Mr Leopold
Bloom
ate
with
relish the
inner
organs
of
beasts
and
fowls.
He
liked
thick
giblet soup, nutty gizzards,
a
stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried
with
crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes.
Most
of
all
he
liked grilled
mutton
kidneys
which
gave
to
his
palate
a
fine
tang
of
faintly
scented urine. Kidneys
were
in
his
mind
as
he
moved
about
the
kitchen
softly, righting her
breakfast
things
on
the humpy tray.
Gelid
light
and
air
were
in
the
kitchen
but
out
of
doors
gentle
summer
morning
everywhere.
Made
him
feel
a
bit
peckish. The coals
were
reddening.
Another
slice
of
bread
and
butter: three, four: right.
She
didn't
like
her
plate
full. Right.
He
turned
from
the tray, lifted the
kettle
off
the hob
and
set
it
sideways
on
the fire.
It
sat there,
dull
and
squat, its
spout
stuck out.
Cup
of
tea
soon. Good.
Mouth
dry. The
cat
walked stiffly round
a
leg
of
the table
with
tail
on
high. —Mkgnao! —O, there
you
are, Mr
Bloom
said, turning
from
the fire. The
cat
mewed
in
answer
and
stalked
again
stiffly round
a
leg
of
the table, mewing.
Just
how
she
stalks
over
my writingtable. Prr.
Scratch
my head. Prr. Mr
Bloom
watched curiously,
kindly
the
lithe
black
form. Clean
to
see: the gloss
of
her sleek hide, the
white
button
under the
butt
of
her tail, the
green
flashing eyes.
He
bent
down
to
her,
his
hands
on
his
knees. —Milk
for
the pussens,
he
said. —Mrkgnao! the
cat
cried.
They
call
them
stupid.
They
understand
what
we
say
better
than
we
understand
them.
She
understands all
she
wants to.
Vindictive
too. Cruel. Her nature.
Curious
mice
never
squeal.
Seem
to
like
it.
Wonder
what
I
look
like
to
her.
Height
of
a
tower? No,
she
can
jump me. —Afraid
of
the chickens
she
is,
he
said mockingly.
Afraid
of
the chookchooks. I
never
saw
such
a
stupid
pussens
as
the pussens. Cruel. Her nature.
Curious
mice
never
squeal.
Seem
to
like
it. —Mrkrgnao! the
cat
said loudly.
She
blinked
up
out
of
her
avid
shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively
and
long, showing
him
her milkwhite teeth.
He
watched the dark eyeslits narrowing
with
greed
till
her eyes
were
green
stones.
Then
he
went
to
the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had
just
filled
for
him, poured warmbubbled
milk
on
a
saucer
and
set
it
slowly
on
the floor. —Gurrhr!
she
cried, running
to
lap.
He
watched the bristles shining wirily
in
the
weak
light
as
she
tipped
three
times
and
licked lightly.
Wonder
is
it
true
if
you
clip
them
they
can't
mouse
after. Why?
They
shine
in
the dark, perhaps, the tips.
Or
kind
of
feelers
in
the dark, perhaps.
He
listened
to
her licking lap.
Ham
and
eggs, no. No
good
eggs
with
this
drouth.
Want
pure
fresh
water. Thursday: not
a
good
day
either
for
a
mutton
kidney
at
Buckley's. Fried
with
butter,
a
shake
of
pepper.
Better
a
pork
kidney
at
Dlugacz's.
While
the
kettle
is
boiling.
She
lapped slower,
then
licking the
saucer
clean.
Why
are
their
tongues
so
rough?
To
lap
better, all
porous
holes.
Nothing
she
can
eat?
He
glanced round him. No.
On
quietly creaky boots
he
went
up
the staircase
to
the hall, paused
by
the bedroom door.
She
might
like
something
tasty.
Thin
bread
and
butter
she
likes
in
the morning.
Still
perhaps:
once
in
a
way.
He
said softly
in
the
bare
hall: —I'm going round the corner.
Be
back
in
a
minute.
And
when
he
had heard
his
voice
say
it
he
added: —You don't
want
anything
for
breakfast?
A
sleepy
soft
grunt
answered: —Mn. No.
She
didn't
want
anything.
He
heard
then
a
warm
heavy sigh, softer,
as
she
turned
over
and
the
loose
brass
quoits
of
the bedstead jingled.
Must
get
those
settled really. Pity. All the
way
from
Gibraltar. Forgotten
any
little
Spanish
she
knew.
Wonder
what
her father gave
for
it.
Old
style. Ah yes!
of
course. Bought
it
at
the governor's auction. Got
a
short
knock.
Hard
as
nails
at
a
bargain,
old
Tweedy. Yes, sir.
At
Plevna
that
was. I
rose
from
the ranks, sir,
and
I'm
proud
of
it.
Still
he
had brains
enough
to
make
that
corner
in
stamps.
Now
that
was
farseeing.
His
hand
took
his
hat
from
the
peg
over
his
initialled heavy overcoat
and
his
lost
property
office
secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Daresay lots
of
officers
are
in
the swim too.
Course
they
do. The sweated
legend
in
the
crown
of
his
hat
told
him
mutely: Plasto's high grade ha.
He
peeped
quickly
inside
the
leather
headband.
White
slip
of
paper.
Quite
safe.
On
the doorstep
he
felt
in
his
hip
pocket
for
the latchkey. Not there.
In
the
trousers
I
left
off.
Must
get
it.
Potato
I have. Creaky wardrobe. No
use
disturbing her.
She
turned
over
sleepily
that
time.
He
pulled the halldoor
to
after
him
very
quietly, more,
till
the footleaf dropped gently
over
the threshold,
a
limp lid. Looked shut. All
right
till
I
come
back
anyhow.
He
crossed
to
the
bright
side, avoiding the
loose
cellarflap
of
number
seventyfive. The
sun
was
nearing the
steeple
of
George's church.
Be
a
warm
day
I fancy. Specially
in
these
black
clothes
feel
it
more.
Black
conducts, reflects, (refracts
is
it?), the heat. But I couldn't
go
in
that
light
suit.
Make
a
picnic
of
it.
His
eyelids sank quietly
often
as
he
walked
in
happy
warmth. Boland's breadvan delivering
with
trays
our
daily
but
she
prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Makes
you
feel young. Somewhere
in
the east:
early
morning:
set
off
at
dawn. Travel round
in
front
of
the sun,
steal
a
day's
march
on
him.
Keep
it
up
for
ever
never
grow
a
day
older technically. Walk
along
a
strand,
strange
land,
come
to
a
city
gate, sentry there,
old
ranker too,
old
Tweedy's
big
moustaches, leaning
on
a
long
kind
of
a
spear.
Wander
through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves
of
carpet shops,
big
man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking
a
coiled pipe. Cries
of
sellers
in
the streets.
Drink
water
scented
with
fennel, sherbet.
Dander
along
all day.
Might
meet
a
robber
or
two. Well, meet him. Getting
on
to
sundown. The shadows
of
the mosques
among
the pillars:
priest
with
a
scroll rolled up.
A
shiver
of
the trees, signal, the
evening
wind. I pass on. Fading
gold
sky.
A
mother watches
me
from
her doorway.
She
calls her children
home
in
their
dark language. High wall:
beyond
strings twanged.
Night
sky, moon, violet, colour
of
Molly's
new
garters. Strings. Listen.
A
girl
playing
one
of
those
instruments
what
do
you
call
them: dulcimers. I pass.
He
approached Larry O'Rourke's.
From
the
cellar
grating floated
up
the flabby
gush
of
porter. Through the
open
doorway the
bar
squirted
out
whiffs
of
ginger, teadust, biscuitmush.
Good
house, however:
just
the
end
of
the
city
traffic.
For
instance
M'Auley's
down
there: n. g.
as
position.
Of
course
if
they
ran
a
tramline
along
the North Circular
from
the cattlemarket
to
the quays
value
would
go
up
like
a
shot. Baldhead
over
the blind.
Cute
old
codger. No
use
canvassing
him
for
an ad.
Still
he
knows
his
own
business
best. There
he
is,
sure
enough, my
bold
Larry, leaning against the sugarbin
in
his
shirtsleeves watching the aproned
curate
swab
up
with
mop
and
bucket. Simon Dedalus takes
him
off
to
a
tee
with
his
eyes screwed up.
Do
you
know
what
I'm going
to
tell
you? What's that, Mr O'Rourke?
Do
you
know
what? The Russians, they'd
only
be
an
eight
o'clock
breakfast
for
the Japanese. Stop
and
say
a
word:
about
the
funeral
perhaps.
Sad
thing
about
poor
Dignam, Mr O'Rourke. Turning
into
Dorset
street
he
said freshly
in
greeting
through the doorway: —Good day, Mr O'Rourke. —Good
day
to
you. —Lovely weather, sir. —'Tis all that.
Where
do
they
get
the money? Coming
up
redheaded curates
from
the
county
Leitrim, rinsing empties
and
old
man
in
the cellar. Then,
lo
and
behold,
they
blossom
out
as
Adam Findlaters
or
Dan Tallons.
Then
thin
of
the competition.
General
thirst.
Good
puzzle would
be
cross
Dublin without passing
a
pub. Save
it
they
can't.
Off
the drunks perhaps.
Put
down
three
and
carry five.
What
is
that,
a
bob
here
and
there, dribs
and
drabs.
On
the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing
a
double
shuffle
with
the
town
travellers.
Square
it
you
with
the boss
and
we'll split the job, see?
How
much
would
that
tot
to
off
the porter
in
the month?
Say
ten barrels
of
stuff.
Say
he
got ten
per
cent
off. O more. Fifteen.
He
passed Saint Joseph's
National
school. Brats' clamour. Windows open.
Fresh
air helps memory.
Or
a
lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. Boys
are
they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin.
At
their
joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom.
He
halted before Dlugacz's window, staring
at
the hanks
of
sausages, polonies,
black
and
white.
Fifteen
multiplied by. The figures whitened
in
his
mind, unsolved: displeased,
he
let
them
fade. The shiny links, packed
with
forcemeat, fed
his
gaze
and
he
breathed
in
tranquilly the lukewarm
breath
of
cooked spicy pigs' blood.
A
kidney
oozed bloodgouts
on
the willowpatterned dish: the last.
He
stood
by
the nextdoor
girl
at
the counter. Would
she
buy
it
too, calling the items
from
a
slip
in
her hand? Chapped: washingsoda.
And
a
pound
and
a
half
of
Denny's sausages.
His
eyes rested
on
her
vigorous
hips. Woods
his
name
is.
Wonder
what
he
does.
Wife
is
oldish.
New
blood. No followers allowed.
Strong
pair
of
arms. Whacking
a
carpet
on
the clothesline.
She
does whack it,
by
George. The
way
her crooked
skirt
swings
at
each
whack. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages
he
had snipped
off
with
blotchy fingers, sausagepink.
Sound
meat
there:
like
a
stallfed heifer.
He
took
a
page
up
from
the
pile
of
cut
sheets: the
model
farm
at
Kinnereth
on
the lakeshore
of
Tiberias.
Can
become
ideal
winter
sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I
thought
he
was. Farmhouse,
wall
round it, blurred
cattle
cropping.
He
held the
page
from
him: interesting: read
it
nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle, the
page
rustling.
A
young
white
heifer.
Those
mornings
in
the cattlemarket, the beasts lowing
in
their
pens, branded sheep, flop
and
fall
of
dung, the breeders
in
hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping
a
palm
on
a
ripemeated hindquarter, there's
a
prime one, unpeeled switches
in
their
hands.
He
held the
page
aslant patiently, bending
his
senses
and
his
will,
his
soft
subject
gaze
at
rest. The crooked
skirt
swinging, whack
by
whack
by
whack. The porkbutcher snapped
two
sheets
from
the pile, wrapped
up
her prime sausages
and
made
a
red
grimace. —Now, my miss,
he
said.
She
tendered
a
coin, smiling boldly, holding her
thick
wrist
out. —Thank you, my miss.
And
one
shilling
threepence change.
For
you, please? Mr
Bloom
pointed quickly.
To
catch
up
and
walk
behind
her
if
she
went slowly,
behind
her moving hams.
Pleasant
to
see
first
thing
in
the morning. Hurry up,
damn
it.
Make
hay
while
the
sun
shines.
She
stood outside the shop
in
sunlight
and
sauntered lazily
to
the right.
He
sighed
down
his
nose:
they
never
understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted toenails too. Brown scapulars
in
tatters, defending her both ways. The
sting
of
disregard glowed
to
weak
pleasure within
his
breast.
For
another:
a
constable
off
duty
cuddling her
in
Eccles lane.
They
like
them
sizeable. Prime sausage. O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost
in
the wood. —Threepence, please.
His
hand
accepted the
moist
tender
gland
and
slid
it
into
a
sidepocket.
Then
it
fetched
up
three
coins
from
his
trousers'
pocket
and
laid
them
on
the
rubber
prickles.
They
lay,
were
read
quickly
and
quickly
slid,
disc
by
disc,
into
the till. —Thank you, sir.
Another
time.
A
speck
of
eager
fire
from
foxeyes thanked him.
He
withdrew
his
gaze
after
an instant. No:
better
not:
another
time. —Good morning,
he
said, moving away. —Good morning, sir. No sign. Gone.
What
matter?
He
walked
back
along
Dorset street,
reading
gravely. Agendath Netaim: planters' company.
To
purchase
waste
sandy tracts
from
Turkish
government
and
plant
with
eucalyptus
trees.
Excellent
for
shade, fuel
and
construction. Orangegroves
and
immense
melonfields north
of
Jaffa.
You
pay
eighty
marks
and
they
plant
a
dunam
of
land
for
you
with
olives, oranges, almonds
or
citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges
need
artificial
irrigation.
Every
year
you
get
a
sending
of
the crop. Your
name
entered
for
life
as
owner
in
the
book
of
the union.
Can
pay
ten
down
and
the
balance
in
yearly
instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15.
Nothing
doing.
Still
an
idea
behind
it.
He
looked
at
the cattle, blurred
in
silver
heat. Silverpowdered olivetrees.
Quiet
long
days: pruning, ripening. Olives
are
packed
in
jars, eh? I
have
a
few
left
from
Andrews.
Molly
spitting
them
out. Knows the
taste
of
them
now. Oranges
in
tissue
paper packed
in
crates. Citrons too.
Wonder
is
poor
Citron
still
in
Saint Kevin's parade.
And
Mastiansky
with
the
old
cither.
Pleasant
evenings
we
had then.
Molly
in
Citron's basketchair.
Nice
to
hold, cool
waxen
fruit,
hold
in
the hand, lift
it
to
the nostrils
and
smell
the perfume.
Like
that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume.
Always
the same,
year
after
year.
They
fetched high prices too, Moisel told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street:
pleasant
old
times.
Must
be
without
a
flaw,
he
said. Coming all
that
way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined
up
on
the quayside
at
Jaffa, chap
ticking
them
off
in
a
book, navvies
handling
them
barefoot
in
soiled dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim
out
of.
How
do
you? Doesn't see. Chap
you
know
just
to
salute
bit
of
a
bore.
His
back
is
like
that
Norwegian captain's.
Wonder
if
I'll meet
him
today.
Watering
cart.
To
provoke
the rain.
On
earth
as
it
is
in
heaven.
A
cloud
began
to
cover the
sun
slowly, wholly. Grey. Far. No, not
like
that.
A
barren
land,
bare
waste. Vulcanic lake, the
dead
sea: no fish, weedless, sunk
deep
in
the earth. No wind
could
lift
those
waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters.
Brimstone
they
called
it
raining down: the cities
of
the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All
dead
names.
A
dead
sea
in
a
dead
land, grey
and
old.
Old
now.
It
bore the oldest, the first race.
A
bent
hag
crossed
from
Cassidy's, clutching
a
naggin bottle
by
the neck. The oldest people. Wandered
far
away
over
all the earth,
captivity
to
captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere.
It
lay
there now.
Now
it
could
bear
no more. Dead: an
old
woman's: the grey sunken
cunt
of
the world. Desolation. Grey
horror
seared
his
flesh. Folding the
page
into
his
pocket
he
turned
into
Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid
along
his
veins, chilling
his
blood:
age
crusting
him
with
a
salt
cloak. Well, I
am
here now. Yes, I
am
here now.
Morning
mouth
bad
images. Got
up
wrong
side
of
the bed.
Must
begin
again
those
Sandow's exercises.
On
the hands down. Blotchy brown
brick
houses.
Number
eighty
still
unlet.
Why
is
that?
Valuation
is
only
twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered
with
bills. Plasters
on
a
sore
eye.
To
smell
the
gentle
smoke
of
tea,
fume
of
the pan, sizzling butter.
Be
near
her
ample
bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes.
Quick
warm
sunlight
came running
from
Berkeley road, swiftly,
in
slim sandals,
along
the brightening footpath. Runs,
she
runs
to
meet me,
a
girl
with
gold
hair
on
the wind.
Two
letters
and
a
card
lay
on
the hallfloor.
He
stooped
and
gathered them. Mrs Marion Bloom.
His
quickened
heart
slowed
at
once.
Bold
hand. Mrs Marion. —Poldy! Entering the bedroom
he
halfclosed
his
eyes
and
walked through
warm
yellow
twilight
towards
her tousled head. —Who
are
the letters for?
He
looked
at
them. Mullingar. Milly. —A
letter
for
me
from
Milly,
he
said carefully,
and
a
card
to
you.
And
a
letter
for
you.
He
laid her
card
and
letter
on
the
twill
bedspread
near
the curve
of
her knees. —Do
you
want
the blind up? Letting the blind
up
by
gentle
tugs halfway
his
backward
eye
saw
her glance
at
the
letter
and
tuck
it
under her pillow. —That do?
he
asked, turning.
She
was
reading
the card, propped
on
her elbow. —She got the things,
she
said.
He
waited
till
she
had laid the
card
aside
and
curled herself
back
slowly
with
a
snug
sigh. —Hurry
up
with
that
tea,
she
said. I'm parched. —The
kettle
is
boiling,
he
said. But
he
delayed
to
clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen:
and
lifted all
in
an armful
on
to
the
foot
of
the bed.
As
he
went
down
the
kitchen
stairs
she
called: —Poldy! —What? —Scald the teapot.
On
the
boil
sure
enough:
a
plume
of
steam
from
the spout.
He
scalded
and
rinsed
out
the teapot
and
put
in
four
full
spoons
of
tea, tilting the
kettle
then
to
let
the
water
flow in. Having
set
it
to
draw
he
took
off
the kettle, crushed the
pan
flat
on
the
live
coals
and
watched the lump
of
butter
slide
and
melt.
While
he
unwrapped the
kidney
the
cat
mewed hungrily against him.
Give
her
too
much
meat
she
won't mouse.
Say
they
won't
eat
pork. Kosher. Here.
He
let
the bloodsmeared paper
fall
to
her
and
dropped the
kidney
amid
the sizzling
butter
sauce. Pepper.
He
sprinkled
it
through
his
fingers ringwise
from
the chipped eggcup.
Then
he
slit
open
his
letter, glancing
down
the
page
and
over. Thanks:
new
tam: Mr Coghlan:
lough
Owel picnic:
young
student: Blazes Boylan's
seaside
girls. The
tea
was
drawn.
He
filled
his
own
moustachecup, sham
crown
Derby, smiling.
Silly
Milly's
birthday
gift.
Only
five
she
was
then. No, wait: four. I gave her the amberoid necklace
she
broke. Putting pieces
of
folded brown paper
in
the letterbox
for
her.
He
smiled, pouring.
Poor
old
professor
Goodwin. Dreadful
old
case.
Still
he
was
a
courteous
old
chap. Oldfashioned
way
he
used
to
bow
Molly
off
the platform.
And
the
little
mirror
in
his
silk
hat. The
night
Milly brought
it
into
the parlour. O,
look
what
I found
in
professor
Goodwin's hat! All
we
laughed.
Sex
breaking
out
even
then.
Pert
little
piece
she
was.
He
prodded
a
fork
into
the
kidney
and
slapped
it
over:
then
fitted the teapot
on
the tray. Its
hump
bumped
as
he
took
it
up. Everything
on
it? Bread
and
butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes.
He
carried
it
upstairs,
his
thumb
hooked
in
the teapot handle. Nudging the
door
open
with
his
knee
he
carried the
tray
in
and
set
it
on
the chair
by
the bedhead. —What
a
time
you
were!
she
said.
She
set
the brasses jingling
as
she
raised herself briskly, an elbow
on
the pillow.
He
looked calmly
down
on
her bulk
and
between
her
large
soft
bubs, sloping within her nightdress
like
a
shegoat's udder. The
warmth
of
her couched
body
rose
on
the air, mingling
with
the
fragrance
of
the
tea
she
poured.
A
strip
of
torn
envelope
peeped
from
under the dimpled pillow.
In
the
act
of
going
he
stayed
to
straighten
the bedspread. —Who
was
the
letter
from?
he
asked.
Bold
hand. Marion. —O, Boylan,
she
said. He's bringing the programme. —What
are
you
singing? Her
full
lips, drinking, smiled.
Rather
stale
smell
that
incense
leaves
next
day.
Like
foul
flowerwater. —Would
you
like
the
window
open
a
little?
She
doubled
a
slice
of
bread
into
her mouth, asking: —What
time
is
the funeral? —Eleven, I think,
he
answered. I didn't
see
the paper.
Following
the pointing
of
her
finger
he
took
up
a
leg
of
her soiled drawers
from
the bed. No? Then,
a
twisted grey
garter
looped round
a
stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. —No:
that
book.
Other
stocking. Her petticoat. —It
must
have
fell
down,
she
said. —Show here,
she
said. I
put
a
mark
in
it. There's
a
word
I wanted
to
ask
you.
She
swallowed
a
draught
of
tea
from
her
cup
held
by
nothandle and, having wiped her fingertips smartly
on
the blanket, began
to
search
the text
with
the
hairpin
till
she
reached the word. —Met
him
what?
he
asked. —Here,
she
said.
What
does
that
mean?
He
leaned
downward
and
read
near
her polished thumbnail. —Metempsychosis? —Yes. Who's
he
when
he's
at
home? —Metempsychosis,
he
said, frowning. It's Greek:
from
the Greek.
That
means
the
transmigration
of
souls. —O, rocks!
she
said.
Tell
us
in
plain
words. —Did
you
finish it?
he
asked. —Yes,
she
said. There's
nothing
smutty
in
it.
Is
she
in
love
with
the first
fellow
all the time? —Never read it.
Do
you
want
another? —Yes.
Get
another
of
Paul
de
Kock's.
Nice
name
he
has.
She
poured
more
tea
into
her cup, watching
it
flow sideways.
Must
get
that
Capel
street
library
book
renewed
or
they'll
write
to
Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that's the word. —Some
people
believe,
he
said,
that
we
go
on
living
in
another
body
after
death,
that
we
lived before.
They
call
it
reincarnation.
That
we
all lived before
on
the
earth
thousands
of
years
ago
or
some
other
planet.
They
say
we
have
forgotten it.
Some
say
they
remember
their
past lives. The
sluggish
cream
wound
curdling spirals through her tea.
Better
remind her
of
the word: metempsychosis. An
example
would
be
better. An example?
He
turned the pages back. —Metempsychosis,
he
said,
is
what
the
ancient
Greeks called it.
They
used
to
believe
you
could
be
changed
into
an animal
or
a
tree,
for
instance.
What
they
called nymphs,
for
example. Her spoon ceased
to
stir
up
the sugar.
She
gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. —There's
a
smell
of
burn,
she
said.
Did
you
leave
anything
on
the fire? —The kidney!
he
cried suddenly.
He
fitted the
book
roughly
into
his
inner
pocket
and, stubbing
his
toes against the
broken
commode, hurried
out
towards
the smell, stepping hastily
down
the stairs
with
a
flurried stork's legs.
Pungent
smoke
shot
up
in
an
angry
jet
from
a
side
of
the pan.
By
prodding
a
prong
of
the fork under the
kidney
he
detached
it
and
turned
it
turtle
on
its back.
Only
a
little
burnt.
He
tossed
it
off
the
pan
on
to
a
plate
and
let
the scanty brown
gravy
trickle
over
it.
Cup
of
tea
now.
He
sat down,
cut
and
buttered
a
slice
of
the loaf.
He
shore
away
the burnt flesh
and
flung
it
to
the cat.
Then
he
put
a
forkful
into
his
mouth, chewing
with
discernment the toothsome
pliant
meat. Done
to
a
turn.
A
mouthful
of
tea.
Then
he
cut
away
dies
of
bread, sopped
one
in
the
gravy
and
put
it
in
his
mouth.
What
was
that
about
some
young
student
and
a
picnic?
He
creased
out
the
letter
at
his
side,
reading
it
slowly
as
he
chewed, sopping
another
die
of
bread
in
the
gravy
and
raising
it
to
his
mouth. Dearest Papli
Thanks
ever
so
much
for
the
lovely
birthday
present.
It
suits
me
splendid. Everyone says I
am
quite
the
belle
in
my
new
tam. I got mummy's Iovely
box
of
creams
and
am
writing.
They
are
lovely. I
am
getting
on
swimming
in
the photo
business
now. Mr Coghlan took
one
of
me
and
Mrs.
Will
send
when
developed.
We
did
great
biz
yesterday.
Fair
day
and
all the
beef
to
the heels
were
in.
We
are
going
to
lough
Owel
on
Monday
with
a
few
friends
to
make
a
scrap picnic.
Give
my
love
to
mummy
and
to
yourself
a
big
kiss
and
thanks. I
hear
them
at
the
piano
downstairs. There
is
to
be
a
concert
in
the Greville Arms
on
Saturday. There
is
a
young
student
comes here
some
evenings named Bannon
his
cousins
or
something
are
big
swells
and
he
sings Boylan's (I
was
on
the pop
of
writing
Blazes Boylan's)
song
about
those
seaside
girls.
Tell
him
silly
Milly sends my
best
respects. I
must
now
close
with
fondest
love
Your
fond
daughter, MILLY. P. S.
Excuse
bad
writing
am
in
hurry. Byby. M.
Fifteen
yesterday. Curious,
fifteenth
of
the
month
too. Her first
birthday
away
from
home. Separation.
Remember
the
summer
morning
she
was
born, running
to
knock
up
Mrs Thornton
in
Denzille street.
Jolly
old
woman.
Lot
of
babies
she
must
have
helped
into
the world.
She
knew
from
the first
poor
little
Rudy wouldn't live. Well,
God
is
good, sir.
She
knew
at
once.
He
would
be
eleven
now
if
he
had lived.
His
vacant
face stared pityingly
at
the postscript.
Excuse
bad
writing. Hurry.
Piano
downstairs. Coming
out
of
her shell.
Row
with
her
in
the XL
Cafe
about
the bracelet. Wouldn't
eat
her cakes
or
speak
or
look. Saucebox.
He
sopped
other
dies
of
bread
in
the
gravy
and
ate
piece
after
piece
of
kidney.
Twelve
and
six
a
week. Not much. Still,
she
might
do
worse.
Music
hall
stage.
Young
student.
He
drank
a
draught
of
cooler
tea
to
wash
down
his
meal.
Then
he
read the
letter
again: twice. O, well:
she
knows
how
to
mind
herself. But
if
not? No,
nothing
has happened.
Of
course
it
might.
Wait
in
any
case
till
it
does.
A
wild
piece
of
goods. Her slim legs running
up
the staircase. Destiny. Ripening now. Vain: very.
Seaside
girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck
in
his
trousers' pockets, jarvey
off
for
the day, singing.
Friend
of
the family. Swurls,
he
says.
Pier
with
lamps,
summer
evening, band, Milly too.
Young
kisses: the first.
Far
away
now
past. Mrs Marion. Reading, lying
back
now, counting the strands
of
her hair, smiling, braiding.
A
soft
qualm, regret, flowed
down
his
backbone, increasing.
Will
happen, yes. Prevent. Useless: can't move. Girl's
sweet
light
lips.
Will
happen
too.
He
felt the flowing
qualm
spread
over
him. Useless
to
move
now. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed.
Full
gluey woman's lips.
Better
where
she
is
down
there: away.
Occupy
her. Wanted
a
dog
to
pass the time.
Might
take
a
trip
down
there.
August
bank
holiday,
only
two
and
six
return.
Six
weeks off, however.
Might
work
a
press
pass.
Or
through M'Coy. The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned
to
the meatstained paper, nosed
at
it
and
stalked
to
the door.
She
looked
back
at
him, mewing. Wants
to
go
out.
Wait
before
a
door
sometime
it
will
open.
Let
her wait. Has the fidgets. Electric.
Thunder
in
the air.
Was
washing
at
her
ear
with
her
back
to
the
fire
too.
He
felt heavy, full:
then
a
gentle
loosening
of
his
bowels.
He
stood up, undoing the waistband
of
his
trousers. The
cat
mewed
to
him. —Miaow!
he
said
in
answer.
Wait
till
I'm ready. Heaviness:
hot
day
coming.
Too
much
trouble
to
fag
up
the stairs
to
the landing.
A
paper.
He
liked
to
read
at
stool.
Hope
no
ape
comes knocking
just
as
I'm. Listening,
he
heard her voice: —Come, come, pussy. Come.
He
went
out
through the backdoor
into
the garden: stood
to
listen
towards
the
next
garden. No sound.
Perhaps
hanging
clothes
out
to
dry. The
maid
was
in
the garden.
Fine
morning.
He
bent
down
to
regard
a
lean
file
of
spearmint
growing
by
the wall.
Make
a
summerhouse here.
Scarlet
runners. Virginia creepers.
Want
to
manure the
whole
place
over, scabby soil.
A
coat
of
liver
of
sulphur. All
soil
like
that
without dung. Household slops. Loam,
what
is
this
that
is? The hens
in
the
next
garden:
their
droppings
are
very
good
top
dressing.
Best
of
all though
are
the cattle, especially
when
they
are
fed
on
those
oilcakes. Mulch
of
dung.
Best
thing
to
clean ladies'
kid
gloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes too.
Reclaim
the
whole
place.
Grow
peas
in
that
corner
there. Lettuce.
Always
have
fresh
greens
then.
Still
gardens
have
their
drawbacks.
That
bee
or
bluebottle here Whitmonday.
He
walked on.
Where
is
my hat,
by
the way?
Must
have
put
it
back
on
the peg.
Or
hanging
up
on
the floor. Funny I don't
remember
that. Hallstand
too
full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking
up
the letters. Drago's shopbell ringing. Queer I
was
just
thinking
that
moment. Brown brillantined
hair
over
his
collar.
Just
had
a
wash
and
brushup.
Wonder
have
I
time
for
a
bath
this
morning. Tara street. Chap
in
the paybox there got
away
James Stephens,
they
say. O'Brien.
Deep
voice
that
fellow
Dlugacz has. Agendath
what
is
it? Now, my miss. Enthusiast.
He
kicked
open
the crazy
door
of
the jakes.
Better
be
careful
not
to
get
these
trousers
dirty
for
the funeral.
He
went in, bowing
his
head
under the
low
lintel. Leaving the
door
ajar,
amid
the
stench
of
mouldy limewash
and
stale cobwebs
he
undid
his
braces. Before sitting
down
he
peered through
a
chink
up
at
the nextdoor windows. The
king
was
in
his
countinghouse. Nobody.
Might
manage
a
sketch.
By
Mr
and
Mrs L. M. Bloom.
Invent
a
story
for
some
proverb. Which?
Time
I used
to
try
jotting
down
on
my cuff
what
she
said dressing.
Dislike
dressing together. Nicked
myself
shaving. Biting her
nether
lip, hooking the placket
of
her skirt. Timing her. 9.l5.
Did
Roberts
pay
you
yet? 9.20.
What
had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23.
What
possessed
me
to
buy
this
comb? 9.24. I'm swelled
after
that
cabbage.
A
speck
of
dust
on
the patent
leather
of
her boot. Rubbing smartly
in
turn
each
welt
against her stockinged calf.
Morning
after
the
bazaar
dance
when
May's
band
played Ponchielli's dance
of
the hours.
Explain
that:
morning
hours, noon,
then
evening
coming on,
then
night
hours.
Washing
her teeth.
That
was
the first night. Her
head
dancing. Her fansticks clicking.
Is
that
Boylan
well
off?
He
has money. Why? I noticed
he
had
a
good
rich
smell
off
his
breath
dancing. No
use
humming then.
Allude
to
it.
Strange
kind
of
music
that
last
night. The
mirror
was
in
shadow.
She
rubbed her handglass briskly
on
her woollen
vest
against her
full
wagging bub. Peering
into
it. Lines
in
her eyes.
It
wouldn't
pan
out
somehow.
Evening
hours, girls
in
grey gauze.
Night
hours then:
black
with
daggers
and
eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink,
then
golden,
then
grey,
then
black. Still, true
to
life
also. Day:
then
the night.
He
tore
away
half the
prize
story
sharply
and
wiped
himself
with
it.
Then
he
girded
up
his
trousers, braced
and
buttoned himself.
He
pulled
back
the
jerky
shaky
door
of
the jakes
and
came
forth
from
the gloom
into
the air.
In
the
bright
light, lightened
and
cooled
in
limb,
he
eyed
carefully
his
black
trousers: the ends, the knees, the houghs
of
the knees.
What
time
is
the funeral?
Better
find
out
in
the paper.
A
creak
and
a
dark whirr
in
the air high up. The bells
of
George's church.
They
tolled the hour:
loud
dark iron.
Quarter
to. There again: the
overtone
following
through the air, third.
Poor
Dignam!