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