to change the venue |4to the Bulgar and the Basque4| have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in male habiliments (with a dry snigger) You intended to devote an entire year to the study of the religious problem and the summer months of 1882 to square the circle and win that million. Pomegranate! From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step. Pyjamas, let us say? Or those complicated combinations, camiknickers? (he crows derisively) Keekeereekee!
(Bloom surveys uncertainly the three whores, then gazes at the veiled mauve light, hearing the everflying moth)
I wanted then to have now concluded. Hence this. But tomorrow is a new day will be. Past was is today. What now is will then morrow as now was be past yester.
(prompts |4into his ear4| in a pig's whisper) Insects of the day spend their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the smell of the female. Pretty Poll! (his yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally) They had a proverb in the Carpathians in or about the year five thousand six hundred of our era. One tablespoonfulº of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. But of this apart. At another time we may resume. We were very pleased |4we others4|. (he coughs |4and bending his brow rubs his nose thoughtfully with a scooping hand4|) You shall find that these night insects follow the light. An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable eye. Some there are again whose movements are automatic. Perceive. That is his appropriate sun. Nightbird nightsun nighttown. Chase me, Charley! |4(he blows into Bloom's ear)4| Buzz!
other day butting shadow on wall dazed self then me wandered dazed down shirt good job I ….
(his face impassive, laughs in a rich feminine key) Splendid! Spanish fly in his fly or mustard plaster put some life in it. (He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles) Bubbly jock! Bubbly jock! Where are we? Open Sesame! Cometh forth! (he unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads his glowworm's nose running backwards over the letters |4which he claws4|) Stay, good friend. Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. Those succulent bivalves may help us unread and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged by the omnivorous porker, were unsurpassed in cases of nervous debility. Though they stink yet they sting. (he wags his head with cackling raillery) Jocular. With my eyeglass in my ocular. (he sneezes) Amen!
(absently) Woman's case is worse. Always open. Why they fear vermin, creeping things. Yet Eve and the serpent contradicts. Not a historical fact. Obvious analogy. Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk. Wind their way through miles of forest to suck her breast dry. |4Like those Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantulus.4|
(|4cranes his neck forward his mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes stonily forlornly closed,4| ) |4his finger pointed, his nostrils dilated, reading psalms in outlandish monotone4|) |4That the4| Cows with |4the those4| distended udders |4that they4| have been |4the the4| known ….
I am going to scream. I beg your pardon. Ah? So (he repeats) Spontaneously to seek out the saurian's lair in order to entrust their teats to his avid suction. Ant milks aphis. (profoundly) Instinct rules the world. In life. In death.
(|4head askew, arches his back and hunched wingshoulders peers at the moth out of blear bulged eyes4| points a claw |4at the moth4| and cries) Who's moth moth? Who's dear Gerald? Dear Ger, that you? O dear, he is Gerald. O, I fear he shall be badly burned (he sighs |4draws back and stares sideways down with dropping underjaw.4|) Well, well. He doth rest anon. |4(he snaps his jaws suddenly on the air)4|
I'm a tiny tiny thing
Ever flying in the spring
Round and round a ringaring.
Long ago I was a king
Now I do this kind of thing
On the wing, on the wing!
(He rushes against the mauve shade, flapping noisily)
Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats.
(From left upper entrance with two gliding steps Henry Flower
comes forward to left front centre. He wears a dark mantle and drooping plumed
sombrero. He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a longstemmed bamboo
Jacob's pipe, its clay bowl fashioned as a female head. He wears dark
velvet hose and silverbuckled
sho pumps. He has
the romantic Saviour's face with flowing locks, thin
beard and moustache. His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia. He settles down his ruffs and moistens his lips with a passage of his amorous tongue.
(in a low dulcet voice, touching the strings of his guitar) There is a flower that bloometh.
(Virag |4silent truculent4| |4his jowl set4| stares at the lamp. |4Grave4| Bloom regards Zoe's neck. Henry |4gallant4| turns |4with pendant dewlap4| to the piano)
(to himself) Play with your eyes shut. Imitate pa. Filling my belly with husks of swine. Too much of this. I will arise and go to my. Expect this is the. Steve, thou art in a parlous way. Must visit old Deasy or write. Our interview of this morning has left on me a deep impression. Though our ages. I'm partially drunk, by the way (he touches the keys again) Minor chord comes now. Yes. Not much however.
(Almidano Artifoni holds out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustacework)
Ci rifletta. Lei rovina tutto.
Sing us something. Love's old sweet song.
No voice. I am a most finished artist. Lynch, did I show you the letter about the lute?
(smirking) The bird that can sing and won't sing.
(The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the window embrasure. Both are masked with Matthew Arnold's face)
Take a fool's advice. All is not well. Work it out with the buttend of a pencil, like a good young idiot. Three-pounds twelve you got, two notes, one sovereign, two crowns, if youth but knew. Mooney's en ville, Mooney's sur mer, the Moira, Larchet's, Holles street hospital, Burke's. Eh? I am watching you.
(impatiently) Ah, bosh, man. Go to hell. I paid my way. If I could only find out about octaves. Reduplication of personality. Who was it told me his name? (his lawnmower begins to purr) Aha, yes. Zoe mou sas agapo. Have a notion I was here before. When was it not Atkinson his card I have somewhere. Mac somebody. Unmock I have it. He told me about, hold on, Swinburne, was it, no?
And the song?
Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.
Are you out of Maynooth? You're like someone I knew once.
Out of it now (to himself) Clever.
Philip Drunk and Philip Sober
(their lawnmowers purring with a rigadoon of grasshalms) Clever ever. Out of it out of it. By the bye have you the book, the thing, the ashplant? Yes, there it, yes. Cleverever outofitnow. Keep in condition. Do like us.
There was a priest down here on Monday to do his bit of business with his coat buttoned up. You needn't try to hide, I says to him. I know you've a Roman collar.
|4Perfectly logical from his standpoint.4| (harshly, his pupils waxing) To hell with the pope. Nothing new under the sun. I am the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. Why I left the church of Rome. Read the Priest, the Woman and the Confessional. Penrose. Flipperty Jippert.
I hope you gave the good father a penance. Nine glorias for shooting a bishop.
(spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils) He couldn't get connection. Only, you know, sensation. A dry rush.
(lightly) Only for what happened him.
(a diabolic rictus of black luminosity contracting his visage |4cranes his scraggy neck forward. He lifts a mooncalf nozzle and howls4|) Verfluchte Goim! He had a father, forty fathers. He never existed. |4He had two left feet.4| He was Judas Iacchia, the Libyan eunuch, the pope's bastard. |4(He leans out on tortured forepaws, elbows bent rigid, his eye agonising in his flat skull neck and yelps |atowards overa| the mute world)4| A son of a whore. Apocalypse.
And Mary Shortall that was in the lock with the pox she got from Jimmy Pidgeon in the blue caps had a child off him that couldn't swallow and |4they had to smother it was smothered4| in the mattress |4and we all subscribed for the funeral.4|
(She unpins her hat and sets it down calmly, patting her henna hair. And a prettier, a daintier head of winsome curls was never seen on a whore's shoulders. |4Lynch puts on her hat. She whips it off.4|)
(laughs) And to such delights has
Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes.
(nods) Locomotor ataxy.
(gaily) O, my dictionary.
Three wise virgins.
(profuse yellow spawn foaming over his bony epileptic lips) She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower. Panther, the Roman centurion, polluted her. (he sticks out a flickering phosphorescent |4scorpion4| tongue) He burst her tympanum.
(Ben Jumbo Dollard, rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebeared, cabbageeared, shaggychested, |4shockmaned,4| fatpapped, stands forth, his loins and genitals tightened into a pair of black bathing bagslops)
(nakkering castagnette bones in his huge padded paws yodels jovially in base barreltone) When love absorbs my ardent soul.º
(gushingly) Big Ben! Ben my Chree!
Hold that fellow with the bad breeches
(smites his thigh in abundant laughter) Hold him now.
(caressing on his breast a severed female head, murmurs) Thine heart, mine love.
(sloughing his skins, his multitudinous plumage moulting) Rats! (he yawns showing a coalblack throat |4and closes his jaws by an upward push of his parchmentroll4|) After having said which I took my departure. Farewell. Fare thee well.
(Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a pocketcomb and give's a cow's lick to his hair. Steered by his rapier he glides to the door. Virag reaches the door in two |4ungainly4| stilthops and deftly claps sideways on the wall a pusyellow |4handbill flybill4|)
K.11. Post No Bills. Strictly Confidential. Dr Hy Franks.
All is lost now.
|4(|aHe Viraga| unscrews his head in a a trice and holds it under his arm)4|
(over his shoulder to Zoe) You would have
preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error. But beware |4Antisthenes, the dog sage, and4| the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. The agony in the closet.
All one and the same God |4to her4|.
(devoutly) And sovereign Lord of all things.
|4(to Stephen)4| I'm sure you're a spoiled priest.
He is. A cardinal's son.
(His Eminence Simon Stephen cardinal Dedalus |4primate of All Ireland4| appears in the doorway, dressed in red soutane, sandals and socks. Seven dwarf |4simian4| acolytes, |4also in red4| cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping under it. He wears a battered silk hat sideways on his head. His thumbs are stuck in his armpits and his palms outspread. Round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his breast in a corkscrew cross. Releasing his thumbs he invokes grace from on high with large wave gestures and proclaims with bloated pomp:)
Conservio lies captured
He lies in the lowest dungeons
With manacles and chains around his limbs
Weighing upwards of three tons.
(He looks at all for a moment his right eye closed tight, his left cheek puffed out. Then, unable to repress his merriment, he rocks to and fro, arms akimbo, and sings with broad rollicking humour:)
O, the poor little fellow
Hihihihihis legs they were yellow
He was plump, fat and heavy and brisk as a snake
But some bloody savage
To graize his white cabbage
He murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake.
(|4A multitude of midges swarms white over his robe4| He scratches himself with crossed arms at his ribs, grimacing, and exclaims:) |4I'm suffering the agony of the damned with.4| By the hoky fiddle |4|athanks be to Jesusa|4| those funny little chaps |4|athanks be to Jesusa|4| are not unanimous. If they were they'd walk me off the face of the bloody earth globe.
(His head aslant he blesses curtly with fore and middle fingers and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying his hat from side to side, shrinking quickly to the size of his trainbearers. The dwarf acolytes giggling, peeping, nudging, ogling, zigzag behind him.
His voice is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious)
Shall carry |4my4| heart to thee,
And the breath of the balmy night
Shall carry my heart to thee!
(A male form passes down the creaking staircase and is heard taking the waterproof and hat from the rack. Bloom starts forward involuntarily and, half closing the door as he passes, takes the chocolate from his pocket and offers it nervously to Zoe)
(sniffs his hair briskly) Hmmm! Thank your mother for the rabbits. I'm very fond of what I like.
(hearing a male voice in talk with the whores on the doorstep, pricks his ears) If it were he? After? Or because not? Or the double event?
(tears open the silverfoil) Fingers was made before forks (she breaks off and nibbles a piece, gives a piece to Kitty Ricketts and then turns kittenishly to Lynch) No objection to French lozenges? (He nods. She taunts him) Have it now or wait till you get it? (He opens his mouth, his head cocked |4She whirls |athe prizea| in |aright lefta| circle. His head follows. She whirls it back in right circle. He eyes her4|) Catch!
(She tosses a piece. With an adroit snap he catches it and bites it through with a crack)
(chewing) The engineer I was with at the bazaar does have lovely ones. Full of the best liqueurs. And the viceroy was there with his lady. The gas we had on the Toft's hobbyhorses. I'm giddy still.
(with folded arms and Napoleonic forelock frowns with piercing eagle glance towards the door. Then rigid with left foot advanced he makes a swift pass with impelling fingers) Go, go, go, whoever you are!
(A male cough and tread are heard passing through the mist outside. Bloom's features relax. He places a hand in his waistcoat opening calmly. Zoe offers him chocolate)
Do as you're bid. Here!
(|4a A4| firm heelclacking tread is heard on the stairs)
(takes the chocolate). Aphrodisiac? Tansy and pennyroyal. But I bought it. Vanilla calms. Mnemo. Confused light confuses memory. Red influences lupus. Colours affect women's characters, any they have. This black makes me sad. Eat and be merry for tomorrow (he eats) Influence taste too, mauve. But it is so long since I. Seems new. Aphro. That priest. Must come. Better late than never. Try truffles at Andrews.
(The door opens. Bella Cohen, a massive
whoremistressº enters. She is dressed in a threequarter
ivory gown, fringed round the hem with tasselled selvedge and |4flirts cools herself flirting4| a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen. Her eyes are deeply carboned. She has a sprouting moustache. Her |4olive4| face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. She has large pendent beryl eardrops)
My word! I'm all of a mucksweat.
(She glances round her at the couples. Then her eyes rest on Bloom with hard insistence. Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint. Her falcon eyes glitter)
(flirting quickly, then slowly) Married, I see.
Yes. Partly, I have mislaid …..
(half opening, then closing) And the missus is master. |4Petticoat government.4|
(looks down with a sheepish grin) That is so.
(folding together, rests against her left eardrop) Have you forgotten me?
(folded akimbo against her waist) Is me her was you dreamed before? Was then she him you us since knew? Am all them and the same now me?
(Bella approaches, gently tapping with the fan.)
(wincing) Powerful being. In my eyes read that slumber which women love.
(tapping) We have met. You are mine. It is fate.
(cowed) Exuberant female.
Enormouslyº I desiderate your domination.
I am exhausted, abandoned, no more young. I stand, so to speak,
with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulationº fee before the too late box of the general post office of human life. The door and window open at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second according to the law of falling bodies. I have felt this instant a twinge of sciatica in my left glutear muscle. It runs in our family. Poor dear papa, a widower, was a regular barometer from it. He believed in animal heat. A skin of tabby lined his winter waistcoat. Near the end, remembering king David and the Sunamite, he shared his bed with |4Athos4| faithful |4Athos after death4|. A dog's spittle as you probably …. (he winces) Ah!
(bagweighted), passes the door) Mocking is catch. Best value in Dub. Fit for a prince's. Liver and kidney.
(tapping) All things end. Be mine. Now.
(undecided) All now? I should not have parted with my talisman. Rain, exposure at dewfall on the searocks, a peccadillo at my time of life. Every phenomenon has a natural cause.
(points downwards slowly) You may.
(looks downwards and perceives her unfastened sh bootlace) We are observed.
(points downwards quickly) You must.
(Bella raises her gown slightly and, steadying her pose, lifts to the edge of a chair a plump buskined hoof and a full pastern silksocked. Bloom, stifflegged, aging, bends over her hoof and with gentle fingers draws out and in her laces)
(murmurs lovingly) To be a shoefitter in Manfield's was my love's young dream, the darling joys of sweet buttonhooking, to lace up |4high4| crisscrossed |4to kneelength4| the dressy |4kid4| footwear |4satinlined, so incredibly impossibly small4| of Clyde Road ladies. Even their wax model Raymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick of rhubarb toe, as worn in Paris
Smell my hot goathide. Feel my royal weight.
(crosslacing) Too tight?
If you bungle,
Handy Andy, I'll kick your football for you.
Not to lace the wrong eyelet as I did the night of the bazaar dance. Bad luck. Hook in wrong tache of her. |4person you mentioned4| That night she met. Now!
(He knots the lace. Bella places her foot on the floor. Bloom raises his head. Her heavy face, her eyes strike him in midbrow. His eyes grow pouched, his nose thickens)
(mumbles) Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen, ….
(with a hard basilisk stare, in a baritone voice) Hound of dishonour!
(his heavy cheekchops sagging) Adorer of the adulterous rump!
(With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting, snuffling, rooting at his feet: then lies, shamming dead, with |4eyes shut tight4| trembling eyelids)
(|4with bobbed hair4| in mountaineer's puttees, green silverbuttonedº coat and sport skirt and alpine hat, |4his hands stuck deep in his breeches pockets,)4| places his heel on her neck and grinds it in) Footstool! Feel my entire weight. Bow|4, bondslave,4| before the throne of |4my your despot's4| glorious heels so glistening in their proud erectness
(enthralled) I promise never to disobey
me if you dare
smokea|! I'm the
Tartar to settle your little lot I'll bet cocktails all round
I shame it out of
you, old son. |aCheek me,
I dare you.a|4| If you do tremble in
in anticipation of heel discipline to be inflicted in gym costume.
(Bloom creeps under the sofa and peers out through the fringe)
(widening her slip to screen him) He's not here.
(coaxingly) Come, ducky dear. Just a little heart to heart talk, sweety (Bloom puts out |4his her4| timid head) There's a good fellow now (Bello grabs her hair violently and drags her forward) I only want to correct you for your own good on a soft safe spot. O, ever so gently.
(savagely) The nosering, the hanging hook, the knout like the Nubian slave of old (his forehead veins swollen, his face congested) I shall sit on your ottoman back every morning after my thumping good breakfast of Matterson's fat hamrashers and a bottle of Guinness's porter. (he belches). And suck my thumping good Stock Exchange cigar while I read the Licensed Victualler's Gazette. Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you baked with rice and lemon. It will hurt you. (He twists her arm. Bloom squeals, turning turtle)
Don't be cruel, nurse! Don't!
(whimpers) You're after hitting me.
Yes. Walk on him. I will.
I will. Don't be greedy.
No, me. Lend him to me.
(ferociously) Can I help?
(They hold and pinion Bloom)
(squats with a grunt on Bloom's upturned face, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg) I see Keating Clay is elected vicechairman of the Richmond asylum and by the by Guinness's preference shares are at sixteen three quarters. Curse me for a fool that didn't buy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about. Just my infernal luck, curse it. And that God damned outsider Throwaway at twenty to one (he quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's ear) Where's that God damned cursed ashtray
for that every ten minutes (he thrusts out a figged fist
and foul cigar) Here, kiss that. Both. Kiss.
(pulls at Bello) Let me on him now. You had enough
(a sweat breaking out over him) Not man. Woman.
|4(stands up)4| No more blow hot and cold. What you longed for has come. Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a thing |4under the yoke4|. Now for your punishment frock. You will shed your male garments, understand? and don the shot silk luxuriously rustling over head and shoulders.
(shrinks) Silk! O crinkly scrapy! Must I tiptouch it with my nails?
(points to his whores) As they are now so will you be, wigged, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered. Tape measurements will be taken next your skin. You will be laced with cruel force in to vicelike corsets with whalebone busk to the pelvis, the absolute outside edge, while your figure, plumper than when at large, will be restrained in nettight frocks, pretty petticoats and things stamped, of course, with my houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie. You will feel the pullpull. The frilly flimsiness of lace round your bare knees will remind you …..
(charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, mustard hair and large male hands) I tried her things on only twice, a small prank, in Holles street. When unread we were hard up I washed them to save the laundry bill. My own shirts I turned. It was |4pure4| thrift.
(jeers) Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh? And showed off coquettishly at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various poses of surrender, eh? Ho! ho! I have to laugh! That secondhand black shift |4erased erased erased split in the stitches |aat her last rapea|4| that Mrs Miriam Dandrade sold you from the Shelbourne hotel, eh?
Miriam. Black. Demimondaine.
(guffaws) Christ Almighty |4you it's too tickling, this! You4| were a nicelooking Miriam when you lay swooning in the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about to be violated by lieutant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Philip Augustus Blockwell M.P, signor Laci Daremo, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the liftboy, Henri Fleury of Gordon Bennett fame, Sheridan, the quadroon Croesus, |4the varsity eight from old Trinity,4| her splendid Newfoundland and |4the Bobs,4| dowager duchess of Manorhamilton. (he guffaws again) Christ, wouldn't it make a cat laugh?
It was Gerald converted me to be a true corsetlover when I was female impersonator in the High School play Vice Versa. It was dear Gerald. He got that kink, fascinated by sister's stays. Now Gerald gilds his eyelids. Cult of the beautiful.
|4(with wicked glee)4| Beautiful! Give us a breather! When you took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on the smoothworn throne.
Science. To compare the various joys we each enjoy (earnestly) And really it's better the position because often I used to wet ….
(sternly) |4The sawdust is there in the corner for you. If I catch a trace. Aha!4| The sins of your past are rising against you. Many. Hundreds.
The Sins of the Past
(in a medley of voices) He went through a form of marriage with at least one woman bel in the shadow of the Black Church. Unspeakable messages he telephoned to Miss Parker of D'Olier street mentally while he presented himself indecently to the instrument. |4In five urinals he wrote pencilled messages offering his nuptual partner to all strong males.4| And by the vitriol works did he not pass night after night by loving couples to see if he could see? Did he not lie in bed, the hog, gloating over a fragment of wellused toilet paper presented to him by a harlot?
Say, what was the most revolting piece of obscenity in your career of crime? Puke it out!
(Mute inhuman faces throng forward, leering, vanishing,
gibbering, Booloohoom, Poldy cock Kock, Bootlaces a penny, Cassidy's hag, blind stripling, Larry rhinoceros, the girl, the woman, the whore, the other the, lane the)
(peremptorily) Answer. Repugnant wretch!
(|4mumbles gurgles4|) I repugnosed in repugnant …
(|4shortly imperiously4|) Hold your tongue!
(bows) Master! Mistress! Mantamer!
(he lifts his arms. His bangle bracelets fall)
(satirically) By day you will souse and bat our smelling underclothes also when we are unwell and swab out our latrines with dress pinned up. You will make the beds, get my tub ready, empty the pisspots in the different rooms, including old Mrs Keogh's the cook's. Ay, and rinse the seven of them well, mind, or lap it up like champagne. |4Drink me |ahota|4|. Hop! You will dance attendance or I'll lecture you on your misdeeds. At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear twentybutton gloves new powdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. For such favours knights of old laid down their lives (he chuckles) My boys will be |4no end4| charmed to see you so ladylike |4|athe colonel, above all,ºa| when they come here the night before the wedding. First I'll have a go at you myself4|. A man I know on the turf named Charles Albert Marsh is on the lookout for a maid of all work at a short knock. Swell the bust. Smile. Droop shoulders. What offers?
One and eightpence too much
Charles Albert Marsh
Touch and examine shis points. Handle hrim. |4This downy skin, these soft muscles, this tender flesh. If I had only my gold piercer. And quite easy to milk. |aThree gallons a day.a|4| What advance on two bob |4gentlemen4|?
A |4darkvisaged Darkvisaged4| Man
(in disguised accent) Hundred pounds
(gaily) Right. Let them all come. The scanty skirt riding up at the knee to show a peep of white pantelette is a potent weapon and transparent stockings emeraldgartered with the long straight seam trailing up beyond the knee appeal to the better instincts of the blasé man about town. Learn the smooth tapstep walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the Grecian bend with provoking croup, the thighs fluescent, knees modestly kissing. Bring all your powers of fascination to bear on them.
What else are you good for, an impotent thing like you? (he stoops and, peering, pokes with his fan rudely under the fatfolds of Bloom's haunches) Up! Up! Manx cat! Where's your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you? It's as limp a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart (loudly) Can you do a man's job?
Eccles street ….
(sarcastically) I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world but there's a man of brawn in possession there. He is something like a man. He shot his bolt. He's no eunuch. That makes you wild, don't it? Touches the spot? (He spits in contempt) Spittoon!
I was indecently treated, I …..
Would if you could. A downpour we want not your drizzle.
To drive me mad! Moll! I forgot! Forgive! Moll …. We …. Still …..
(Old |4sleepy Sleepy4| Hollow calls over the wold)
Rip van Wink! Rip van Winkle!
(in tattered mocassins with a rusty
fowlingpiece, tiptoing, fingertipping, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the diamond panes, cries out) I see her.! It's she! The first night at Mat Dillon's. But her hair is dyed gold and he ….
(laughs mockingly) That's your daughter, you owl, with a Mullingar student.
(Milly Bloom, fairhaired, slimsandalled, her blue scarf in the seawind simply swirling breaks from the arms of her lover and calls, her young eyes wonderwide)
My! It's4| Papli! But, O, Papli, how old your you've grown!
Changed, eh? Our whatnot, our writingtable where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our classic reprints of old masters. A man and his menfriends are living there in clover. |4Why not?4| How many women had you, eh? |4Turn about.4| Sauce for the goose, my gander O.
(cuttingly) Their heelmarks will stamp the Brusselette carpet you bought at Wren's auction. In their horseplay they will deface the little statue you carried home in the rain for art for art' sake. They will violate the secrets of your bottom drawer. Pages will be torn from your handbook of astronomy to make them pipespills. And they will spit in your tenshilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's.
Ten and six. The act of scoundrels. Let me go. I will return. I will prove …
(He clenches his fists and crawls forward, a bowieknife between his teeth
Justice! All Ireland versus one! Has nobody …? (he bites his thumb)
Die and be damned to
you have any sense of decency. I can give you a rare old
willa| and leave us any
coin you have! |aIf you have
none see you get it,
steal it, rob
bury you in our
you'll be dead and dirty
theb| cousin I married,
the bloody old
and my other husbands
in the one
(he explodes in a loud phlegmy
laugh) We'll manure you, Mr Flower (he pipes scoffingly) Byby, Poldy! Byby, Papli!
(sneers) Crybabby! Crocodile tears!
(Bloom, boken, broken, sobs, his face to the earth. Dark shawled figures of the circumcised, in sackcloth and ashes, stand by the wailing wall, M. Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, the reverend Leopold Abramovitz, chazen. With swaying arms they wail over |4the recreant4| Bloom)
(in dark guttural chant) Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.
(sighing) So he's gone. Ah yes. Yes, indeed. Queer kind of chap. There's the widow. That so? Ah, yes.4|
(Out of her oakframe a nymph with hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from her grotto and passing under interlacing yews stands over Bloom)
(their leaves whispering) Sister. Our sister. Ssh!
(softly) Mortal! (kindly) Nay, |4do dost4| not weep!
(crawls jellily forward under the boughs, streaked by sunlight: with dignity) This position. I felt it was expected of me. Force of habit
Mortal! You found me in evil company, highkickers, coster picnicmakers, pugilists, popular generals, immoral panto boys in fleshtights and the nifty shimmy dancers, La Amora and Karini, the hit of the century. I was on cheap pink paper that smelt of rock oil. I was surrounded by the stale smut of clubmen, stories to disturb callow youth, ads for transparencies,º truedup dice and bustpads, proprietary articles and trusses for rupture. Useful hints to the married.
(sadly) Rubber goods. Neverrip brand as supplied to the aristocracy. Corsets for men. I cure fits or money refunded. Unsolicited testimonials for Professor Waldmann's wonderful chest exuber. My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo.
You mean Photo Bits?
I do. You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch. |4Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in four places. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosom and my shame.4|
(humbly |4kisses her long hair.4|) |4Your |aclassica| curves,4| Beautiful immortal, I was glad to look on you, to praise you, almost to pray.
During dark nights I heard your praise.
(quickly) Yes, yes. Sleep reveals the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. I know I fell out of bed or rather was pushed. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. For the rest there is that English invention, pamphlet of which I received some days ago. It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. (he sighs) 'Twas ever thus. Frailty, thy name is marriage.
(her fingers in her ears) And words. They are not in |aa mya| dictionary
You understood them?4|
(covers her face with her hands) What have I not seen in that chamber? What must my eyes look down on?
(apologetically) I know. Soiled personal linen |4this wrong4| side up with care. The quoits are loose. From Gibraltar by long sea long ago.
|4(bends her head)4| Worse, worse!
(reflects |4|xprecautiouslyx|4|) That antiquated commode. It wasn't her weight. She scaled just eleven stone nine. |4She put on nine pounds after weaning.4| It was a crack and want of glue. Eh? And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle.
(The sound of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade)
Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphoua Poulaphoua.
(mingling their boughs) Listen. Whisper. She is right, our sister. We grew by Poulaphouca waterfall. We gave shade on langourous summer days.
John Wyse Nolan
(in the background, in Irish National Forester's
doffs his plumed hat) Prosper. Give shade on
languorous days, trees of Ireland
(murmuring) Who came to Poulaphouca with the High School excursion? Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade?
(scared) High School of Poula? Mnemo? Not in full possession of faculties. Concussion. Run over by tram.
(pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in nondescriptº juvenile grey and black striped suit, too small for him, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings and a red schoolcap with badge) I was in my teens, a growing boy. A little then sufficed, a jolting car, the mingling odours of the ladies' cloakroom, the throng |4penned tight4| on the old Royal stairs, (for they love crushes, instinct of the herd |4and the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice4|) even a pricelist of their hosiery. And then the heat. There were sunspots that summer. End of school. And tipsycake. Halcyon |4Days days4|.
(Halcon Days, High School boys in blue and white football jerseys and shorts |4Master4| Donald Turnbull, |4Master4| Abraham Chatterton, |4Master4| Owen Goldberg, |4Master4| Jack Meredith, |4Master4| Percy Apjohn, stand in a clearing of the trees and shout to |4Master Leopold4| Bloom)
The Halcyon Days
Mackerel! Live us again. Hooray! (They cheer)
(hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered starred with spent snowballs ), struggles to rise) Again! I feel sixteen! |4What a lark!4| Let's ring the bells in Montague street. (he cheers feebly) Hooray for the High School!
(rustling) She is right, our sister. Whisper. (Whispered kisses are heard in all the wood. Faces of hamadryads peep out from the boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into B bloom) Who profaned our silent shade?
(coyly ), through parting fingers) There? In the open air?
(sweeping downward) Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward.
Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.
(with wide fingers) O, infamy!
I was precocious. Youth.
flowers that bloom in the spring. It was pairing time. Capillary attraction is a
natural phenomenon. Lotty Clarke, flaxenhaired, I saw at her night toilette
through illclosed curtains with poor papa's
wildly4| She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge
toº tempt me with her flow of animal spirits. She climbed their crooked tree and I unread. A saint couldn't resist. Besides who saw?
(Staggering Bob, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with humid nostrils through the foliage)
(large teardrops rolling from his prominent eyes, snivels) Me. Me see.
(High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoatº passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants)
(bloats bleats) Megeggaggegg! Nannannanny!
(hatless, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and |4gorsepine gorsespine4|) Regularly engaged. Circumstances alter cases (he gazes intently downwards on the water) Thirtytwo head over heels per second. Giddy Elijah. Clerk of government printer's office falls from cliff.
|4(Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom, rolled in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the Lions Head cliff into the purple waiting waters)
(Far out in the bay, between Bailey and Kish lights, the Erin's King sails, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her funnel towards the land)
(alone on deck, in dark alpaca, yellowkitefaced, his hand in his waistcoat opening, declaims) When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I have …
(loftily) We immortals, as you saw today, have not such a place and no hair there either. We are stonecold and pure. We eat electric light (she arches her body) You spoke to me. I heard from behind. How then could you ever …
(pawing the heather abjectly) O, I have been a perfect pig. Enemas too I have administered. One third of a pint of infusion of quassia to which add a tablespoonful of rocksalt. Up the fundament. With Hamilton Long's syringe, the ladies' friend.
In my presence. The powder puff (she blushes) And the rest!
(dejected) Yes. Peccavi. I have paid homage on that living altar where the back changes name (with sudden fervour) For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, the hand that rules …?
The Voice of Kitty
(in the thicket) Show us one of them cushions.
The Voice of Florrie
(A grouse wings clumsily through the underwood)
The Voice of Lynch
(in the thicket) Whew! Piping P hot!
The Voice of Zoe
(in the thicket) Came from a hot place
The Voice of Virag
(a birdchief, bluestreaked and feathered, in
war panoply, with his assegai, striding through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns) Hot! Hot! Ware Sitting Bull!
It overpowers me. The warm impress of her warm form. Even to sit where a woman has sat, especially with divaricated thighs, most especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans. So womanly, full. It fills me full
Phillaphulla. Poulaphouca. Poulaphouca. Poulaphouca.
Ssh! Sister, speak!
(eyeless, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewingedº wimple, softly, with remote eyes) Tranquilla convent. Sister Agatha. Mount Carmel. The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. No more desire. (she reclines her head, sighing) Only the ethereal. Where dreamy creamy gull waves o'er the waters unread dull
(Bloom half rises. His back trouserbutton snaps)
The unread Button
(Two sluts of the Coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly:)
O, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers
He didn't know what to do,
To keep it up,
To keep it up.
(their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their skinny arms aging and swaying) Deciduously.
(her features hardening, gropes in the folds of her habit) Sacrilege! To attempt my virtue! (A large moist stain appears on her robe) Sully my innocence! You are not fit to touch the garment of a pure woman. (she clutches again in her robe) Wait. Satan, you'll sing no more lovesongs.
(starts up, seizes her hand) |4Hoy! Cat o' nine lives!4| Fair play, madam. No pruningknife. The fox and the grapes, is it? What do you lack with your barbed wire? Crucifix not thick enough? A holy abbot you want or Mullins, the lame gardener, or good mother Alphonsus, eh |4reynard Reynard4|?
(with a cry flees from him, her plaster cast cracking, a cloud of stench escaping t from the cracks) Poli …!
(calls after her) As if you didn't get it on the double
yourselves. I tried it. Your strength our weakness. What's our studfee?
What will you pay on the nail? You fee mendancers on the Riviera. I read (the
fleeing nymph raises a keen) Eh? I have sixteen years of black slave labour
behind me. And would a jury give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh? Fool
someone else not me.
(he sniffs) Rut. Onions. Stale. Sulphur. Grease.
(The figure of Bella Cohen stands before him)
You'll know me the next time.
(composed, regards her) Passée. Long in the tooth and superfluous hair. A raw onion the last thing at night would benefit your complexion. And take some double chin drill. Your eyes are as vapid as the glasseyes of your stuffed fox. They have the dimensions of your other features, that's all. I'm not a triple screw propeller.
(contemptuously) You're not game, in fact.
I know you., Canvasser., dead cod!
I saw him., kipkeeper.,4|
(turns to the piano) Which of you was playing the the dead
march from Saul?º
is an accident. Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago. I was sixteen.
I see, says the blind man. Tell us news.
See? Moves to one great goal. I am twenty two. Sixteen years ago he was twenty too two too. Sixteen years ago I twenty two tumbled. Twentytwo years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse (he winces) Hurt my hand somewhere. Must see a dentist. Money?
(Zoe whispers to Florrie. They giggle. Bloom releases his hand and writes idly on the table in backhand with final slow curves)
(aA hackneycar, number blank, with a gallantbuttockedº mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, trots past. Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the sideseats. The Ormond boots crouches behind on the axle. Sadly over the crossblind Lydia Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze
(jogging, mocks them with thumb and wriggling wormfingers) Haw haw have you the horn?
(Bronze by gold they whisper)
(to Florrie) Whisper. (she whispers again)
(Over the well of the car Blazes Boylan leans, his strawhat set sideways, a red flower in his mouth. Lenehan in yachtsman's cap and white shoes officiously detaches a long hair from Blazes Boylan's |4coat4| shoulder)
Ho! What do I here behold? Were you brushing the cobwebs off a few quims?
(sated, smiles) Plucking a turkey.
A good night's work.
(holding up four thick ungulated fingers, winks) Blazes Kate! Up to sample or your money back (he holds out a forefinger) Smell that.
(smells gleefully) Ah! Lobster and mayonnaise. Ah!
Zoe and Florrie
(laugh together) Ha ha ha ha
(in prune plush coat and kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig) I'm afraid not, sir. The last articles …..
(tosses him sixpence) Here. Show me in. I have a little private business with your wife, you understand?
What? What is it?
(Zoe whispers to her)
Let him look, the pishogue! |4Pimp!4|
(laughing) Ho ho ho ho.
(from the sofa) Tell us, Florrie. Tell us. What …
(Florrie whispers to her. Whispering lovewords murmur, liplapping loudly, poppysmic plopslop)
(her eyes upturned) O, it must be like the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches! O, he simply idolises her! Covered with kisses!
(her mouth opening) Yumyum. You could hear them in Paris and New York. Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream.
(laughing) Hee hee hee.
(sweetly, hoarsely, in the pit of his stomach) Ah! Godblazegrukbrukarchkhrasht!
(hoarsely, sweetly, rising to her throat) O! Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck!
Bella, Zoe, Florrie, Kitty
(points) The mirror up to nature (he laughs) Hu hu hu hu
(laughing) Ho ho ho ho.
(in Kitty's ear) She says that …
(laughing) Hee hee hee.
(points to the mirror, laughing) Hu hu hu4| |4|aThe mirror up to naturea|4|
(|4Bloom gazes Stephen & Bloom gaze4| in the mirror. The face of William Shakespeare|4, beardless,4| appears there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the reflection of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the hall)
(in dignified ventriloquy) 'Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind (to Bloom) You thought you were invisible. Gaze.
(smiles yellowly at the three whores) When will I hear the joke?
Before you're twice married and once a widower.
|4Lapses are condoned.4| Even the great Napoleon when measurements were taken next the skin after his death …
(The widow Dignam, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunny's tawny sherry, hurries by in her weeds, her bonnet awry. Beneath her skirt appear her late husband's every day trousers and turnedup boots, large eights. She holds a Scottish Widows' insurance policy and a large marquee umbrella under which her brood run with her, Patsy, hopping on one shod foot, his collar loose, |4a hank of porksteaks dangling,4| Freddy, whimpering, Susy with a crying cod's mouth, Alice struggling with the baby. She cuffs them on, her streamers flaunting aloft)
Ah, ma, you're dragging me along!
Mrs Cu Susy
Mamma, the beeftea is fizzing over!
|4None wed the second but who kill the first (with paralytic rage) Weda seca whokilla farst4|.
(The face of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face. The marquee umbrella sways drunkenly, the children run aside. Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in merry widow hat and kimono gown. She glides sidling and bowing, twirling japanesily)
(sings) And they call me the Jewel of Asia!
(gazes on her, impassive) Immense. Most bloody awful demirep!º
Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti. Queens lay with prize bulls
None of that here. Come to the wrong shop.
Let him alone. He's back from Paris.
(runs to Stephen and links him) O go on! Give us some parley voo.
(Stephen claps hat on head and leaps over to the fireplace where he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a painted smile on his face)
(pommelling on the sofa) Rmm Rmm Rmm Rrrrrrmmmm.
(gabbles |4with marionette jerks4|) Thousand places of entertainment to expense your evenings |4|awhere witha|4| lovely ladies |4|aarea|4| saling gloves and other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very eccentric where lots cocottes |4unreadful beautiful4| dressed much about princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there, parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns. The same if talking a poor english how much smart they are on things love and sensations voluptuous. Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and the they tears silver which occur every night. Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world. All chic womans |4squeel squeal4| loud to see vampire man debauch nun very fresh young with dessous troublant. (he clacks his tongue loudly) Ho, là là. Ce pif qu'il a.
Vive le vampire!
with head back, laughs loudly, clapping himself) Great success of laughing.
Angels much prostitutes like and holy apostles big damn ruffians. Demimondaines
nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed. Or do you
are fond better what belongs the they moderns pleasure? (he points about him with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the whores reply to) Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins nudities very lesbic |4they the4| kiss five ten times. Enter, gentleman, to see in mirror every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also if desire act awfully bestial omlet on the belly pièce de Shakespeare.
(clapping her belly sinks back on the sofa, |4with a4| shout of laughter) An omelette on the …. Ho! ho! ho! ho! … omelette on the ….
(mincingly) I love you, sir darling. Speak you englishman tongue for double entente cordiale. O yes, mon loup How much cost? Waterloo. Watercloset. (he ceases suddenly and holds up a forefinger)º
(laughing) Omelette ….
(laughing) Encore! Encore!
Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon.
Go abroad and love a foreign lady.
Across the world for a wife.
Dreams goes by contraries.
(approaching Stephen) Look ….
No, I flew. My foes beneath me. And ever shall be. World without end (he cries) Pater! Free!
I say, look …
Break my spirit, will he? O merde alors! (he cries, his vulture talons sharpened) Holà! Hillyho!
(Simon Dedalus' voice hilloes in
answer, somewhat sleepy but ready
That's all right (he |4circles swoops4| uncertainly through the air |4wheeling4| uttering cries of heartening on strong ponderous wings) Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with those halfcastes. |4Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ass4| Keep our flag flying! |4An eagle gules volant in a field argent displayed.4| Haihoop! (He makes the beagle's call |4giving tongue4|) |4Bulbul!4| Burblblburblbl! Hai, boy!
(Theº fronds and spaces of the wallpaper file rapidly crosscountry. The fox, brush pointed, runs swift, brighteyed, under the leaves. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and anchor players, thimbleriggers, broadsmenº. Crows and tout, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly)
Card of the races. Racing card!
Ten to one the field!
Tommy on the clay here! Tommy on the clay!
|4Two Ten4| to one bar one! |4Two Ten4| to one bar one!
Try your luck on spinning Jenny!
Two to one bar one!
Sell the monkey, boys! Sell the monkey!
I'll give ten to one!
Ten to one |4the field bar one4|!
(A dark horse un riderless, bolts like a phantom past the winningpost, his mane |4foaming moon-foaming4|, his eyeballs stars. The field follows, a bunch of bucking mounts. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris. Dwarfs ride them rustyarmoured, leaping in their, in their saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain on a brokenwinded |4isabelle4| nag, |4cock of the north,4| honey cap, green jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy in the up, gripping the reins, a hockeystick at the ready. His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet tr jogs along the rocky road)
(jeering) Get down and push, mister. Last lap! You'll be home the night!
(bolt upright |4his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps,4| brandishes his hockeystick, his blue eyes flashing in the prism of the chandelier |4as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop4|) Per vias rectas!
(A yoke of buckets empties all over him and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes)
Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!º
(Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy
Caffrey pass beneath the windows, singing in discord)
Hark! Our friend noise in the street.
(holds up her hand) Stop
Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey
Yet I've a sort of a
Yorkshire relish for …
That's me (she claps her hands) Dance! Dance! (she runs to the pianola) Who has twopence?
(handing her coins) Here.
(cracking his fingers impatiently) Quick! Quick! |4Where's my augur's rod?4| (he runs to the piano and takes his ashplant |4beating his foot in tripudium4|)
(turns the drumhandle) There. (she drops two pennies in the slot. Gold, pink and violet lights start forth. The drum turns purring. Professor Goodwin, in a bowknotted periwig, in court dress wearing a stained Inverness cape, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room, his hands fluttering. He sits tinily on the pianostool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the keyboard, nodding with damsel's grace, his bowknot bobbing)
|4(twirls round herself|a, heeltappinga|)4| Dance. Who'll dance? Clear the table
(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl. Stephen throws his ashplant on the table and seizes Zoe round the waist. Florrie and Bella push the table towards the fireplace. Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, begins to waltz her round the room. |4Bloom stands unread aside. |aHer |bfallingb| sleeve |bfallingb| from gracing arms reveals a white fleshflower of vaccination.a|4| Betweenº the curtains Professor Maghinni inserts a leg on the toepoint of which spins a silk hat. With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his crown and jauntyhatted entered enters. He wears a slate frock coat with claret silk lappels lapels, a gorget of cream tulle, a green lowcut waistcoat, stock collar with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. In his buttonhole is |4a an immense4| dahlia. He twirls in reversed directions a clouded cane then wedges it tight in his oxter. He places a hand lightly on his breastbone, bows, and fondles his flower and buttons)
The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics.
with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levinstone's. Fancy dress balls arranged. Deportment. The Katty Lanner step. So. Watch me! My terpsichorean abilities (he minuets forward three places on tripping bee's feet) Tout le monde en avant! Reverence! Tout le monde en place!
(The prelude ceases. Professor Goodwin, beating vague arms, shrivels, sinks, his live |4cope cape4| falling about the stool. The air in firmer waltz time sounds. Stephen and Zoe circle freely. The lights change, glow, fade |4gold rosy violet4|)
Two young fellows were talking about their girls, girls,
Sweethearts they'd left behind …...
(From a corner the morning hours run out, goldhaired, slimsandalled, in girlish blue, waspwaisted, with innocent hands. Nimbly they dance twirling their skipping ropes. The hours of noon follow in amber gold. Laughing, linked, high haircombs flashing they catch the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting their arms)
(clipclaps glovesilent hands) Carré! Avant deux! Balancé! Breath evenly!
(The morning and noon hours waltz in their places, turning advancing to each other, shaping their curves, bowing visavis. Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms, with hands on their shoulders)
You may touch my
May I touch your?
O, but lightly!
O, so lightly!
My little shy little lass has a waist.
(Zoe and Stephen turn boldly with looser swing. The twilight hours advance dispersed, lagging, languideyed, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the landbreeze)
Avant huit! Traversé! Salut! Cours de mains! Croisé!
(The night hours, one by one, steal to the last place
Morning4|, noon and
twilight hours retreat before them. They are masked, with daggered hair and bracelets of dull bells.
Weary they curchycurchy under veils)
(twirling, her hand to her brow) O!
Les Tiroirs! Chaine de dames! La corbeille! Dos a Dos!
(Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseyingº, twirling, simply swirling)
(She frees herself, droops on a chair. Stephen seizes Florrie and turns with her)
Boulangère! Les Ronds! Les Ponts! Chevaux de bois! Escargots!
(Twining, receding, with interchanging hands the night hours link each each with arching arms in a mosaic of movements). Stephen and Florrie turn cumbrously)
Dansez avec vos dames! Changez de dames! Donnez le petit bouquet à votre dame! Remerciez!º
Best, best of all,
(jumps up) O they played that on the hobbyhorses at the bazaar!
(She runs to Stephen. He leaves Florrie brusquely and seizes Kitty. A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks. Groangrousegurgling Toft's cumbersome whirligig turns slowly the room right roundabout the room)
My girl's a Yorkshire girl
Yorkshire through and through. Come on all!
(She seizes Florrie and waltzes her)
(He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms and snatches up his
ashplant from the table.
All wheel whirl
waltz twirl Bloombella Kittylynch Florriezoe Stephen with hat ashplant
middle highkicks with skykicking mouth shut
clang tinkle boomhammer tallyho hornblower blue green yellow flashes Toft's
cumbersome turns with hobbyhorse riders from gilded snakes dangled)
Though she's a factory lass
And wears no fancy clothes.
(Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by. Baraabum!)
Encore! Bis! Bravo! Encore!
Think of your mother's people!
Dance of death.
(Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, horse, nag, steer, piglings, Conmee on Christass, lame crutch and leg sailor in cockboat armfolded ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe through and through. Baraabum! On nags hogs bellhorses Gadarene swine Corny in coffin steel shark stone onehandled Nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram falling bawling. Gum he's a champion. Fuseblue peer from barrel rev. evensong. Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes. Then in last unread switchback lumbering up and down bump mashtub sort of viceroy and reine relish for tublumber bumpshire rose. Baraabum!
The couples fall aside. Stephen whirls giddily, stops. Room whirls back. Eyes closed he totters. Red rails fly spacewards. Stars all around suns turn roundabout. Bright midges dance on walls.º
Stephen's mother, emaciated, rises stark through the floor, in leper grey |4with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a torn bridal veil4|, her face worn and green with gravemould. Her hair is scant and lank. She fixes her bluecircledº hollow eyesockets |4on Stephen |aand opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent worda|4|. A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly)
Liliata rutilantium te confessorum ….
Jubilantium te virginum …..
(|4From the top of a tower4| Buck Mulligan in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, stands gaping at her, a smoking scone in his hand
The pity of it. Mulligan meets the afflicted mother (he upturns his eyes) Mercurial Malachi!
|4(with the subtle smile of death's madness)4| I was once the beautiful May Goulding. I am dead.
you?4| No. What
bogeyman'sº trick is this?
(Shakes his curling capbell). The mockery of it. Kinch |4dogsbody.4| killed her |4bitchbody4|. She kicked the bucket (tears of molten butter fall from his eyes on to the scone) Our great sweet mother! Epi oinopa ponton.
|4(comes nearer, breathing upon him softly her breath of wetted ashes)4| All must go through it, Stephen. More women than men in the world. You too. Time will come.
(choking with fright, remorse and horror) They say I killed you, mother. He offended your memory. Cancer did it, not I. Destiny.
(a green rill of bile trickling from a side of her mouth) You sang that song to me. Love's bitter mystery.
(eagerly) Tell me |4the word4|, mother, if you know now. The word known to all men.
Who saved you the night you jumped into the train at Dalkey with Paddy Lee? Who had pity for you when you were sad among the strangers? Prayer is allpowerful. Prayer for the suffering souls |4in the Ursuline manual4| and forty days indulgence. Repent, Stephen.
The ghoul! Hyena!
I pray for you in my other world. Get Dilly to make you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork. Years and years I loved you, |4O4| my |4firstborn4| son, when you lay in my womb.
(fanning herself with the gratefan) I'm melting!
(points to Stephen) Look! He's white.
(goes to the window to open it) Giddy.
|4(with smouldering eyes)4| Repent! O, the fire of hell!
(panting) |4His noncorrosive sublimate!4| The corpsechewer. Raw head and bloody bones.
(her face drawing near and nearer,
sendingº out an ashen breath) Beware!
(she raises her blackened withered right arm slowly towards Stephen's
breast with outstretched finger) Beware God's hand!
(A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart)
(strangled with rage |4his features drawn and grey and old,4|) Shite!
(at the window) What?
Ah non, par exemple! The intellectual imagination! With me all or not at all. Non serviam!
Give him some cold water. Wait (she rushes out)
(wrings her hands slowly, moaning desperately) O Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on him! Save him|4, from hell, O Divine4| Sacred Heart!
No! No! No! Break my spirit, all of you, if you can! I'll bring you all to heel!
(He lifts his ashplant high with both hands and smashes the chandelier. Time's livid final flame leaps and in the following darkness ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.
(rushes forward and seizes Stephen's hand) Here! Hold on! Don't run amok!
(Stephen, abandoning his ashplant, his head and arms thrown back stark, |4ruunread |abeats the ground anda| flies4| from the room ), past the whores at the door)
(screams) After him!
(The two whores rush to the halldoor. Lynch and Kitty and Zoe stampede from the room. They talk excitedly. Bloom follows, returns)
(|4jammed in the doorway4| pointing) Down there.
(pointing) There. There's something up.
Who pays for the lamp? (she seizes Bloom's coattail) Here, you were
with him. The lamp's broken.
(rushes to the hall, rushes back) What lamp, woman?
He tore his coat.
(points |4her eyes hard with anger and cupidity4|) Who's to pay for that? Ten shillings. You're a witness.
(snatches up Stephen's ashplant) Me? Ten shillings? Have you lifted enough off him? Didn't he ….?
(loudly) Here, none of your tall talk. This isn't a brothel. A |4tenshillinghouse tenshilling house4|.
(his head under the lamp, pulls the chain. Puling, the gasjet lights up a crushed mauve purple shade). He raises the ashplant) |4Only the chimney's broken.4| Here is all he ….
(shrinks back and screams) Jesus! Don't!
(warding off a blow) To show you how he hit the paper. There's not sixpenceworth of damage done. Ten shillings!
(with a glass of water enters) Where is he?
Do you want me to call the police?
O, I know. Bulldog on the premises. But he's a Trinity student. |4Patrons of your establishment4| Gentlemen that pay the rent. (he makes a masonic sign) Know what I mean? Nephew of the vicechancellor. You don't want a scandal.
(angrily) Trinity. Coming down here ragging after the boatrace and paying nothing. |4Are you the commander here or?4| Where is he? I'll charge him! Disgrace him, I will! |4(she shouts)4| Zoe! Zoe!
(urgently) And if it were your own son in Oxford? (warningly) I know.
(almost speechless) Who are. |4incog!4|
(in the doorway) There's a row on.
(He hurries through the hall. The whores point. Florrie follows, spilling
water from her tilted tumbler. On the doorstep all the whores clustered talk volubly, pointing right where the fog has cleared off. From the left arrives a jingling hackney car. It slows to in front of the house. Bloom at the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher who is about to dismount from the car with two silent lechers. He averts his face. Bella from within the hall urges on her whores. They blow icklickysticky ickylickysticky yumyum kisses. Corny Kelleher replies with a ghastly lewd smile. The silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey. Zoe and Kitty still point right. Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws his caliph's hood and poncho and hurries down the steps with sideways face. Incog Haroun Al Raschid he flits behind the silent of lechers and hastens on by the railings with fleet step of a pard. The ashplant marks his stride. A pack of bloodhounds follow from far, nearer, baying, panting, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping at his tail. He walks, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back. He is pelted with gravel, cabbagestumps, biscuitboxes, eggs, potatoes, dead codfish, woman's slipperslappers. After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit: |465 C, 66 C, night watch,4| John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, VB Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'Rourke, Joe Cuffe, Mrs O'Dowd, Pisser Burke, the Nameless One, Mrs Riordan, the Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangefaceº, Fellow that like, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Howard Parnell, the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Breen, Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, |4the4| Westland Row postmistress, T. C.P. McCoy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreetº, Footballboots, pugnosed driver, rich protestant lady, Davy Byrne, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, superintendant Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Bob Doran, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Wyse Nolan, John Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwidebehindinClonskeatramº, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Mrs Galbraith, the constable off Eccles' street corner, old doctor Brady with stethoscope, the mystery man on the beach, a retriever, |4Mrs4| Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers)
The Hue and Cry
(helterskelterpelterwelter) He's Bloom! Stop Bloom! Stopabloom! Stopperrobber! Hi! Hi! Stophim on the corner!
(with elaborate gestures, breathing deeply and slowly) You
are my guests. Uninvited. By virtue of George the. Seventh
of Edward. History to blame. Fabled by mother of memory.
(to Cissy Caffrey) Was he insulting you?
Addressed her in vocative feminine. Probably neuter. Ungenitive.
No, he didn't. I |4saw seen4| him. The girl there. He was in Mrs Cohen's. What's up? |4Soldier and civilian.4|
I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do, you know, and the young man |4ran run4| up behind me. But I'm faithful to the man that's treating me though I'm only a shilling whore.
(catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's head) Hail, Sisyphus. (he points to himself and the others) Poetic. Uropoetic.
Yes, to go with him. And me with a soldier friend.
He doesn't half want a thick ear, the blighter. Biff him one, Harry.
(to Cissy) Was he insulting you while |4I me and him4| was having a piss?
(gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, flowingbearded) |4There's Their's4| not to reason why.
Biff him, Harry.
(to private Compton) I don't know your name but you are quite right. Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts. Shirt is synechdoche. Part for a the whole.
(to the crowd) No I was with the privates.
(amiably) Why not? The bold soldier boy. In my opinion every lady for example …..
(his cap awry, advances to Stephen) Say, how would it be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw?
(looks up to the sky) How? Very unpleasant. Noble art of selfpretence. Personally,
I detest action. (he waves his hand) Hand hurts me slightly. Enfin, ce sont vos oignons. (to Cissy Caffrey) Some trouble is on here. What is it precisely?
(from her balcony waves her handkerchief) Cook's son, goodbye. Safe home to Dolly. Dream of the girl you left behind and she will dream of you.
(The soldiers turn their swimming eyes)
(elbowing through the crowd, plucks Stephen's sleeve vigorously) Come now, professor, that carman is waiting.
|4(turns)4| Eh? (he disengages himself) Why should I not speak to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange? (he points his finger) I'm not afraid of what I can talk to |4if I see his eye4|. Retaining the perpendicular (he staggers a pace back)
(propping him) Retain your own.
(laughs emptily) My centre of gravity is displaced. I have forgotten the trick. Let us sit down somewhere and discuss. Struggle for life is the law of existence but but human philerenists, notably the Czar and the King of England have invented arbitration. |4(he taps his brow) But in here it is I must kill the priest and the king.4|
Biddy the Clap
Did you hear what the professor said? He's a professor out of the college.
I did. I heard that.
Biddy the Clap
Hee He expresses himself with such marked refinement of phraseology.
Yes. And at the same time with such apposite trenchancy.
(pulls himself free and comes forward) What's that you're saying about my king?
(Edward the Seventh appears in an archway. He wears a white jersey on which an image of the Sacred Heart is stitched and sucks a red jujube. He is robed as a master mason with trowel and apron, marked made in Germany. In his left hand he holds a plasterer's bucket |4on which is printed Defense d'uriner4|.
Edward the Seventh
(slowly, solemnly but indistinctly)
Peace, perfect peace. For indentification, bucket in my hand. Cheerio, boys (he turns to his subjects) We have come here to witness a clean straight fight and we wish both men the best of good luck (he shakes hands with Private Carr, Private Compton, Stephen, Bloom and Lynch)
(General applause. Edward the Seventh lifts his bucket graciously in acknowledgment)
(to Stephen) Say it again.
(nervous, friendly, pulls himself up) I understandº your point of view though I have no king myself. This is the age of patent medicines. A discussion is difficult down here. But this is the point. You die for your country. Suppose (he places his arm on private Carr's sleeve) Not that I wish it for you. But I say |4let: Let4| my country die for me. Up to the present it has done so. I didn't want it to die. Damn death. Long live life!
Edward the Seventh
(|4levitates over heaps of slain,4| in the garb, and with the halo of joking Jesus, a white jujube in his phosphorescent face)
My methods are new and are causing surprise
To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes.
Kings and unicorns! (he falls back a pace) Come somewhere and we'll … What was that girl saying …?
Eh, Harry, give him a kick in the knackers. Stick one into Jerry.
(to the privates, softly) He doesn't know what he's saying. Taken a little more than is good for him. |4Absinthe. Greeneyed monster.4| I know him. He's a gentleman, a poet. It's all right.
(nods, smiling and laughing) Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors.4|
I don't give a bugger who he is.
We don't give a bugger who he is.
I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull.
(Kevin Egan of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and peep-o'-day boy's hat signs to Stephen)
Hlò! Bonjour! The vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes.
(Patrice Egan peeps from behind, his rabbitface nibbling a leaf)
Biddy the Clap
One immediately observes that he is of patrician lineage.
Green above the red, says he. Wolfe Tone.
The red's as good as the green. And better. Up the soldiers! Up King |4George Edward4|!
(laughs) Ay. Hands up to de Wet.
(with a huge emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls)
May the God above
Send down a dove
With teeth as sharp as razors
To slit the throats
Of the English dogs
That hanged our Irish leaders.
The Croppy Boy
(The ropenoose round his neck,
gripes in his issuing bowels with both hands)
I bear no hate to a living thing
But I love my country beyond the king.
(advances with gladstone bag which he opens.) Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. Knife with which Voisin dismembered the wife of a compatriot and hid remains in a cellar. Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the gallows. (he jerks the rope.) The croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently. A violent erection of the hanged sends gouts |4of sperm4| spouting through his deathclothes on to the cobblestones. Mrs Bellinghamº, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the Honourable Mrs Paget Butler rush forward with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.) I'm near it myself. (He undoes the noose) Rope which hanged the awful rebel. Ten shillings a time. As suppliedº to unread His Royal Highness. |4(He plunges his head into the gaping belly of the hanged and draws out his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails) My painful duty has now been done. God save the King!4|
Here. What are you saying about my king?
(throws up his hands) O, this is too monotonous! Nothing. He wants my money and my life, though want must be his master, for some brutish empire of his. Money I haven't (he searches his pockets vaguely) Gave it to someone.
Who wants your bleeding money?
(tries to move off) Will someone tell me where I am least likely to meet these necessary evils? Ça se voit aussi à Paris. Not that I … But, by Saint Patrick …..!
(The women's heads coalesce. Old Gammy Gummy in sugarloaf hat appears seated on a toadstool)
Aha! I know you |4gammer4|. Hamlet, revenge! The sow that eats her young!
Old Gummy Granny
The hat trick! Where's the third person of the blessed trinity? Soggarth Aroon? The reverend Carrion Crow.
(shrill) Stop them from fighting!
Our men retreated
(tugging at his belt) I'll wring the neck of any fucker says a word against my fucking king.
(terrified) He said nothing. Not a word. A pure misunderstanding.
Go it, Harry. Do him one in the eye. He's a proBoer.
Did I? When?
(to the redcoats) We fought for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops. Isn't that history? Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Honoured by our monarch.
(staggering past) O, yes! O God, yes! O, make the kwawr a krowawr! O! Bo!
(Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints. Major Tweedy, Turkmoustached, in bearskin cap with hackle plume and accoutrements, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his breast bright with medals, toes the line)
(growls gruffly) Rorke's Drift! Up, guards, and at them!
I'll do him in.
(moves the crowd back) Fair play, here. Make a bleeding butcher's shop of the bugger.
(Massed bands blare Garryowen and God Save the King
They're going to fight. For me.
The brave and the fair.
Biddy the Clap
Methinks yon |4sable4| knight will joust it with the best.
(blushing deeply) Nay, madam. The gules doublet and saint George for me!
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave Old Ireland's windingsheet.
(loosening his belt, shouts) I'll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.
(shakes Cissy Caffrey's shoulders) Speak, you! Are you struck dumb? You are the link between nations and generations. Speak, woman, sacred lifegiver!
(alarmed ), seizes private Carr's sleeve) Amn't I with you? Amn't I your girl? Cissy's your girl (she cries) Police!
fires spring up.
Dense clouds roll past. Heavy
Gallop of hoofs. Artillery. Hoarse commands, cries of valour. Shrieks of dying.
Pikes clash on
cuirasses. On an eminence rises a
Black candles rise
from its gospel and epistle horns. On the
altarstone4| Mrs Mina
Purefoy lies, naked, fettered,
a chalice resting
O'Flynn in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his feet back to the front, celebrates camp mass. The Reverend Mr Hugh C Love M.A. in a plain cassock and mortarboard |4his head and collar back to the front,4| holds over the celebrant's head an open umbrella)
Introibo ad altare diaboli
The Reverend Mr Love
To the devil which hath made joyful my youth.
The Reverend Mr Love
(From on high the voice of Adonai calls)
(with ferocious articulation) I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ
I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!
|4(The retriever nosing on the fringe of the crowd barks noisily)4|
(runs to Lynch) Can't you get him away?
He likes dialectic|4, the universal language4|. Kitty! |4(to Bloom)4| Get him away, you. He won't listen to me.
(He drags Kitty away)
(points) Exit Judas. Et laqueo se suspendit.
(runs to Stephen) Come along with me now before worse. Here's your stick.
Stick, no. Reason. The pure reason.
|4Old |aG. G. Gummy Grannya|
(thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's hand) Remove him; acushla.4|
(pulling Private Carr) Come on, you're boosed. He insulted me but I forgive him. (shouting in his ear) I forgive him for insulting me.
(over Stephen's shoulder) Yes, go. You see he's incapable.
(breaks loose). I'll insult him.
(He rushes towards Stephen, fist outstretched, and strikes him in the face. Stephen totters, collapses, falls, |4stunned, |aHe lies prone his face to the sky.a|4| his hat rolling to the wall. Bloom follows and picks it up)
(loudly) Carbine in bucket! Cease fire! Salute!
(barking furiously) Ute ute ute ute ute ute ute ute.4|
Let him up! Don't strike him when he's down! Air! Who? The soldier hit him. He's a professor. Is he hurted? Don't manhandle him! He's fainted!
What call had the redcoat to strike the gentleman and he under the influence. Let them go and fight the Boers!
Listen to who's talking! |4|aHe gave him the coward's blow.a|4| Hasn't the soldier a right to go with his girl? |4|aHe gave him the coward's blow.a|4|
|4(The retriever nosing on the fringe of the crowd barks noisily)
(barking) Wow wow wow.4|
(shoves them back, loudly) Get back, stand back!
(tugging his comrade) Here. Bugger off, Harry. Here's the cops!
(Two raincaped watch, tall, stand in the
What's wrong here?
(with expectation) Is he bleeding!
(rising from his knees) No. Gone off. He'll come to all right.
(glances sharply at the man) Leave him to me. I can easily …..
Who are you? Do you know him?
(lurches towards the watch) He insulted my lady friend.
(angrily) You hit him without provocation. I'm a witness. Constable, take his regimental number.
I don't want your instructions in the discharge of my duty.
(pulling his comrade) Here, bugger off, Harry or Bennett'll shove you in the lockup.
(staggering as he is pulled away) God fuck old Bennett. He's a whitearsed bugger. I don't give a shite for him.
(takes out his notebook) What's his name?
(peering over the crowd) I just see a car there. If you give me a hand a second, sergeant ….
Name and address.
(Corny Kelleher, weepers round his hat, appears among the bystanders)
(quickly) O, the very man. (he whispers) Simon Dedalus' son. A bit sprung. Get those policemen to move those loafers back.
Night, Mr Kelleher.
(to the watch, with drawling eye) That's all right. I know him. Won a bit on the races. Gold cup. Throwaway (he laughs). t Twenty to one. Do you follow me?
(turns to the crowd) Here, what are you all gaping at? Move on out of that.
(The crowd disperses slowly, muttering, down the lane)
Leave it to me, sergeant. That'll be all right (he laughs, shaking his head) We were often as bad ourselves |4ay4| or worse. What? Eh, what?
(laughs) I suppose so.
(nudges the second watch) Come and wipe your name off the slate. |4(he lilts |awagging his heada|) With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom.4| What, eh, do you follow me?
(genially) Ah, sure we were too
(winking) Boys will be boys. I've a car round there.
All right, Mr Kelleher. Good night.
I'll see to that.
(shakes hands with both of the watch in turns) Thank you very much. Thank you. (he mumbles confidentially) We don't want any scandal, you understand. Father is a wellknown highly respected citizen. Just a little wild oats, you understand.
O. I understand, sir.
That's all right, sir.
It was only in case of corporal injuries I'd have to report it at the station.
(nods rapidly) Naturally. Quite right. Only your |4bounden4| duty.
It's our duty.
Good night, men.
(saluting together) Night, gentlemen.
(They move off ) with slow heavy tread)
(blows) Providential you came on the scene. You have a car …?
laughs, pointing his thumb over his right shoulder) Two commercials that were standing fizz in Jammets. Like princes, faith. One of them lost two quid on the race. Drowning his grief. And were on for a time with the girls. So I landed them up on Brophy's car and down to nighttown.
I was just going home by Gardiner street when I happened to ….
(laughs) Sure they wanted me to join in with the mots. No, by God, says I, my dancing days are done. Not for old stagers like myself and yourself (he laughs again and leers with lacklustre eye) Thanks be to God we have it in the house, what, eh, do you follow me? Hah, Hah hah, hah!
(|4laughs tries to laugh4|) Ha, he, he! Yes. Matter of fact I was just visiting an old friend of mine there, Virag, you don't know him (poor fellow, he's laid up for the past week) and we had a liquour together and I was just making my way home …...
(The horse neighs)
Sure it was Brophy
jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's
him to pull up
and4| got off to see.
I give him a lift home. Where does he
hangs out4|. Somewhere in Cabra, what?
No, in Sandycove, I believe, from what he let drop.
|4(Stephen, prone, breathes to the stars. Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the horse. Bloom, in gloom, looms down)4|
(scratches his nape) Sandycove! (he bends down and calls to Stephen) Eh! (he calls again) Eh! He's covered with shavings anyhow. Take care they didn't lift anything off him.
No, no, no. I have his money and his hat here and stick.
Ah, well, he'll get over it. No bones broken. Well, I'll get along. (he laughs) I've a rendezvous in the morning. Burying the dead. Safe home!
Good night. I'll just wait and take him along in a few …
(Corny Kelleher returns to the outside car and mounts it. The horseharness jingles.)
(from the car) Night
chucks the reins and raises his whip encouragingly. Corny Kelleher on the
sideseat sways his head to and fro in sign of mirth
plight4|. The jarvey
joins in the mute merriment nodding from the farther seat. Bloom shakes his head
in mute mirthful reply. With thumb and palm Corny Kelleher reassures that the
two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue
what else is to be
done4|. With a slow
nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs. The car
jingles round the corner of the lane. Corny Kelleher again reassures with his
hand. Bloom with his hand assures Corny Kelleher that he is reassured. The
tinkling hoofs and jingling harness grow fainter. Bloom, holding in his hand
Stephen's muddied hat and ashplant, stands irresolute. Then he bends
to him and shakes him by the shoulder.
Eh! Ho! (There is no answer. He bends again) Mr Dedalus! (There is no answer) The name if you call. Sonambulistº. (He bends again and, hesitating, brings his mouth near the face of the prostrate form) Stephen! (There is no answer. He calls again) Stephen!
(frowns) Who? Black
Vampire.4| (he sighs
and stretches himself, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels)
Who drive Fergus now
And pierce wood's woven shade..?
(He turns on his left side, sighing, doubling himself together)
Poetry. Well educated. Pity (He bends again and undoes the buttons of Stephen's waistcoat) To breathe. (he brushes the woodshavings from Stephen's clothes with light hand and fingers) One pound seven. Not hurt anyhow (he listens) What?
(murmurs) Shadows the woods
White breast dim sea.
(He stretches out his arms, sighs again and curls his body. Bloom, holding the muddied hat and ashplant, stands erect. A dog barks in the distance. Bloom tightens and loosens his grip on the ashplant. He looks down on Stephen's face and form)
Face reminds of his poor mother. In the shady wood. The deep white breast. Ferguson, I think I caught. A girl. Some girl. Best thing could happen him.
(Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands on guard. Against the dark wall a figure appears slowly., a boy of eleven in an Eton suit, holding a book in his hand. He reads inaudibly, smiling.)
(wonderstruck, calls inaudibly)
(gazes, unseeing, in to Bloom's eyes and goes on
reading, smiling. He has diamond
ruby4| buttons. A
lambkin4| peeps out of his waistcoat pocket.)
|4|x[End of Ulysses, Part II]x|4|