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