Opposite Ruggy O’Donohoe’s
Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the pound and
a half of Mangan’s, late Fehrenbach’s,
porksteaks he had been sent for, went along warm Wicklow
street dawdling. It was too blooming dull sitting
in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and Mrs
MacDowell and the blind down and they all at their
sniffles and sipping sups of the superior tawny sherry
uncle Barney brought from Tunney’s. And
they eating crumbs of the cottage fruitcake, jawing
the whole blooming time and sighing.
After Wicklow lane the window of Madame
Doyle, courtdress milliner, stopped him. He stood
looking in at the two puckers stripped to their pelts
and putting up their props. From the sidemirrors
two mourning Masters Dignam gaped silently. Myler
Keogh, Dublin’s pet lamb, will meet sergeantmajor
Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of fifty
sovereigns. Gob, that’d be a good pucking
match to see. Myler Keogh, that’s the chap
sparring out to him with the green sash. Two bar
entrance, soldiers half price. I could easy do
a bunk on ma. Master Dignam on his left turned
as he turned. That’s me in mourning.
When is it? May the twentysecond. Sure,
the blooming thing is all over. He turned to
the right and on his right Master Dignam turned, his
cap awry, his collar sticking up. Buttoning it
down, his chin lifted, he saw the image of Marie Kendall,
charming soubrette, beside the two puckers. One
of them mots that do be in the packets of fags Stoer
smokes that his old fellow welted hell out of him
for one time he found out.
Master Dignam got his collar down
and dawdled on. The best pucker going for strength
was Fitzsimons. One puck in the wind from that
fellow would knock you into the middle of next week,
man. But the best pucker for science was Jem
Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out
of him, dodging and all.
In Grafton street Master Dignam saw
a red flower in a toff’s mouth and a swell pair
of kicks on him and he listening to what the drunk
was telling him and grinning all the time.
No Sandymount tram.
Master Dignam walked along Nassau
street, shifted the porksteaks to his other hand.
His collar sprang up again and he tugged it down.
The blooming stud was too small for the buttonhole
of the shirt, blooming end to it. He met schoolboys
with satchels. I’m not going tomorrow either,
stay away till Monday. He met other schoolboys.
Do they notice I’m in mourning? Uncle Barney
said he’d get it into the paper tonight.
Then they’ll all see it in the paper and read
my name printed and pa’s name.
His face got all grey instead of being
red like it was and there was a fly walking over it
up to his eye. The scrunch that was when they
were screwing the screws into the coffin: and
the bumps when they were bringing it downstairs.
Pa was inside it and ma crying in
the parlour and uncle Barney telling the men how to
get it round the bend. A big coffin it was, and
high and heavylooking. How was that? The
last night pa was boosed he was standing on the landing
there bawling out for his boots to go out to Tunney’s
for to boose more and he looked butty and short in
his shirt. Never see him again. Death, that
is. Pa is dead. My father is dead. He
told me to be a good son to ma. I couldn’t
hear the other things he said but I saw his tongue
and his teeth trying to say it better. Poor pa.
That was Mr Dignam, my father. I hope he’s
in purgatory now because he went to confession to
Father Conroy on Saturday night.
William Humble, earl of Dudley, and
lady Dudley, accompanied by lieutenantcolonel Heseltine,
drove out after luncheon from the viceregal lodge.
In the following carriage were the honourable Mrs Paget,
Miss de Courcy and the honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C.
The cavalcade passed out by the lower
gate of Phoenix park saluted by obsequious policemen
and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern
quays. The viceroy was most cordially greeted
on his way through the metropolis. At Bloody
bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him
vainly from afar Between Queen’s and Whitworth
bridges lord Dudley’s viceregal carriages passed
and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B. L., M. A.,
who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M. E. White’s,
the pawnbroker’s, at the corner of Arran street
west stroking his nose with his forefinger, undecided
whether he should arrive at Phibsborough more quickly
by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on
foot through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone
terminus. In the porch of Four Courts Richie
Goulding with the costbag of Goulding, Collis and
Ward saw him with surprise. Past Richmond bridge
at the doorstep of the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor,
agent for the Patriotic Insurance Company, an elderly
female about to enter changed her plan and retracing
her steps by King’s windows smiled credulously
on the representative of His Majesty. From its
sluice in Wood quay wall under Tom Devan’s office
Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue of liquid
sewage. Above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel,
gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy’s head by Miss
Douce’s head watched and admired. On Ormond
quay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way from the greenhouse
for the subsheriff’s office, stood still in
midstreet and brought his hat low. His Excellency
graciously returned Mr Dedalus’ greeting.
From Cahill’s corner the reverend Hugh C. Love,
M.A., made obeisance unperceived, mindful of lords
deputies whose hands benignant had held of yore rich
advowsons. On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M’Coy,
taking leave of each other, watched the carriages
go by. Passing by Roger Greene’s office
and Dollard’s big red printinghouse Gerty MacDowell,
carrying the Catesby’s cork lino letters for
her father who was laid up, knew by the style it was
the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn’t
see what Her Excellency had on because the tram and
Spring’s big yellow furniture van had to stop
in front of her on account of its being the lord lieutenant.
Beyond Lundy Foot’s from the shaded door of Kavanagh’s
winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness
towards the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor
of Ireland. The Right Honourable William Humble,
earl of Dudley, G. C. V. O., passed Micky Anderson’s
all times ticking watches and Henry and James’s
wax smartsuited freshcheeked models, the gentleman
Henry, dernier cri James. Over against
Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the
approach of the cavalcade. Tom Rochford, seeing
the eyes of lady Dudley fixed on him, took his thumbs
quickly out of the pockets of his claret waistcoat
and doffed his cap to her. A charming soubrette,
great Marie Kendall, with dauby cheeks and lifted
skirt smiled daubily from her poster upon William Humble,
earl of Dudley, and upon lieutenantcolonel H. G. Heseltine,
and also upon the honourable Gerald Ward A. D. C.
From the window of the D. B. C. Buck Mulligan gaily,
and Haines gravely, gazed down on the viceregal equipage
over the shoulders of eager guests, whose mass of forms
darkened the chessboard whereon John Howard Parnell
looked intently. In Fownes’s street Dilly
Dedalus, straining her sight upward from Chardenal’s
first French primer, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes
spinning in the glare. John Henry Menton, filling
the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig
oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked
at in his fat left hand not feeling it. Where
the foreleg of King Billy’s horse pawed the
air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from
under the hoofs of the outriders. She shouted
in his ear the tidings. Understanding, he shifted
his tomes to his left breast and saluted the second
carriage. The honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C.,
agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. At Ponsonby’s
corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted
white flagons halted behind him, E.L.Y’S, while
outriders pranced past and carriages. Opposite
Pigott’s music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni,
professor of dancing &c, gaily apparelled, gravely
walked, outpassed by a viceroy and unobserved.
By the provost’s wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan,
stepping in tan shoes and socks with skyblue clocks
to the refrain of My girl’s a Yorkshire girl.
Blazes Boylan presented to the leaders’
skyblue frontlets and high action a skyblue tie, a
widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit
of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets
forgot to salute but he offered to the three ladies
the bold admiration of his eyes and the red flower
between his lips. As they drove along Nassau street
His Excellency drew the attention of his bowing consort
to the programme of music which was being discoursed
in College park. Unseen brazen highland laddies
blared and drumthumped after the cortege:
But though she’s a factory
lass And wears no fancy clothes. Baraabum.
Yet I’ve a sort of a Yorkshire relish
for My little Yorkshire rose. Baraabum.
Thither of the wall the quartermile
flat handicappers, M. C. Green, H. Shrift, T. M. Patey,
C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson,
C. Adderly and W. C. Huggard, started in pursuit.
Striding past Finn’s hotel Cashel Boyle O’Connor
Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce
eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr M.
E. Solomons in the window of the Austro-Hungarian
viceconsulate. Deep in Leinster street by Trinity’s
postern a loyal king’s man, Hornblower, touched
his tallyho cap. As the glossy horses pranced
by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam,
waiting, saw salutes being given to the gent with
the topper and raised also his new black cap with fingers
greased by porksteak paper. His collar too sprang
up. The viceroy, on his way to inaugurate the
Mirus bazaar in aid of funds for Mercer’s hospital,
drove with his following towards Lower Mount street.
He passed a blind stripling opposite Broadbent’s.
In Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a brown macintosh,
eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across
the viceroy’s path. At the Royal Canal bridge,
from his hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips
agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township.
At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted
themselves, an umbrella and a bag in which eleven cockles
rolled to view with wonder the lord mayor and lady
mayoress without his golden chain. On Northumberland
and Lansdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually
salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two small
schoolboys at the garden gate of the house said to
have been admired by the late queen when visiting
the Irish capital with her husband, the prince consort,
in 1849 and the salute of Almidano Artifoni’s
sturdy trousers swallowed by a closing door.
Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons,
steelyringing Imperthnthn thnthnthn.
Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips.
Horrid! And gold flushed more.
A husky fifenote blew.
Blew. Blue bloom is on the.
A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, rose of
Trilling, trilling: Idolores.
Peep! Who’s in the... peepofgold?
Tink cried to bronze in pity.
And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying
Decoy. Soft word. But look:
the bright stars fade. Notes chirruping answer.
O rose! Castile. The morn is breaking.
Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.
Coin rang. Clock clacked.
Avowal. Sonnez. I could.
Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack.
La cloche! Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm.
Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs.
War! War! The tympanum.
A sail! A veil awave upon the waves.
Lost. Throstle fluted. All is lost now.
When first he saw. Alas!
Full tup. Full throb.
Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring.
Clapclap. Clipclap. Clappyclap.
Goodgod henev erheard inall.
Deaf bald Pat brought pad knife took up.
A moonlit nightcall: far, far.
I feel so sad. P. S. So lonely blooming.
The spiked and winding cold seahorn.
Have you the? Each, and for other, plash and
Pearls: when she. Liszt’s rhapsodies.
Did not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd.
With a cock with a carra.
Black. Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do.
Wait while you wait. Hee hee. Wait while
Low in dark middle earth. Embedded ore.
Naminedamine. Preacher is he:
All gone. All fallen.
Tiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.
Amen! He gnashed in fury.
Fro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding.
Bronzelydia by Minagold.
By bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow.
Bloom. Old Bloom.
One rapped, one tapped, with a carra, with a cock.
Pray for him! Pray, good people!
His gouty fingers nakkering.
Big Benaben. Big Benben.
Last rose Castile of summer left bloom I feel so sad
Pwee! Little wind piped wee.
True men. Lid Ker Cow De and
Doll. Ay, ay. Like you men. Will lift
your tschink with tschunk.
Where bronze from anear? Where gold from afar?
Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.
Then not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be
Bronze by gold, miss Douce’s
head by miss Kennedy’s head, over the crossblind
of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofs go by,
Is that her? asked miss Kennedy.
Miss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex, pearl grey
and eau de Nil.
Exquisite contrast, miss Kennedy said.
When all agog miss Douce said eagerly:
Look at the fellow in the tall silk.
Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly.
In the second carriage,
miss Douce’s wet lips said, laughing in the
He’s looking. Mind till I see.
She darted, bronze, to the backmost
corner, flattening her face against the pane in a
halo of hurried breath.
Her wet lips tittered:
He’s killed looking back.
O wept! Aren’t men frightful
Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from
bright light, twining a loose hair behind an ear.
Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined
Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a
It’s them has the fine times, sadly
then she said.
Bloowho went by by Moulang’s
pipes bearing in his breast the sweets of sin, by
Wine’s antiques, in memory bearing sweet sinful
words, by Carroll’s dusky battered plate, for
The boots to them, them in the bar,
them barmaids came. For them unheeding
him he banged on the counter his tray of chattering
There’s your teas, he said.
Miss Kennedy with manners transposed
the teatray down to an upturned lithia crate, safe
from eyes, low.
What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.
Find out, miss Douce retorted, leaving
Your beau, is it?
A haughty bronze replied:
I’ll complain to
Mrs de Massey on you if I hear any more of your impertinent
bootssnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated as she
threatened as he had come.
On her flower frowning miss Douce said:
Most aggravating that young brat is.
If he doesn’t conduct himself
I’ll wring his ear for him a yard long.
Ladylike in exquisite contrast.
Take no notice, miss Kennedy rejoined.
She poured in a teacup tea, then back
in the teapot tea. They cowered under their reef
of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned,
waiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their
blouses, both of black satin, two and nine a yard,
waiting for their teas to draw, and two and seven.
Yes, bronze from anear, by gold from
afar, heard steel from anear, hoofs ring from afar,
and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel.
Am I awfully sunburnt?
Miss bronze unbloused her neck.
No, said miss Kennedy.
It gets brown after. Did you try the borax with
the cherry laurel water?
Miss Douce halfstood to see her skin
askance in the barmirror gildedlettered where hock
and claret glasses shimmered and in their midst a
And leave it to my hands, she said.
Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedy
Bidding her neck and hands adieu miss Douce
Those things only bring
out a rash, replied, reseated. I asked that old
fogey in Boyd’s for something for my skin.
Miss Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, grimaced
O, don’t remind me of him for mercy’
But wait till I tell you, miss Douce entreated.
Sweet tea miss Kennedy having poured
with milk plugged both two ears with little fingers.
No, don’t, she cried.
I won’t listen, she cried.
Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey’s tone:
For your what? says he.
Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to
hear, to speak: but said, but prayed again:
Don’t let me think
of him or I’ll expire. The hideous old wretch!
That night in the Antient Concert Rooms.
She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip,
sipped, sweet tea.
Here he was, miss Douce
said, cocking her bronze head three quarters, ruffling
her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa!
Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from
miss Kennedy’s throat. Miss Douce huffed
and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn
like a snout in quest.
O! shrieking, miss Kennedy
cried. Will you ever forget his goggle eye?
Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, shouting:
And your other eye!
Bloowhose dark eye read Aaron Figatner’s
name. Why do I always think Figather? Gathering
figs, I think. And Prosper Lore’s huguenot
name. By Bassi’s blessed virgins Bloom’s
dark eyes went by. Bluerobed, white under, come
to me. God they believe she is: or goddess.
Those today. I could not see. That fellow
spoke. A student. After with Dedalus’
son. He might be Mulligan. All comely virgins.
That brings those rakes of fellows in: her white.
By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet
are the sweets.
In a giggling peal young goldbronze
voices blended, Douce with Kennedy your other eye.
They threw young heads back, bronze gigglegold, to
let freefly their laughter, screaming, your other,
signals to each other, high piercing notes.
Ah, panting, sighing, sighing, ah, fordone, their
mirth died down.
Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again,
raised, drank a sip and gigglegiggled. Miss Douce,
bending over the teatray, ruffled again her nose and
rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles,
stooping, her fair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her
tortoise napecomb showed, spluttered out of her mouth
her tea, choking in tea and laughter, coughing with
O greasy eyes! Imagine being married
to a man like that! she cried.
With his bit of beard!
Douce gave full vent to a splendid
yell, a full yell of full woman, delight, joy, indignation.
Married to the greasy nose! she yelled.
Shrill, with deep laughter, after,
gold after bronze, they urged each each to peal after
peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze,
shrilldeep, to laughter after laughter. And then
laughed more. Greasy I knows. Exhausted,
breathless, their shaken heads they laid, braided and
pinnacled by glossycombed, against the counterledge.
All flushed (O!), panting, sweating (O!), all breathless.
Married to Bloom, to greaseabloom.
O saints above! miss Douce
said, sighed above her jumping rose. I wished
I hadn’t laughed so much. I feel all wet.
O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested.
You horrid thing!
And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly.
By Cantwell’s offices roved
Greaseabloom, by Ceppi’s virgins, bright of
their oils. Nannetti’s father hawked those
things about, wheedling at doors as I. Religion pays.
Must see him for that par. Eat first. I want.
Not yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing.
Clockhands turning. On. Where eat?
The Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul.
Eat. If I net five guineas with those ads.
The violet silk petticoats. Not yet. The
sweets of sin.
Flushed less, still less, goldenly paled.
Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus.
Chips, picking chips off one of his rocky thumbnails.
Chips. He strolled.
O, welcome back, miss Douce.
He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays?
He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor.
Gorgeous, she said.
Look at the holy show I am. Lying out on the
strand all day.
That was exceedingly naughty
of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed her hand indulgently.
Tempting poor simple males.
Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.
O go away! she said. You’re
very simple, I don’t think.
Well now I am, he mused.
I looked so simple in the cradle they christened me
You must have been a doaty,
miss Douce made answer. And what did the doctor
Well now, he mused, whatever
you say yourself. I think I’ll trouble
you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.
With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce
With grace of alacrity towards the
mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane’s she turned
herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold
whisky from her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt
of his coat Mr Dedalus brought pouch and pipe.
Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue
two husky fifenotes.
By Jove, he mused, I often
wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must be a
great tonic in the air down there. But a long
threatening comes at last, they say. Yes.
Yes. He fingered shreds of hair,
her maidenhair, her mermaid’s, into the bowl.
Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute.
None nought said nothing. Yes.
Gaily miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling:
O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas!
Was Mr Lidwell in today?
In came Lenehan. Round him peered
Lenehan. Mr Bloom reached Essex bridge.
Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha
I must write. Buy paper. Daly’s.
Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom.
Blue bloom is on the rye.
He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce said.
Lenehan came forward.
Was Mr Boylan looking for me?
He asked. She answered:
Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I
She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy
answered, a second teacup poised, her gaze upon a
No. He was not.
Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen,
read on. Lenehan round the sandwichbell wound
his round body round.
Peep! Who’s in the corner?
No glance of Kennedy rewarding him
he yet made overtures. To mind her stops.
To read only the black ones: round o and crooked
Jingle jaunty jingle.
Girlgold she read and did not glance.
Take no notice. She took no notice while he read
by rote a solfa fable for her, plappering flatly:
Ah fox met ah stork.
Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your
bill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone?
He droned in vain. Miss Douce turned to her tea
He sighed aside:
Ah me! O my!
He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod.
Greetings from the famous son of a famous
Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked.
Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who?
Who may he be? he asked. Can you
ask? Stephen, the youthful bard.
Mr Dedalus, famous father, laid by his dry filled
I see, he said. I
didn’t recognise him for the moment. I hear
he is keeping very select company. Have you seen
I quaffed the nectarbowl
with him this very day, said Lenehan. In Mooney’s
en ville and in Mooney’s sur mer.
He had received the rhino for the labour of his muse.
He smiled at bronze’s teabathed lips, at listening
lips and eyes:
The elite of Erin hung upon his
lips. The ponderous pundit, Hugh
MacHugh, Dublin’s most brilliant
scribe and editor and that minstrel boy of the wild
wet west who is known by the euphonious appellation
of the O’Madden Burke.
After an interval Mr Dedalus raised his grog and
That must have been highly diverting,
said he. I see.
He see. He drank. With faraway
mourning mountain eye. Set down his glass.
He looked towards the saloon door.
I see you have moved the piano.
The tuner was in today,
miss Douce replied, tuning it for the smoking concert
and I never heard such an exquisite player.
Is that a fact?
Didn’t he, miss
Kennedy? The real classical, you know. And
blind too, poor fellow. Not twenty I’m
sure he was.
Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said.
He drank and strayed away.
So sad to look at his face, miss Douce
God’s curse on bitch’s bastard.
Tink to her pity cried a diner’s
bell. To the door of the bar and diningroom came
bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter of Ormond.
Lager for diner. Lager without alacrity she served.
With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan
with impatience, for jinglejaunty blazes boy.
Upholding the lid he (who?) gazed
in the coffin (coffin?) at the oblique triple (piano!)
wires. He pressed (the same who pressed indulgently
her hand), soft pedalling, a triple of keys to see
the thicknesses of felt advancing, to hear the muffled
hammerfall in action.
Two sheets cream vellum paper one
reserve two envelopes when I was in Wisdom Hely’s
wise Bloom in Daly’s Henry Flower bought.
Are you not happy in your home? Flower to console
me and a pin cuts lo. Means something, language
of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is.
Respectable girl meet after mass. Thanks awfully
muchly. Wise Bloom eyed on the door a poster,
a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves. Smoke
mermaids, coolest whiff of all. Hair streaming:
lovelorn. For some man. For Raoul.
He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat riding
on a jaunting car. It is. Again. Third
Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted
from the bridge to Ormond quay. Follow.
Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now.
Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say.
Aha... I was forgetting... Excuse...
At four she. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhom smiled.
Bloo smi qui go.
Ternoon. Think you’re the only pebble on
the beach? Does that to all.
In drowsy silence gold bent on her page.
From the saloon a call came, long
in dying. That was a tuningfork the tuner had
that he forgot that he now struck. A call again.
That he now poised that it now throbbed. You
hear? It throbbed, pure, purer, softly and softlier,
its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.
Pat paid for diner’s popcorked
bottle: and over tumbler, tray and popcorked
bottle ere he went he whispered, bald and bothered,
The bright stars fade...
A voiceless song sang from within, singing:
... the morn is breaking.
A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright
treble answer under sensitive hands. Brightly
the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording,
called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn,
of youth, of love’s leavetaking, life’s,
The dewdrops pearl...
Lenehan’s lips over the counter lisped a low
whistle of decoy.
But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.
Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.
She rose and closed her reading, rose
of Castile: fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose.
Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked
She answered, slighting:
Ask no questions and you’ll hear
Like lady, ladylike.
Blazes Boylan’s smart tan shoes
creaked on the barfloor where he strode. Yes,
gold from anear by bronze from afar. Lenehan heard
and knew and hailed him:
See the conquering hero comes.
Between the car and window, warily
walking, went Bloom, unconquered hero. See me
he might. The seat he sat on: warm.
Black wary hecat walked towards Richie Goulding’s
legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting.
And I from thee...
I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.
He touched to fair miss Kennedy a
rim of his slanted straw. She smiled on him.
But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her
richer hair, a bosom and a rose.
Smart Boylan bespoke potions.
What’s your cry?
Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please, and
a sloegin for me. Wire in yet?
Not yet. At four she. Who said four?
Cowley’s red lugs and bulging apple in the door
of the sheriff’s office.
Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing
in the Ormond? Car waiting.
Hello. Where off to? Something
to eat? I too was just. In here. What,
Ormond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so?
Diningroom. Sit tight there. See, not be
seen. I think I’ll join you. Come on.
Richie led on. Bloom followed bag. Dinner
fit for a prince.
Miss Douce reached high to take a
flagon, stretching her satin arm, her bust, that all
but burst, so high.
O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at
each stretch. O!
But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.
Why don’t you grow? asked Blazes
Shebronze, dealing from her oblique
jar thick syrupy liquor for his lips, looked as it
flowed (flower in his coat: who gave him?), and
syrupped with her voice:
Fine goods in small parcels.
That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy
Here’s fortune, Blazes said.
He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.
Hold on, said Lenehan, till I...
Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled
Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.
I plunged a bit, said
Boylan winking and drinking. Not on my own, you
know. Fancy of a friend of mine.
Lenehan still drank and grinned at
his tilted ale and at miss Douce’s lips that
all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips had
Idolores. The eastern seas.
Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed
their way (flower, wonder who gave), bearing away
teatray. Clock clacked.
Miss Douce took Boylan’s coin,
struck boldly the cashregister. It clanged.
Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted
in the till and hummed and handed coins in change.
Look to the west. A clack. For me.
What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan.
Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming,
Let’s hear the time, he said.
The bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward
led Bloom by ryebloom flowered tables. Aimless
he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table
near the door. Be near. At four. Has
he forgotten? Perhaps a trick. Not come:
whet appetite. I couldn’t do. Wait,
wait. Pat, waiter, waited.
Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure’s skyblue
bow and eyes.
Go on, pressed Lenehan. There’s
no-one. He never heard.
... to Flora’s lips did hie.
High, a high note pealed in the treble clear.
Bronzedouce communing with her rose that sank and
Blazes Boylan’s flower and eyes.
He pleaded over returning phrases of avowal.
I could not leave thee...
Afterwits, miss Douce promised coyly.
No, now, urged Lenehan. Sonnezlacloche!
O do! There’s no-one.
She looked. Quick. Miss
Kenn out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two kindling
faces watched her bend.
Quavering the chords strayed from
the air, found it again, lost chord, and lost and
found it, faltering.
Go on! Do! Sonnez!
Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt
above her knee. Delayed. Taunted them still,
bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.
Smack. She set free sudden in
rebound her nipped elastic garter smackwarm against
her smackable a woman’s warmhosed thigh.
La Cloche! cried
gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No sawdust
She smilesmirked supercilious (wept!
aren’t men?), but, lightward gliding, mild she
smiled on Boylan.
You’re the essence of vulgarity,
she in gliding said.
Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to
fat lips his chalice, drank off his chalice tiny,
sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops. His
spellbound eyes went after, after her gliding head
as it went down the bar by mirrors, gilded arch for
ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a
spiky shell, where it concerted, mirrored, bronze with
Yes, bronze from anearby.
... Sweetheart, goodbye!
I’m off, said Boylan with impatience.
He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.
Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking
quickly. I wanted to tell you.
Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan,
Lenehan gulped to go.
Got the horn or what? he said. Wait.
He followed the hasty creaking shoes
but stood by nimbly by the threshold, saluting forms,
a bulky with a slender.
How do you do, Mr Dollard?
Eh? How do?
How do? Ben Dollard’s vague bass answered,
turning an instant from Father Cowley’s woe.
He won’t give you any trouble, Bob. Alf
Bergan will speak to the long fellow. We’ll
put a barleystraw in that Judas Iscariot’s ear
Sighing Mr Dedalus came through the saloon, a finger
soothing an eyelid.
Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard
yodled jollily. Come on, Simon. Give us a
ditty. We heard the piano.
Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited
for drink orders. Power for Richie. And
Bloom? Let me see. Not make him walk twice.
His corns. Four now. How warm this black
is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?)
heat. Let me see. Cider. Yes, bottle
What’s that? Mr Dedalus said.
I was only vamping, man.
Come on, come on, Ben Dollard called.
Begone dull care. Come, Bob.
He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before
them (hold that fellow with the: hold him now)
into the saloon. He plumped him Dollard on the
stool. His gouty paws plumped chords. Plumped,
Bald Pat in the doorway met tealess gold returning.
Bothered, he wanted
Power and cider. Bronze by the window, watched,
bronze from afar.
Jingle a tinkle jaunted.
Bloom heard a jing, a little sound.
He’s off. Light sob of breath Bloom sighed
on the silent bluehued flowers. Jingling.
He’s gone. Jingle. Hear.
Love and War, Ben, Mr Dedalus said.
God be with old times.
Miss Douce’s brave eyes, unregarded,
turned from the crossblind, smitten by sunlight.
Gone. Pensive (who knows?), smitten (the smiting
light), she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord.
She drew down pensive (why did he go so quick when
I?) about her bronze, over the bar where bald stood
by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast inexquisite
nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth
of shadow, eau de Nil.
Poor old Goodwin was the
pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded them.
There was a slight difference of opinion between himself
and the Collard grand.
A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said.
The devil wouldn’t stop him.
He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage
God, do you remember?
Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from the punished
keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment.
They laughed all three. He had
no wed. All trio laughed. No wedding garment.
Our friend Bloom turned
in handy that night, Mr Dedalus said. Where’s
my pipe, by the way?
He wandered back to the bar to the
lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried two diners’
drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowley laughed
I saved the situation, Ben, I think.
You did, averred Ben Dollard. I remember
those tight trousers too.
That was a brilliant idea, Bob.
Father Cowley blushed to his brilliant purply lobes.
He saved the situa.
Tight trou. Brilliant ide.
I knew he was on the rocks,
he said. The wife was playing the piano in the
coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration
and who was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the
other business? Do you remember? We had
to search all Holles street to find them till the
chap in Keogh’s gave us the number. Remember?
Ben remembered, his broad visage wondering.
By God, she had some luxurious operacloaks
and things there.
Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.
Merrion square style.
Balldresses, by God, and court dresses. He wouldn’t
take any money either. What? Any God’s
quantity of cocked hats and boléros and trunkhose.
Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded.
Mrs Marion Bloom has left off clothes of all descriptions.
Jingle jaunted down the quays.
Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres.
Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney
pie. Right, sir. Right, Pat.
Mrs Marion. Met him pike hoses.
Smell of burn. Of Paul de Kock. Nice name
What’s this her name was? A
buxom lassy. Marion...
Yes. Is she alive?
She was a daughter of...
Daughter of the regiment.
Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.
Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff
Irish? I don’t know, faith.
Is she, Simon?
Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.
Buccinator muscle is... What?...
Bit rusty... O, she is... My
Irish Molly, O.
He puffed a pungent plumy blast.
From the rock of Gibraltar... all the
They pined in depth of ocean shadow,
gold by the beerpull, bronze by maraschino, thoughtful
all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace, Drumcondra
with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent.
Pat served, uncovered dishes.
Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he ate
with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried
cods’ roes while Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward
ate steak and kidney, steak then kidney, bite by bite
of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.
Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate.
Dinners fit for princes.
By Bachelor’s walk jogjaunty
jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sun in heat, mare’s
glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding
tyres: sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience,
ardentbold. Horn. Have you the? Horn.
Have you the? Haw haw horn.
Over their voices Dollard bassooned
attack, booming over bombarding chords:
When love absorbs my ardent soul...
Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery
War! War! cried Father Cowley.
You’re the warrior.
So I am, Ben Warrior laughed.
I was thinking of your landlord. Love or money.
He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over
his blunder huge.
Sure, you’d burst
the tympanum of her ear, man, Mr Dedalus said through
smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.
In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the
keyboard. He would.
Not to mention another
membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time, Ben.
Amoroso ma non troppo. Let me there.
Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen
with tankards of cool stout. She passed a remark.
It was indeed, first gentleman said, beautiful weather.
They drank cool stout. Did she know where the
lord lieutenant was going? And heard steelhoofs
ringhoof ring. No, she couldn’t say.
But it would be in the paper. O, she need not
trouble. No trouble. She waved about her
outspread Independent, searching, the lord lieutenant,
her pinnacles of hair slowmoving, lord lieuten.
Too much trouble, first gentleman said. O, not
in the least. Way he looked that. Lord lieutenant.
Gold by bronze heard iron steel.
In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed
potatoes. Love and War someone is. Ben Dollard’s
famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress
suit for that concert. Trousers tight as a drum
on him. Musical porkers. Molly did laugh
when he went out. Threw herself back across the
bed, screaming, kicking. With all his belongings
on show. O saints above, I’m drenched!
O, the women in the front row! O, I never laughed
so many! Well, of course that’s what gives
him the base barreltone. For instance eunuchs.
Wonder who’s playing. Nice touch. Must
be Cowley. Musical. Knows whatever note
you play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.
Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce,
bowed to suave solicitor, George Lidwell, gentleman,
entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist
(a lady’s) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon.
Yes, she was back. To the old dingdong again.
Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.
George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.
Bloom ate liv as said before.
Clean here at least. That chap in the Burton,
gummy with gristle. No-one here: Goulding
and I. Clean tables, flowers, mitres of napkins.
Pat to and fro. Bald Pat. Nothing to do.
Best value in Dub.
Piano again. Cowley it is.
Way he sits in to it, like one together, mutual understanding.
Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the bowend,
sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her
high long snore. Night we were in the box.
Trombone under blowing like a grampus, between the
acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle.
Conductor’s legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy
jiggedy. Do right to hide them.
Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
Only the harp. Lovely. Gold
glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of
a lovely. Gravy’s rather good fit for a.
Golden ship. Erin. The harp that once or
twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons.
We are their harps. I. He. Old. Young.
Ah, I couldn’t, man, Mr Dedalus
said, shy, listless.
Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled.
Get it out in bits.
M’appari, Simon, Father Cowley
Down stage he strode some paces, grave,
tall in affliction, his long arms outheld. Hoarsely
the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly
he sang to a dusty seascape there: A Last
Farewell. A headland, a ship, a sail upon the
billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil
awave upon the wind upon the headland, wind around
Il mio sguardo
She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil,
to one departing, dear one, to wind, love, speeding
Go on, Simon.
Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben...
Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside
the tuningfork and, sitting, touched the obedient
No, Simon, Father Cowley turned.
Play it in the original. One flat.
The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed,
Up stage strode Father Cowley.
Here, Simon, I’ll accompany you,
he said. Get up.
By Graham Lemon’s pineapple
rock, by Elvery’s elephant jingly jogged.
Steak, kidney, liver, mashed, at meat fit for princes
sat princes Bloom and Goulding. Princes at meat
they raised and drank, Power and cider.
Most beautiful tenor air ever written,
Richie said: Sonnambula. He heard Joe
Maas sing that one night. Ah, what M’Guckin!
Yes. In his way. Choirboy style. Maas
was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor if
you like. Never forget it. Never.
Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon
saw the tightened features strain. Backache he.
Bright’s bright eye. Next item on the programme.
Paying the piper. Pills, pounded bread, worth
a guinea a box. Stave it off awhile. Sings
too: Down among the dead men. Appropriate.
Kidney pie. Sweets to the. Not making much
hand of it. Best value in. Characteristic
of him. Power. Particular about his drink.
Flaw in the glass, fresh Vartry water. Fecking
matches from counters to save. Then squander a
sovereign in dribs and drabs. And when he’s
wanted not a farthing. Screwed refusing to pay
his fare. Curious types.
Never would Richie forget that night.
As long as he lived: never. In the gods
of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the
Speech paused on Richie’s lips.
Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies
about damn all.
Believes his own lies. Does really.
Wonderful liar. But want a good memory.
Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.
All is lost now.
Richie cocked his lips apout.
A low incipient note sweet banshee murmured:
all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath,
birdsweet, good teeth he’s proud of, fluted
with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound.
Two notes in one there. Blackbird I heard in
the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he twined
and turned them. All most too new call is lost
in all. Echo. How sweet the answer.
How is that done? All lost now. Mournful
he whistled. Fall, surrender, lost.
Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a
fringe of doyley down under the vase. Order.
Yes, I remember. Lovely air. In sleep she
went to him. Innocence in the moon. Brave.
Don’t know their danger. Still hold her
back. Call name. Touch water. Jingle
jaunty. Too late. She longed to go.
That’s why. Woman. As easy stop the
sea. Yes: all is lost.
A beautiful air, said
Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.
Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.
He knows it well too. Or he feels.
Still harping on his daughter. Wise child that
knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?
Bloom askance over liverless saw.
Face of the all is lost. Rollicking Richie once.
Jokes old stale now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring
in his eye. Now begging letters he sends his
son with. Crosseyed Walter sir I did sir.
Wouldn’t trouble only I was expecting some money.
Piano again. Sounds better than
last time I heard. Tuned probably. Stopped
Dollard and Cowley still urged the
lingering singer out with it.
With it, Simon.
Ladies and gentlemen,
I am most deeply obliged by your kind solicitations.
I have no money but if
you will lend me your attention I shall endeavour
to sing to you of a heart bowed down.
By the sandwichbell in screening shadow
Lydia, her bronze and rose, a lady’s grace,
gave and withheld: as in cool glaucous eau
de Nil Mina to tankards two her pinnacles of gold.
The harping chords of prelude closed.
A chord, longdrawn, expectant, drew a voice away.
When first I saw that form endearing...
Si Dedalus’ voice, he said.
Braintipped, cheek touched with flame,
they listened feeling that flow endearing flow over
skin limbs human heart soul spine. Bloom signed
to Pat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set
ajar the door of the bar. The door of the bar.
So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited, waiting
to hear, for he was hard of hear by the door.
Sorrow from me seemed to depart.
Through the hush of air a voice sang
to them, low, not rain, not leaves in murmur, like
no voice of strings or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem
dulcimers touching their still ears with words, still
hearts of their each his remembered lives. Good,
good to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to
from both depart when first they heard. When first
they saw, lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard
from a person wouldn’t expect it in the least,
her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word.
Love that is singing: love’s
old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the elastic
band of his packet. Love’s old sweet sonnez
la gold. Bloom wound a skein round four forkfingers,
stretched it, relaxed, and wound it round his troubled
double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast.
Full of hope and all delighted...
Tenors get women by the score.
Increase their flow. Throw flower at his feet.
When will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle
all delighted. He can’t sing for tall hats.
Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him.
What perfume does your wife? I want to know.
Jing. Stop. Knock. Last look at mirror
always before she answers the door. The hall.
There? How do you? I do well. There?
What? Or? Phial of cachous, kissing
comfits, in her satchel. Yes? Hands felt
for the opulent.
Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed:
loud, full, shining, proud.
But alas, ’twas idle dreaming...
Glorious tone he has still. Cork
air softer also their brogue. Silly man!
Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong
words. Wore out his wife: now sings.
But hard to tell. Only the two themselves.
If he doesn’t break down. Keep a trot for
the avenue. His hands and feet sing too.
Drink. Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious
to sing. Jenny Lind soup: stock, sage, raw
eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy.
Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling,
full it throbbed. That’s the chat.
Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing
Words? Music? No: it’s what’s
Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.
Bloom. Flood of warm jamjam
lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music out, in
desire, dark to lick flow invading. Tipping her
tepping her tapping her topping her. Tup.
Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the
feel the warm the. Tup. To pour o’er
sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush, flow, joygush,
tupthrob. Now! Language of love.
... ray of hope is...
Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak
scarcely hear so ladylike the muse unsqueaked a ray
Martha it is. Coincidence.
Just going to write. Lionel’s song.
Lovely name you have. Can’t write.
Accept my little près. Play on her heartstrings
pursestrings too. She’s a. I called
you naughty boy. Still the name: Martha.
How strange! Today.
The voice of Lionel returned, weaker
but unwearied. It sang again to Richie Poldy
Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting
to wait. How first he saw that form endearing,
how sorrow seemed to part, how look, form, word charmed
him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom’s heart.
Wish I could see his face, though.
Explain better. Why the barber in Drago’s
always looked my face when I spoke his face in the
glass. Still hear it better here than in the
bar though farther.
Each graceful look...
First night when first I saw her at
Mat Dillon’s in Terenure. Yellow, black
lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the
last. Fate. After her. Fate.
Round and round slow. Quick round.
We two. All looked. Halt. Down she
sat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing.
Charmed my eye...
Singing. Waiting she sang.
I turned her music. Full voice of perfume of
what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw,
both full, throat warbling. First I saw.
She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate.
Spanishy eyes. Under a peartree alone patio this
hour in old Madrid one side in shadow Dolores shedolores.
At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.
Martha! Ah, Martha!
Quitting all languor Lionel cried
in grief, in cry of passion dominant to love to return
with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony.
In cry of lionel loneliness that she should know,
must martha feel. For only her he waited.
Where? Here there try there here all try where.
thou lost one!
Co-ome, thou dear one!
Alone. One love. One hope.
One comfort me. Martha, chestnote, return!
It soared, a bird, it held its flight,
a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene,
speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out
too long long breath he breath long life, soaring
high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the
effulgence symbolistic, high, of the etherial bosom,
high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all
soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness...
Come. Well sung. All clapped.
She ought to. Come. To me, to him, to her,
you too, me, us.
Good man, Simon. Clappyclapclap. Encore!
Clapclipclap clap. Sound as a bell. Bravo,
Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said,
cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, Lydia Douce, George
Lidwell, Pat, Mina Kennedy, two gentlemen with two
tankards, Cowley, first gent with tank and bronze
miss Douce and gold MJiss Mina.
Blazes Boylan’s smart tan shoes
creaked on the barfloor, said before. Jingle
by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson,
reverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as said before
just now. Atrot, in heat, heatseated. Cloche.
Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la. Slower
the mare went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square.
Too slow for Boylan, blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan,
joggled the mare.
An afterclang of Cowley’s chords
closed, died on the air made richer.
And Richie Goulding drank his Power
and Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness,
second gentleman said they would partake of two more
tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked,
disserving, coral lips, at first, at second.
She did not mind.
Seven days in jail, Ben
Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you’d
sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.
Lionel Simon, singer, laughed.
Father Bob Cowley played. Mina Kennedy served.
Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in.
Lydia, admired, admired. But Bloom sang dumb.
Richie, admiring, descanted on that
man’s glorious voice. He remembered one
night long ago. Never forget that night.
Si sang ’Twas rank and fame: in
Ned Lambert’s ’twas. Good God he never
heard in all his life a note like that he never did
then false one we had better part so clear
so God he never heard since love lives not a
clinking voice lives not ask Lambert he can tell you
Goulding, a flush struggling in his
pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the night, Si in Ned
Lambert’s, Dedalus house, sang ’Twas
rank and fame.
He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie
Goulding, told him, Mr Bloom, of the night he, Richie,
heard him, Si Dedalus, sing ’TWAS RANK AND FAME
in his, Ned Lambert’s, house.
We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the lute
I think. Treats him with scorn. See.
He admires him all the more. The night Si sang.
The human voice, two tiny silky chords, wonderful,
more than all others.
That voice was a lamentation.
Calmer now. It’s in the silence after you
feel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.
Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands
and with slack fingers plucked the slender catgut
thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz, it twanged.
While Goulding talked of Barraclough’s voice
production, while Tom Kernan, harking back in a retrospective
sort of arrangement talked to listening Father Cowley,
who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played.
While big Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting,
who nodded as he smoked, who smoked.
Thou lost one. All songs on that
theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his string.
Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other:
lure them on. Then tear asunder. Death.
Explos. Knock on the head. Outtohelloutofthat.
Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat’s
tail wriggling! Five bob I gave. Corpus paradisum.
Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup.
Gone. They sing. Forgotten. I too;
And one day she with. Leave her: get tired.
Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling
at nothing. Her wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair
Yet too much happy bores. He
stretched more, more. Are you not happy in your?
Twang. It snapped.
Jingle into Dorset street.
Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.
Don’t make half so free, said she,
till we are better acquainted.
George Lidwell told her really and truly: but
she did not believe.
First gentleman told Mina that was
so. She asked him was that so. And second
tankard told her so. That that was so.
Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe:
miss Kennedy, Mina, did not believe: George Lidwell,
no: miss Dou did not: the first, the first:
gent with the tank: believe, no, no: did
not, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the tank.
Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice
chewed and twisted.
Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh.
A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He went.
A pad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.
Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing
the curling catgut line. It certainly is.
Few lines will do. My present. All that Italian
florid music is. Who is this wrote? Know
the name you know better. Take out sheet notepaper,
envelope: unconcerned. It’s so characteristic.
Grandest number in the whole opera, Goulding
It is, Bloom said.
Numbers it is. All music when
you come to think. Two multiplied by two divided
by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords
those are. One plus two plus six is seven.
Do anything you like with figures juggling. Always
find out this equal to that. Symmetry under a
cemetery wall. He doesn’t see my mourning.
Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics.
And you think you’re listening to the etherial.
But suppose you said it like: Martha, seven times
nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite
flat. It’s on account of the sounds it is.
Instance he’s playing now.
Improvising. Might be what you like, till you
hear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard.
Begin all right: then hear chords a bit off:
feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks, over barrels,
through wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes
the tune. Question of mood you’re in.
Still always nice to hear. Except scales up and
down, girls learning. Two together nextdoor neighbours.
Ought to invent dummy pianos for that. Blumenlied
I bought for her. The name. Playing it slow,
a girl, night I came home, the girl. Door of the
stables near Cecilia street. Milly no taste.
Queer because we both, I mean.
Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad
ink. Pat set with ink pen quite flat pad.
Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.
It was the only language Mr Dedalus
said to Ben. He heard them as a boy in Ringabella,
Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles.
Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking,
you know, Ben, in the moonlight with those earthquake
hats. Blending their voices. God, such music,
Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella haven
Sour pipe removed he held a shield
of hand beside his lips that cooed a moonlight nightcall,
clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.
Down the edge of his Freeman
baton ranged Bloom’s, your other eye, scanning
for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam
Patrick. Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett.
Aha! Just I was looking...
Hope he’s not looking, cute
as a rat. He held unfurled his Freeman.
Can’t see now. Remember write Greek ees.
Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear sir. Dear
Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and
flow. Hell did I put? Some pock or oth.
It is utterl imposs. Underline imposs.
To write today.
Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined
gently with I am just reflecting fingers on flat pad
On. Know what I mean. No,
change that ee. Accep my poor litt près
enclos. Ask her no answ. Hold on.
Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the gulls.
Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne’s.
Is eight about. Say half a crown. My poor
little près: p. o. two and six. Write
me a long. Do you despise? Jingle, have
you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught?
You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her.
Bye for today. Yes, yes, will tell you.
Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other.
Other world she wrote. My patience are exhaust.
To keep it up. You must believe. Believe.
The tank. It. Is. True.
Folly am I writing? Husbands
don’t. That’s marriage does, their
wives. Because I’m away from. Suppose.
But how? She must. Keep young. If she
found out. Card in my high grade ha. No,
not tell all. Useless pain. If they don’t
see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.
A hackney car, number three hundred
and twentyfour, driver Barton James of number one
Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a
young gentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue
serge suit made by George Robert Mesias, tailor and
cutter, of number five Eden quay, and wearing a straw
hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one
Great Brunswick street, hatter. Eh? This
is the jingle that joggled and jingled. By Dlugacz’
porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a gallantbuttocked
Answering an ad? keen Richie’s eyes
Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller.
Nothing doing, I expect.
Bloom mur: best references.
But Henry wrote: it will excite me. You
know how. In haste. Henry. Greek ee.
Better add postscript. What is he playing now?
Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum tum
tum. How will you pun? You punish me?
Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I want
to. Know. O. Course if I didn’t I wouldn’t
ask. La la la ree. Trails off there sad
in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like
sad tail at end. P. P. S. La la la ree.
I feel so sad today. La ree. So lonely.
He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel. Address.
Just copy out of paper.
Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited.
Miss Martha Clifford c/o P. O. Dolphin’s Barn
Blot over the other so he can’t
read. There. Right. Idea prize titbit.
Something detective read off blottingpad. Payment
at the rate of guinea per col. Matcham often
thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs Purefoy.
U. P: up.
Too poetical that about the sad.
Music did that. Music hath charms. Shakespeare
said. Quotations every day in the year. To
be or not to be. Wisdom while you wait.
In Gerard’s rosery of Fetter
lane he walks, greyedauburn. One life is all.
One body. Do. But do.
Done anyhow. Postal order, stamp.
Postoffice lower down. Walk now. Enough.
Barney Kiernan’s I promised to meet them.
Dislike that job.
House of mourning. Walk.
Pat! Doesn’t hear. Deaf beetle he is.
Car near there now. Talk.
Talk. Pat! Doesn’t. Settling those
napkins. Lot of ground he must cover in the day.
Paint face behind on him then he’d be two.
Wish they’d sing more. Keep my mind off.
Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the
napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of his hearing.
Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee
hee hee hee. He waits while you wait. Hee
hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee.
He waits while you wait. While you wait if you
wait he will wait while you wait. Hee hee hee
hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait.
Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose.
She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous,
time. And look at the lovely shell she brought.
To the end of the bar to him she bore
lightly the spiked and winding seahorn that he, George
Lidwell, solicitor, might hear.
Listen! she bade him.
Under Tom Kernan’s ginhot words
the accompanist wove music slow. Authentic fact.
How Walter Bapty lost his voice. Well, sir, the
husband took him by the throat. Scoundrel,
said he, You’ll sing no more lovesongs.
He did, faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove.
Tenors get wom. Cowley lay back.
Ah, now he heard, she holding it to
his ear. Hear! He heard.
Wonderful. She held it to her
own. And through the sifted light pale gold in
contrast glided. To hear.
Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell
held at their ears. He heard more faintly that
that they heard, each for herself alone, then each
for other, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent
Bronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, they listened.
Her ear too is a shell, the peeping
lobe there. Been to the seaside. Lovely
seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should have
put on coldcream first make it brown. Buttered
toast. O and that lotion mustn’t forget.
Fever near her mouth. Your head it simply.
Hair braided over: shell with seaweed. Why
do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And
Turks the mouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet.
Yashmak. Find the way in. A cave. No
admittance except on business.
The sea they think they hear.
Singing. A roar. The blood it is. Souse
in the ear sometimes. Well, it’s a sea.
Wonderful really. So distinct.
Again. George Lidwell held its murmur, hearing:
then laid it by, gently.
What are the wild waves saying? he asked
Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell
By Larry O’Rourke’s, by
Larry, bold Larry O’, Boylan swayed and Boylan
From the forsaken shell miss Mina
glided to her tankards waiting. No, she was not
so lonely archly miss Douce’s head let Mr Lidwell
know. Walks in the moonlight by the sea.
No, not alone. With whom? She nobly answered:
with a gentleman friend.
Bob Cowley’s twinkling fingers
in the treble played again. The landlord has
the prior. A little time. Long John.
Big Ben. Lightly he played a light bright tinkling
measure for tripping ladies, arch and smiling, and
for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One:
one, one, one, one, one: two, one, three, four.
Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters,
cows lowing, the cattlemarket, cocks, hens don’t
crow, snakes hissss. There’s music everywhere.
Ruttledge’s door: ee creaking. No,
that’s noise. Minuet of Don Giovanni
he’s playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions
in castle chambers dancing. Misery. Peasants
outside. Green starving faces eating dockleaves.
Nice that is. Look: look, look, look, look,
look: you look at us.
That’s joyful I can feel.
Never have written it. Why? My joy is other
joy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must
be. Mere fact of music shows you are. Often
thought she was in the dumps till she began to lilt.
M’Coy valise. My wife and
your wife. Squealing cat. Like tearing silk.
Tongue when she talks like the clapper of a bellows.
They can’t manage men’s intervals.
Gap in their voices too. Fill me. I’m
warm, dark, open. Molly in quis est homo:
Mercadante. My ear against the wall to hear.
Want a woman who can deliver the goods.
Jog jig jogged stopped. Dandy
tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblue clocks came
light to earth.
O, look we are so! Chamber music.
Could make a kind of pun on that. It is a kind
of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that
is. Tinkling. Empty vessels make most noise.
Because the acoustics, the resonance changes according
as the weight of the water is equal to the law of
falling water. Like those rhapsodies of Liszt’s,
Hungarian, gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops.
Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle.
Hissss. Now. Maybe now. Before.
One rapped on a door, one tapped with
a knock, did he knock Paul de Kock with a loud proud
knocker with a cock carracarracarra cock. Cockcock.
Qui sdegno, Ben, said Father Cowley.
No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. The
Croppy Boy. Our native Doric.
Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good
men and true.
Do, do, they begged in one.
I’ll go. Here, Pat, return.
Come. He came, he came, he did not stay.
To me. How much?
What key? Six sharps?
F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.
Bob Cowley’s outstretched talons griped the
black deepsounding chords.
Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince.
No, Richie said. Yes, must. Got money somewhere.
He’s on for a razzle backache spree. Much?
He seehears lipspeech. One and nine. Penny
for yourself. Here. Give him twopence tip.
Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family
waiting, waiting Patty come home. Hee hee hee
hee. Deaf wait while they wait.
But wait. But hear. Chords
dark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave
of the dark middle earth. Embedded ore.
The voice of dark age, of unlove,
earth’s fatigue made grave approach and painful,
come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good
men and true. The priest he sought. With
him would he speak a word.
Ben Dollard’s voice. Base
barreltone. Doing his level best to say it.
Croak of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh.
Other comedown. Big ships’ chandler’s
business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes,
ships’ lanterns. Failed to the tune of
ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveagh home.
Cubicle number so and so. Number one Bass did
that for him.
The priest’s at home. A
false priest’s servant bade him welcome.
Step in. The holy father. With bows a traitor
servant. Curlycues of chords.
Ruin them. Wreck their lives.
Then build them cubicles to end their days in.
Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog,
The voice of warning, solemn warning,
told them the youth had entered a lonely hall, told
them how solemn fell his footsteps there, told them
the gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive.
Decent soul. Bit addled now.
Thinks he’ll win in Answers, poets’
picture puzzle. We hand you crisp five pound note.
Bird sitting hatching in a nest. Lay of the last
minstrel he thought it was. See blank tee what
domestic animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner.
Good voice he has still. No eunuch yet with all
Listen. Bloom listened.
Richie Goulding listened. And by the door deaf
Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened. The chords
The voice of penance and of grief
came slow, embellished, tremulous. Ben’s
contrite beard confessed. in nomine Domini,
in God’s name he knelt. He beat his hand
upon his breast, confessing: mea culpa.
Latin again. That holds them
like birdlime. Priest with the communion corpus
for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffin
or coffey, corpusnomine. Wonder where that
rat is by now. Scrape.
They listened. Tankards and miss
Kennedy. George Lidwell, eyelid well expressive,
fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si.
The sighing voice of sorrow sang.
His sins. Since Easter he had cursed three times.
You bitch’s bast. And once at masstime he
had gone to play. Once by the churchyard he had
passed and for his mother’s rest he had not
prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.
Bronze, listening, by the beerpull
gazed far away. Soulfully. Doesn’t
half know I’m. Molly great dab at seeing
Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror
there. Is that best side of her face? They
always know. Knock at the door. Last tip
What do they think when they hear
music? Way to catch rattlesnakes. Night
Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up.
Shah of Persia liked that best. Remind him of
home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtain too.
Custom his country perhaps. That’s music
too. Not as bad as it sounds. Tootling.
Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasses
helpless, gashes in their sides. Woodwinds mooing
cows. Semigrand open crocodile music hath jaws.
Woodwind like Goodwin’s name.
She looked fine. Her crocus dress
she wore lowcut, belongings on show. Clove her
breath was always in theatre when she bent to ask a
question. Told her what Spinoza says in that
book of poor papa’s. Hypnotised, listening.
Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle
staring down into her with his operaglass for all
he was worth. Beauty of music you must hear twice.
Nature woman half a look. God made the country
man the tune. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy.
All gone. All fallen. At
the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his brothers
fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford,
he would. Last of his name and race.
I too. Last of my race.
Milly young student. Well, my fault perhaps.
No son. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not?
If not? If still?
He bore no hate.
Hate. Love. Those are names.
Rudy. Soon I am old. Big Ben his voice unfolded.
Great voice Richie Goulding said, a flush struggling
in his pale, to Bloom soon old. But when was
Ireland comes now. My country
above the king. She listens. Who fears to
speak of nineteen four? Time to be shoving.
Bless me, father,
Dollard the croppy cried. Bless me and let me go.
Bloom looked, unblessed to go.
Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week.
Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep your
weathereye open. Those girls, those lovely.
By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl’s romance.
Letters read out for breach of promise. From
Chickabiddy’s owny Mumpsypum. Laughter
in court. Henry. I never signed it.
The lovely name you.
Low sank the music, air and words.
Then hastened. The false priest rustling soldier
from his cassock. A yeoman captain. They
know it all by heart. The thrill they itch for.
Thrilled she listened, bending in sympathy to hear.
Blank face. Virgin should say:
or fingered only. Write something on it:
page. If not what becomes of them? Decline,
despair. Keeps them young. Even admire themselves.
See. Play on her. Lip blow. Body of
white woman, a flute alive. Blow gentle.
Loud. Three holes, all women. Goddess I
didn’t see. They want it. Not too much
polite. That’s why he gets them. Gold
in your pocket, brass in your face. Say something.
Make her hear. With look to look. Songs
without words. Molly, that hurdygurdy boy.
She knew he meant the monkey was sick. Or because
so like the Spanish. Understand animals too that
way. Solomon did. Gift of nature.
Ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in
my stom. What?
Will? You? I. Want. You. To.
With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed,
swelling in apoplectic bitch’s bastard.
A good thought, boy, to come. One hour’s
your time to live, your last.
Thrill now. Pity they feel.
To wipe away a tear for martyrs that want to, dying
to, die. For all things dying, for all things
born. Poor Mrs Purefoy. Hope she’s
over. Because their wombs.
A liquid of womb of woman eyeball
gazed under a fence of lashes, calmly, hearing.
See real beauty of the eye when she not speaks.
On yonder river. At each slow satiny heaving
bosom’s wave (her heaving embon) red rose rose
slowly sank red rose. Heartbeats: her breath:
breath that is life. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils
trembled of maidenhair.
But look. The bright stars fade.
O rose! Castile. The morn. Ha.
Lidwell. For him then not for. Infatuated.
I like that? See her from here though. Popped
corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.
On the smooth jutting beerpull laid
Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave it to my hands.
All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to,
fro: over the polished knob (she knows his eyes,
my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and finger passed in
pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, then
slid so smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel
baton protruding through their sliding ring.
With a cock with a carra.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury.
The chords consented. Very sad
thing. But had to be. Get out before the
end. Thanks, that was heavenly. Where’s
my hat. Pass by her. Can leave that Freeman.
Letter I have. Suppose she were the? No.
Walk, walk, walk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo
Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall Farrell. Waaaaaaalk.
Well, I must be. Are you off?
Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup. O’er ryehigh blue.
Ow. Bloom stood up. Soap feeling rather sticky
behind. Must have sweated: music. That
lotion, remember. Well, so long. High grade.
Card inside. Yes.
By deaf Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed.
At Geneva barrack that young man died.
At Passage was his body laid. Dolor! O,
he dolores! The voice of the mournful chanter
called to dolorous prayer.
By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling
hand, by slops, by empties, by popped corks, greeting
in going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze and faint
gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel
so lonely Bloom.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard.
You who hear in peace. Breathe a prayer, drop
a tear, good men, good people. He was the croppy
Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy
bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond hallway heard the growls
and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their boots all
treading, boots not the boots the boy. General
chorus off for a swill to wash it down. Glad
Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus
cried. By God, you’re as good as ever you
Better, said Tomgin Kernan.
Most trenchant rendition of that ballad, upon my soul
and honour It is.
Lablache, said Father Cowley.
Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards
the bar, mightily praisefed and all big roseate, on
heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes
in the air.
Big Benaben Dollard. Big Benben. Big Benben.
And deepmoved all, Simon trumping
compassion from foghorn nose, all laughing they brought
him forth, Ben Dollard, in right good cheer.
You’re looking rubicund, George
Miss Douce composed her rose to wait.
Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus,
clapping Ben’s fat back shoulderblade.
Fit as a fiddle only he has a lot of adipose tissue
concealed about his person.
Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growled.
Richie rift in the lute alone sat:
Goulding, Collis, Ward. Uncertainly he waited.
Unpaid Pat too.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Miss Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of
Mr Dollard, they murmured low.
Dollard, murmured tankard.
Tank one believed: miss Kenn
when she: that doll he was: she doll:
He murmured that he knew the name.
The name was familiar to him, that is to say.
That was to say he had heard the name of. Dollard,
was it? Dollard, yes.
Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr
Dollard. He sang that song lovely, murmured Mina.
Mr Dollard. And The last rose of summer
was a lovely song. Mina loved that song.
Tankard loved the song that Mina.
’Tis the last rose of summer
dollard left bloom felt wind wound round inside.
Gassy thing that cider: binding
too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J’s
one and eightpence too. Get shut of it. Dodge
round by Greek street. Wish I hadn’t promised
to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on
your nerves. Beerpull. Her hand that rocks
the cradle rules the. Ben Howth. That rules
Far. Far. Far. Far.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty
Henry with letter for Mady, with sweets of sin with
frillies for Raoul with met him pike hoses went Poldy
Tap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone
tapping, tap by tap.
Cowley, he stuns himself with it:
kind of drunkenness. Better give way only half
way the way of a man with a maid. Instance enthusiasts.
All ears. Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes
shut. Head nodding in time. Dotty.
You daren’t budge. Thinking strictly prohibited.
Always talking shop. Fiddlefaddle about notes.
All a kind of attempt to talk.
Unpleasant when it stops because you never know exac.
Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn fifty quid
a year. Queer up there in the cockloft, alone,
with stops and locks and keys. Seated all day
at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to
himself or the other fellow blowing the bellows.
Growl angry, then shriek cursing (want to have wadding
or something in his no don’t she cried), then
all of a soft sudden wee little wee little pipy wind.
Pwee! A wee little wind piped
eeee. In Bloom’s little wee.
Was he? Mr Dedalus
said, returning with fetched pipe. I was with
him this morning at poor little Paddy Dignam’s...
Ay, the Lord have mercy on him.
By the bye there’s a tuningfork
in there on the...
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The wife has a fine voice. Or had.
What? Lidwell asked.
O, that must be the tuner,
Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw, forgot it when
he was here.
Blind he was she told George Lidwell
second I saw. And played so exquisitely, treat
to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid, minagold.
Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring.
’lldo! cried Father Cowley.
I feel I want...
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap
Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at
a headless sardine.
Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier
of bread one last, one lonely, last sardine of summer.
Very, he stared. The lower register,
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Bloom went by Barry’s.
Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if
I had. Twentyfour solicitors in that one house.
Counted them. Litigation. Love one another.
Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have
power of attorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward.
But for example the chap that wallops
the big drum. His vocation: Mickey Rooney’s
band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting
at home after pig’s cheek and cabbage nursing
it in the armchair. Rehearsing his band part.
Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses’
skins. Welt them through life, then wallop after
death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what
you call yashmak or I mean kismet. Fate.
Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind,
with a tapping cane came taptaptapping by Daly’s
window where a mermaid hair all streaming (but he couldn’t
see) blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn’t),
mermaid, coolest whiff of all.
Instruments. A blade of grass,
shell of her hands, then blow. Even comb and
tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly
in her shift in Lombard street west, hair down.
I suppose each kind of trade made its own, don’t
you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have
you the? Cloche. Sonnez la. Shepherd his
pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle.
Locks and keys! Sweep! Four o’clock’s
all’s well! Sleep! All is lost now.
Drum? Pompedy. Wait. I know. Towncrier,
bumbailiff. Long John. Waken the dead.
Pom. Dignam. Poor little nominedomine.
Pom. It is music. I mean of course it’s
all pom pom pom very much what they call da capo.
Still you can hear. As we march, we march along,
march along. Pom.
I must really. Fff. Now
if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of
custom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop
a tear. All the same he must have been a bit
of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap.
Muffled up. Wonder who was that chap at the grave
in the brown macin. O, the whore of the lane!
A frowsy whore with black straw sailor
hat askew came glazily in the day along the quay towards
Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form endearing?
Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in
the lane. Horn. Who had the? Heehaw
shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she?
Hope she. Psst! Any chance of your wash.
Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does
be with you in the brown costume. Put you off
your stroke, that. Appointment we made knowing
we’d never, well hardly ever. Too dear too
near to home sweet home. Sees me, does she?
Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip.
Damn her. O, well, she has to live like the rest.
Look in here.
In Lionel Marks’s antique saleshop
window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower
earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks
melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain:
six bob. Might learn to play. Cheap.
Let her pass. Course everything is dear if you
don’t want it. That’s what good salesman
is. Make you buy what he wants to sell.
Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved me with.
Wanted to charge me for the edge he gave it.
She’s passing now. Six bob.
Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.
Near bronze from anear near gold from
afar they chinked their clinking glasses all, brighteyed
and gallant, before bronze Lydia’s tempting last
rose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De,
Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus,
Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard.
Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.
Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks’s
Emmet’s last words. Seven last words.
Of Meyerbeer that is.
True men like you men.
Ay, ay, Ben.
Will lift your glass with us.
Tip. An unseeing stripling stood
in the door. He saw not bronze. He saw not
gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George
nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. Hee hee hee hee.
He did not see.
Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last
words. Softly. When my country takes her place
Must be the bur.
Fff! Oo. Rrpr.
Nations of the earth. No-one
behind. She’s passed. Then and not till
then. Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor.
Coming. Krandlkrankran. I’m sure it’s
the burgund. Yes. One, two. Let my epitaph
be. Kraaaaaa. Written. I have.
I was just passing the time of day
with old Troy of the D. M. P. at the corner of Arbour
hill there and be damned but a bloody sweep came along
and he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned
around to let him have the weight of my tongue when
who should I see dodging along Stony Batter only Joe
Lo, Joe, says I. How are
you blowing? Did you see that bloody chimneysweep
near shove my eye out with his brush?
Soot’s luck, says Joe. Who’s
the old ballocks you were talking to?
Old Troy, says I, was
in the force. I’m on two minds not to give
that fellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare
with his brooms and ladders.
What are you doing round those parts?
Devil a much, says I.
There’s a bloody big foxy thief beyond by the
garrison church at the corner of Chicken lane old
Troy was just giving me a wrinkle about him lifted
any God’s quantity of tea and sugar to pay three
bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off
a hop-of-my-thumb by the name of Moses Herzog over
there near Heytesbury street.
Circumcised? says Joe.
Ay, says I. A bit off
the top. An old plumber named Geraghty. I’m
hanging on to his taw now for the past fortnight and
I can’t get a penny out of him.
That the lay you’re on now? says
Ay, says I. How are the
mighty fallen! Collector of bad and doubtful
debts. But that’s the most notorious bloody
robber you’d meet in a day’s walk and
the face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of
rain. Tell him, says he, I dare him,
says he, and I doubledare him to send you round
here again or if he does, says he, I’ll
have him summonsed up before the court, so I will,
for trading without a licence. And he after stuffing
himself till he’s fit to burst. Jesus,
I had to laugh at the little jewy getting his shirt
out. He drink me my teas. He eat me my sugars.
Because he no pay me my moneys?
For nonperishable goods bought of
Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin’s parade in
the city of Dublin, Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter
called the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael
E. Geraghty, esquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the city
of Dublin, Arran quay ward, gentleman, hereinafter
called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds avoirdupois
of first choice tea at three shillings and no pence
per pound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois
of sugar, crushed crystal, at threepence per pound
avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to the said
vendor of one pound five shillings and sixpence sterling
for value received which amount shall be paid by said
purchaser to said vendor in weekly instalments every
seven calendar days of three shillings and no pence
sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall
not be pawned or pledged or sold or otherwise alienated
by the said purchaser but shall be and remain and
be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the
said vendor to be disposed of at his good will and
pleasure until the said amount shall have been duly
paid by the said purchaser to the said vendor in the
manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed between
the said vendor, his heirs, successors, trustees and
assigns of the one part and the said purchaser, his
heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other
Are you a strict t.t.? says Joe.
Not taking anything between drinks, says
What about paying our respects to our
friend? says Joe.
Who? says I. Sure, he’s out in John
of God’s off his head, poor man.
Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.
Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.
Come around to Barney Kiernan’s,
says Joe. I want to see the citizen.
Barney mavourneen’s be it, says
I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe?
Not a word, says Joe. I was up at
that meeting in the City Arms.
What was that, Joe? says I.
Cattle traders, says Joe,
about the foot and mouth disease. I want to give
the citizen the hard word about it.
So we went around by the Linenhall
barracks and the back of the courthouse talking of
one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he
has it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus,
I couldn’t get over that bloody foxy Geraghty,
the daylight robber. For trading without a licence,