5. Lotus Eaters
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[3148][ 5 ]
[3149]
[3150]By lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom walked soberly,
[3151]past Windmill lane, Leask’s the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph
[3152]office. Could have given that address too. And past the sailors’ home.
[3153]He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through
[3154]Lime street. By Brady’s cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his
[3155]bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl
[3156]with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her
[3157]battered caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he won’t grow. O let him! His
[3158]life isn’t such a bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da
[3159]home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won’t be many there. He crossed
[3160]Townsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of:
[3161]Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols’ the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time
[3162]enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O’Neill’s. Singing
[3163]with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a
[3164]lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told with my
[3165]tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a
[3166]whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.
[3167]
[3168]In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental
[3169]Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend,
[3170]finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom
[3171]Kernan. Couldn’t ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still
[3172]read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and
[3173]sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm
[3174]morning. Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the
[3175]leather headband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand
[3176]came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card
[3177]behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.
[3178]
[3179]So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and
[3180]hair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again: choice
[3181]blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it
[3182]must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on,
[3183]cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like
[3184]that. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in dolce far niente, not
[3185]doing a hand’s turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot
[3186]to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The
[3187]air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants.
[3188]Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on
[3189]roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap
[3190]I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his
[3191]back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn’t sink if you tried:
[3192]so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of
[3193]the body in the water is equal to the weight of the what? Or is it the
[3194]volume is equal to the weight? It’s a law something like that.
[3195]Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college
[3196]curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the
[3197]weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per second. Law of falling bodies: per
[3198]second per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It’s the
[3199]force of gravity of the earth is the weight.
[3200]
[3201]He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her
[3202]sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman
[3203]from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and
[3204]tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air:
[3205]just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every second
[3206]it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of
[3207]the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.
[3208]
[3209]He handed the card through the brass grill.
[3210]
[3211]—Are there any letters for me? he asked.
[3212]
[3213]While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting
[3214]poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his
[3215]baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer
[3216]probably. Went too far last time.
[3217]
[3218]The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a
[3219]letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.
[3220]
[3221] Henry Flower Esq,
[3222] c/o P. O. Westland Row,
[3223] City.
[3224]Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket,
[3225]reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where’s old Tweedy’s
[3226]regiment? Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No,
[3227]he’s a grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers.
[3228]Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform.
[3229]Easier to enlist and drill. Maud Gonne’s letter about taking them off
[3230]O’Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith’s
[3231]paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease:
[3232]overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like.
[3233]Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King’s own. Never see
[3234]him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.
[3235]
[3236]He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if
[3237]that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger
[3238]felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks.
[3239]Women will pay a lot of heed, I don’t think. His fingers drew forth
[3240]the letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something
[3241]pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.
[3242]
[3243]M’Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company
[3244]when you.
[3245]
[3246]—Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?
[3247]
[3248]—Hello, M’Coy. Nowhere in particular.
[3249]
[3250]—How’s the body?
[3251]
[3252]—Fine. How are you?
[3253]
[3254]—Just keeping alive, M’Coy said.
[3255]
[3256]His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:
[3257]
[3258]—Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you’re...
[3259]
[3260]—O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.
[3261]
[3262]—To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?
[3263]
[3264]A photo it isn’t. A badge maybe.
[3265]
[3266]—E...eleven, Mr Bloom answered.
[3267]
[3268]—I must try to get out there, M’Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only
[3269]heard it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?
[3270]
[3271]—I know.
[3272]
[3273]Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door
[3274]of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She
[3275]stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her,
[3276]searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll
[3277]collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless
[3278]stand of her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty
[3279]creature at the polo match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot.
[3280]Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable
[3281]Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch
[3282]out of her.
[3283]
[3284]—I was with Bob Doran, he’s on one of his periodical bends, and what
[3285]do you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway’s we were.
[3286]
[3287]Doran Lyons in Conway’s. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came
[3288]Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath
[3289]his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the
[3290]braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight
[3291]perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady’s hand. Which side will
[3292]she get up?
[3293]
[3294]—And he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy? I
[3295]said. Poor little Paddy Dignam, he said.
[3296]
[3297]Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces
[3298]dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change for?
[3299]Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two
[3300]strings to her bow.
[3301]
[3302]—Why? I said. What’s wrong with him? I said.
[3303]
[3304]Proud: rich: silk stockings.
[3305]
[3306]—Yes, Mr Bloom said.
[3307]
[3308]He moved a little to the side of M’Coy’s talking head. Getting up in
[3309]a minute.
[3310]
[3311]—What’s wrong with him? He said. He’s dead, he said. And, faith,
[3312]he filled up. Is it Paddy Dignam? I said. I couldn’t believe it when I
[3313]heard it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in
[3314]the Arch. Yes, he said. He’s gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow.
[3315]
[3316]Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!
[3317]
[3318]A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.
[3319]
[3320]Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and
[3321]the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace
[3322]street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering
[3323]the display of. Esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping at?
[3324]
[3325]—Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.
[3326]
[3327]—One of the best, M’Coy said.
[3328]
[3329]The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich
[3330]gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her
[3331]hat in the sun: flicker, flick.
[3332]
[3333]—Wife well, I suppose? M’Coy’s changed voice said.
[3334]
[3335]—O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.
[3336]
[3337]He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:
[3338]
[3339] What is home without
[3340] Plumtree’s Potted Meat?
[3341] Incomplete.
[3342] With it an abode of bliss.
[3343]
[3344]—My missus has just got an engagement. At least it’s not settled
[3345]yet.
[3346]
[3347]Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I’m off that, thanks.
[3348]
[3349]Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.
[3350]
[3351]—My wife too, he said. She’s going to sing at a swagger affair in
[3352]the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twentyfifth.
[3353]
[3354]—That so? M’Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who’s getting it
[3355]up?
[3356]
[3357]Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and.
[3358]No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady
[3359]and fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.
[3360]
[3361] Love’s
[3362] Old
[3363] Sweet
[3364] Song
[3365] Comes lo-ove’s old...
[3366]—It’s a kind of a tour, don’t you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully.
[3367]Sweeeet song. There’s a committee formed. Part shares and part
[3368]profits.
[3369]
[3370]M’Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.
[3371]
[3372]—O, well, he said. That’s good news.
[3373]
[3374]He moved to go.
[3375]
[3376]—Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.
[3377]
[3378]—Yes, Mr Bloom said.
[3379]
[3380]—Tell you what, M’Coy said. You might put down my name at the
[3381]funeral, will you? I’d like to go but I mightn’t be able, you see.
[3382]There’s a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner
[3383]and myself would have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in
[3384]my name if I’m not there, will you?
[3385]
[3386]—I’ll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That’ll be all
[3387]right.
[3388]
[3389]—Right, M’Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I’d go if I possibly
[3390]could. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M’Coy will do.
[3391]
[3392]—That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.
[3393]
[3394]Didn’t catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark.
[3395]I’d like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped
[3396]corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him
[3397]his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of
[3398]it from that good day to this.
[3399]
[3400]Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just
[3401]got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its
[3402]way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don’t you know:
[3403]in the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can’t
[3404]he hear the difference? Think he’s that way inclined a bit. Against
[3405]my grain somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that
[3406]smallpox up there doesn’t get worse. Suppose she wouldn’t let
[3407]herself be vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife.
[3408]
[3409]Wonder is he pimping after me?
[3410]
[3411]Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured
[3412]hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane’s Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery’s
[3413]Summer Sale. No, he’s going on straight. Hello. Leah tonight. Mrs
[3414]Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that. Hamlet she played last
[3415]night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed
[3416]suicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Outside
[3417]the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before
[3418]I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the
[3419]right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was
[3420]always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice
[3421]and puts his fingers on his face.
[3422]
[3423]Nathan’s voice! His son’s voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left
[3424]his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of
[3425]his father and left the God of his father.
[3426]
[3427]Every word is so deep, Leopold.
[3428]
[3429]Poor papa! Poor man! I’m glad I didn’t go into the room to look at
[3430]his face. That day! O, dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best
[3431]for him.
[3432]
[3433]Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the
[3434]hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn’t
[3435]met that M’Coy fellow.
[3436]
[3437]He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing
[3438]teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet
[3439]oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they
[3440]know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags.
[3441]Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss.
[3442]Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their
[3443]haunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they
[3444]look. Still their neigh can be very irritating.
[3445]
[3446]He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he
[3447]carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.
[3448]
[3449]He passed the cabman’s shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies.
[3450]All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio
[3451]e non. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying
[3452]syllables as they pass. He hummed:
[3453]
[3454] Là ci darem la mano
[3455] La la lala la la.
[3456]He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in
[3457]the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade’s timberyard. Piled balks.
[3458]Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court
[3459]with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a
[3460]squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb.
[3461]A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to
[3462]disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her.
[3463]Open it. And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame’s
[3464]school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis’s. And Mr? He opened the
[3465]letter within the newspaper.
[3466]
[3467]A flower. I think it’s a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not
[3468]annoyed then? What does she say?
[3469]
[3470]Dear Henry
[3471]
[3472]I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry
[3473]you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am
[3474]awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called
[3475]you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me
[3476]what is the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in your home
[3477]you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you.
[3478]Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful
[3479]name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often
[3480]you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as
[3481]you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me
[3482]more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I
[3483]will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote. O how I long to
[3484]meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are
[3485]exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling, I
[3486]have such a bad headache. today. and write by return to your longing
[3487]
[3488]Martha
[3489]
[3490]P. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to
[3491]know.
[3492]
[3493]He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell
[3494]and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it
[3495]because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then
[3496]walking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and
[3497]there a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus
[3498]if you don’t please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear
[3499]roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha’s
[3500]perfume. Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it
[3501]back in his sidepocket.
[3502]
[3503]Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she
[3504]wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me,
[3505]respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank
[3506]you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners.
[3507]Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go
[3508]further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course.
[3509]Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.
[3510]
[3511]Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it.
[3512]Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere:
[3513]pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses
[3514]without thorns.
[3515]
[3516]Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the
[3517]Coombe, linked together in the rain.
[3518]
[3519] O, Mairy lost the pin of her drawers.
[3520] She didn’t know what to do
[3521] To keep it up,
[3522] To keep it up.
[3523]It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all
[3524]day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife
[3525]use. Now could you make out a thing like that?
[3526]
[3527] To keep it up.
[3528]Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or
[3529]faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also
[3530]the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.
[3531]
[3532] To keep it up.
[3533]Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there:
[3534]quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been,
[3535]strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper:
[3536]fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole
[3537]in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the
[3538]trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and
[3539]more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.
[3540]
[3541]Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly
[3542]in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered
[3543]away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank.
[3544]
[3545]Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the
[3546]same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure
[3547]cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be
[3548]made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change
[3549]his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A
[3550]million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart,
[3551]eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter.
[3552]One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions
[3553]of barrels of porter.
[3554]
[3555]What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.
[3556]
[3557]An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach.
[3558]Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside.
[3559]The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing
[3560]together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy
[3561]pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.
[3562]
[3563]He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch
[3564]he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again
[3565]behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M’Coy
[3566]for a pass to Mullingar.
[3567]
[3568]Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S. J.
[3569]on saint Peter Claver S. J. and the African Mission. Prayers for the
[3570]conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The
[3571]protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. to the true
[3572]religion. Save China’s millions. Wonder how they explain it to the
[3573]heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for
[3574]them. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy
[3575]with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown
[3576]of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks?
[3577]Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry I
[3578]didn’t work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that
[3579]Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn’t. They’re taught that.
[3580]He’s not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to
[3581]baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing.
[3582]Like to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced,
[3583]listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.
[3584]
[3585]The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps,
[3586]pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.
[3587]
[3588]Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place
[3589]to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow
[3590]music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the
[3591]benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch
[3592]knelt at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring,
[3593]holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a
[3594]communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it
[3595]neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her hat
[3596]sank at once. Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down
[3597]to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one.
[3598]Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus: body. Corpse. Good
[3599]idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They
[3600]don’t seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of
[3601]a corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it.
[3602]
[3603]He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by
[3604]one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in
[3605]its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear.
[3606]We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here
[3607]and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for
[3608]it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it’s that
[3609]sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes
[3610]them feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it’s called.
[3611]There’s a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you
[3612]feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one
[3613]family party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I’m
[3614]sure of that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit
[3615]spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes
[3616]cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding.
[3617]Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind
[3618]faith. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time
[3619]next year.
[3620]
[3621]He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an
[3622]instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace
[3623]affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn’t know
[3624]what to do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No:
[3625]I.H.S. Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have
[3626]suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.
[3627]
[3628]Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with
[3629]a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here
[3630]with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the
[3631]sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen’s evidence on the
[3632]invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion
[3633]every morning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am
[3634]thinking of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children
[3635]at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now
[3636]that’s a good name for them, there’s always something shiftylooking
[3637]about them. They’re not straight men of business either. O, no,
[3638]she’s not here: the flower: no, no. By the way, did I tear up that
[3639]envelope? Yes: under the bridge.
[3640]
[3641]The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs
[3642]smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank
[3643]what they are used to Guinness’s porter or some temperance beverage
[3644]Wheatley’s Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane’s ginger ale
[3645](aromatic). Doesn’t give them any of it: shew wine: only the other.
[3646]Cold comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they’d have one
[3647]old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer
[3648]the whole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.
[3649]
[3650]Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Pity.
[3651]Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make that
[3652]instrument talk, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say he had in
[3653]Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater
[3654]of Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan’s sermon first. Christ or Pilate?
[3655]Christ, but don’t keep us all night over it. Music they wanted.
[3656]Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice
[3657]against that corner. I could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the
[3658]people looking up:
[3659]
[3660]Quis est homo.
[3661]
[3662]Some of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last words.
[3663]Mozart’s twelfth mass: Gloria in that. Those old popes keen on music,
[3664]on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example
[3665]too. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting,
[3666]regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still,
[3667]having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind
[3668]of voice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses.
[3669]Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn’t feel anything after. Kind of a
[3670]placid. No worry. Fall into flesh, don’t they? Gluttons, tall, long
[3671]legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it.
[3672]
[3673]He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and
[3674]bless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom
[3675]glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand
[3676]up at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again
[3677]and he sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the
[3678]altar, holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered
[3679]each other in Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a
[3680]card:
[3681]
[3682]—O God, our refuge and our strength...
[3683]
[3684]Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them
[3685]the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Glorious
[3686]and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More
[3687]interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful
[3688]organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants
[3689]to. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon
[3690]in their hands. More than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I
[3691]schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look
[3692]down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears.
[3693]Husband learn to his surprise. God’s little joke. Then out she comes.
[3694]Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy
[3695]Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation
[3696]army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting.
[3697]How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they
[3698]work the whole show. And don’t they rake in the money too? Bequests
[3699]also: to the P.P. for the time being in his absolute discretion.
[3700]Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors.
[3701]Monasteries and convents. The priest in that Fermanagh will case in the
[3702]witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything.
[3703]Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the
[3704]church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.
[3705]
[3706]The priest prayed:
[3707]
[3708]—Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be
[3709]our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God
[3710]restrain him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly
[3711]host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those
[3712]other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.
[3713]
[3714]The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women
[3715]remained behind: thanksgiving.
[3716]
[3717]Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate
[3718]perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.
[3719]
[3720]He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the
[3721]time? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there’s
[3722]a (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked.
[3723]Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don’t. Why didn’t you tell
[3724]me before. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn’t farther
[3725]south. He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through
[3726]the main door into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold
[3727]black marble bowl while before him and behind two worshippers
[3728]dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of
[3729]Prescott’s dyeworks: a widow in her weeds. Notice because I’m in
[3730]mourning myself. He covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter past.
[3731]Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up. Where is this? Ah yes,
[3732]the last time. Sweny’s in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move. Their
[3733]green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton Long’s, founded
[3734]in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some
[3735]day.
[3736]
[3737]He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other
[3738]trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair.
[3739]O well, poor fellow, it’s not his fault. When was it I got it made up
[3740]last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must
[3741]have been or the second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions book.
[3742]
[3743]The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems
[3744]to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher’s stone.
[3745]The alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then.
[3746]Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character.
[3747]Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his
[3748]alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid.
[3749]Smell almost cure you like the dentist’s doorbell. Doctor Whack. He
[3750]ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow
[3751]that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want to
[3752]be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue
[3753]litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts.
[3754]Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the
[3755]phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever
[3756]of nature.
[3757]
[3758]—About a fortnight ago, sir?
[3759]
[3760]—Yes, Mr Bloom said.
[3761]
[3762]He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the
[3763]dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling
[3764]your aches and pains.
[3765]
[3766]—Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then
[3767]orangeflower water...
[3768]
[3769]It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.
[3770]
[3771]—And white wax also, he said.
[3772]
[3773]Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to
[3774]her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my
[3775]cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the
[3776]teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk.
[3777]Skinfood. One of the old queen’s sons, duke of Albany was it? had only
[3778]one skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to
[3779]make it worse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau
[3780]d’Espagne. That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these
[3781]soaps have. Pure curd soap. Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam.
[3782]Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice
[3783]girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing
[3784]I. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time for
[3785]massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather glum.
[3786]
[3787]—Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a
[3788]bottle?
[3789]
[3790]—No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I’ll call later in the day
[3791]and I’ll take one of these soaps. How much are they?
[3792]
[3793]—Fourpence, sir.
[3794]
[3795]Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.
[3796]
[3797]—I’ll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.
[3798]
[3799]—Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you
[3800]come back.
[3801]
[3802]—Good, Mr Bloom said.
[3803]
[3804]He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the
[3805]coolwrappered soap in his left hand.
[3806]
[3807]At his armpit Bantam Lyons’ voice and hand said:
[3808]
[3809]—Hello, Bloom. What’s the best news? Is that today’s? Show us a
[3810]minute.
[3811]
[3812]Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look
[3813]younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.
[3814]
[3815]Bantam Lyons’s yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a
[3816]wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears’
[3817]soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.
[3818]
[3819]—I want to see about that French horse that’s running today, Bantam
[3820]Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?
[3821]
[3822]He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar.
[3823]Barber’s itch. Tight collar he’ll lose his hair. Better leave him
[3824]the paper and get shut of him.
[3825]
[3826]—You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.
[3827]
[3828]—Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the
[3829]second.
[3830]
[3831]—I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.
[3832]
[3833]Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.
[3834]
[3835]—What’s that? his sharp voice said.
[3836]
[3837]—I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it
[3838]away that moment.
[3839]
[3840]Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread
[3841]sheets back on Mr Bloom’s arms.
[3842]
[3843]—I’ll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.
[3844]
[3845]He sped off towards Conway’s corner. God speed scut.
[3846]
[3847]Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap
[3848]in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it
[3849]lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large
[3850]tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming
[3851]embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now.
[3852]They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.
[3853]
[3854]He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a
[3855]mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He
[3856]eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled
[3857]up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round
[3858]like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big:
[3859]college. Something to catch the eye.
[3860]
[3861]There’s Hornblower standing at the porter’s lodge. Keep him
[3862]on hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr
[3863]Hornblower? How do you do, sir?
[3864]
[3865]Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.
[3866]Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can’t play it
[3867]here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the
[3868]Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in
[3869]their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M’Carthy took the
[3870]floor. Heatwave. Won’t last. Always passing, the stream of life, which
[3871]in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.
[3872]
[3873]Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid
[3874]stream. This is my body.
[3875]
[3876]He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of
[3877]warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his
[3878]trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward,
[3879]lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of
[3880]his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of
[3881]thousands, a languid floating flower.
[3882]
[3883]
[3884]
[3885]
[3886]
[3887]