Conventions for this chapter:

  • External narrative

  • Internal narrative ...in Leopold Bloom's mind

  • —External dialog ...All individual speech included

  • Telegraphic external narrative ...Reporting collective dialog and musing, silent reading (See for ex., lines 263-65>

  • Annotations ...Displayed on selected words when link is touched by mouse pointer
  • 00 ...Line counter by tens (if touched by mouse pointer, it displays a brief summary of the action in the adjacent lines ).




PARBy lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly,
past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office.
Could have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned
from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street.
By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked,
smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her
forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop.
Tell him if he
smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses. Waiting
outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't be
many there.
He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of
El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols' the undertaker. At
eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for
O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In
the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told with
my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a
whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.

PARIn Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and
Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice
blend, finest quality, family tea.
Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from
Tom Kernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though.
While his eyes still
read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his
right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair.
Very warm morning.
Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather
headband inside
his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down
into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the
headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.

PARSo warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow
and hair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again:
blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must
be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses,
flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those
Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in dolce far niente, not doing a hand's
turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of
the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes.
Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired

to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat
tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere?
Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol
open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of
the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of
the what? Or is it the volume is equal to the weight? It's a law something
like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The
college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you
say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per second. Law of falling
bodies: per second per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's
the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.

PARHe turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk
with her sausages? Like that something.
As he walked he took the folded
Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton
and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg.
Careless air:
just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every second it
From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the
Too late box. Post here. No-one.

PARHe handed the card through the brass grill.

PAR—Are there any letters for me? he asked.

PARWhile the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the
recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his
baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper.
No answer
probably. Went too far last time.

PARThe postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a
letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.

Henry Flower Esq,
c/o P. O. Westland Row,

PARAnswered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket,
reviewing again the soldiers on parade.
Where's old Tweedy's regiment?
Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a
grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats. Too
showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to
enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street
at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack
now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire.
Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able.
Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a
bobby. A mason, yes.

PARHe strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if
that would mend matters.
His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger
felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks.
will pay a lot of heed, I don't think.
His fingers drew forth the letter

and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo
perhaps. Hair? No.

PARM'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate
company when you.

PAR—Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?

PAR—Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.

PAR—How's the body?

PAR—Fine. How are you?

PAR—Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.

PARHis eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:

PAR—Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you're...

PAR—O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.

PAR—To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?

PARA photo it isn't. A badge maybe.

PAR—Eeleven, Mr Bloom answered.

PAR—I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it last
night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?

PAR—I know.

PARMr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the
door of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She
stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his
pockets for change.
Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a
day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands
in those patch pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo match.
Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome
does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an
honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out of her.

PAR—I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do
you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.

PARDoran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In
came Hoppy. Having a wet.
Drawing back his head and gazing far from
beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the
braided drums.
Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight
perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will she
get up?

PAR—And he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy? I said.
Poor little Paddy Dignam, he said.

PAROff to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with
laces dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change for?
Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two
strings to her bow.

PAR—Why? I said. What's wrong with him? I said.

PARProud: rich: silk stockings.

PAR—Yes, Mr Bloom said.

PARHe moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a

PARWhat's wrong with him? he said. He's dead, he said. And, faith, he filled
up. Is it Paddy Dignam? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. I was
with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch. Yes, he
said. He's gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow.

PARWatch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!

PARA heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

PARLost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and
the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace
street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering the
display of. Esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping at?

PAR—Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.

PAR—One of the best, M'Coy said.

PARThe tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her
rich gloved hand on the steel grip.
Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in
the sun: flicker, flick.

PAR—Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said.

PAR—O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.

PARHe unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:

      What is home without
      Plumtree's Potted Meat?
      With it an abode of bliss.

PAR—My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.

PARValise tack again. By the way no harm. I'm off that, thanks.

PARMr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

PAR—My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the Ulster
Hall, Belfast, on the twentyfifth.

PAR—That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?

PARMrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating
bread and. No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens.
Dark lady and fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.

      Comes lo-ove's old

PAR—It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Sweeeet
There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.

PARM'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.

PAR—O, well, he said. That's good news.

PARHe moved to go.

PAR—Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.

PAR—Yes, Mr Bloom said.

PAR—Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral,
will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a drowning
case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself would
have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name if I'm not
there, will you?

PAR—I'll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That'll be all right.

PAR—Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could.
Well. Tolloll. Just C. P. M'Coy will do.

PAR—That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.

PARDidn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark.
I'd like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped
corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his
for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from
that good day to this.

PARMr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has
just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its
way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you know: in the
same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can't he hear the
difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain somehow.
Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up there
doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again.
Your wife and my wife.

PARWonder is he pimping after me?

PARMr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the
multicoloured hoardings.
Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic).
Clery's Summer Sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. Leah tonight. Mrs
Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that. Hamlet she played last
night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia
committed suicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in
that. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year
before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this
the right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was
always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and
puts his fingers on his face.

PARNathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left
his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his
father and left the God of his father.

PAREvery word is so deep, Leopold.

PARPoor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at
his face. That day! O, dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best for

PARMr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the
No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met
that M'Coy fellow.

PARHe came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently
champing teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the
sweet oaten reek of horsepiss.
Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all
they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags.
Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss. Gelded
too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches.
Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they look. Still
their neigh can be very irritating.

PARHe drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he
Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.

PARHe passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies.
All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non.
Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as
they pass.
He hummed:

        L ci darem la mano
        La la lala la la.

PARHe turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted
in the lee of the station wall.
No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks.
Ruins and tenements.
With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court
with its forgotten pickeystone.
Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a
squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A
wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill.
Pity to disturb
them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open it.
And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked
mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr?
He opened the letter within the

PARA flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not
annoyed then? What does she say?

PARI got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry
you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am
awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you
naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is
the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in your home you poor
little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me
what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have.
Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I
have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about.
Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I

will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy,
if you do not wrote. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my
request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye
now, naughty darling, I have such a bad headache. today. and write by
to your longing


P. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know.

x x x x

PARHe tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell
and placed it in his heart pocket.
Language of flowers. They like it because
no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down.
Then walking
slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word.
Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't
please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon
anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume.
Having read
it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.

PARWeak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did
she wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me,
respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosar~05081-y. Thank you:
not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad
as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further next
time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course. Brutal, why not?
Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.

PARFingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it.
Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere:
pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses
without thorns.

PARFlat Dublin voice~05082-s bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in
the Coomb~05083-e, linked together in the rain.

      O, Mairy lost the pin of her drawers.
      She didn't know what to do
      To keep it up,
      To keep it up.

It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her rose~05084-s probably. Or sitting all day
typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife
use. Now could you make out a thing like that?

      To keep it up.
Martha, Mar~05085-y. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old maste~05086-r or
faked for money. H~05087-e is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the
two slut~05088-s in the Coombe would listen.

      To keep it up.
Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there:
quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been,
strange customs. The other on~05090-e, jar on her head, was getting the supper:
fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole in the
wal~05091-l at Ashtow~05092-n. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the
trottingmatche~05093-s. Sh~05089-e listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and
more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.

PARGoing under the railway arc~05094-h he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly
in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away,
sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank.

PARHenry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in
the same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveag~05095-h once cashed a sevenfigure
cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be
made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilau~05096-n has to change his
shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million
pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a
gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four
into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.

PARWhat am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the

PARAn incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach.
Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. The
bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together,
winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of
liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.

PARHe had reached the open backdoor of All Hallow~0509a-s. Stepping into the
porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again
behind the leather headband.
Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy
for a pass to Mullingar.

PARSame notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conme~0509b-e
S. J. on saint Peter Claver S. J. and the African Mission. Prayers for the
conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious.
The protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D. D. to the
true religion. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the
heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for
them. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with
hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown of
thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks?
Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry I
didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father
Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that. He's not going
out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The
glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them sitting round in a

ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I

PARThe cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps,
pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.

PARSomething going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place
to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow
music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven.
Women knelt in the
benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt
at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the
thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a
drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her
hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her hat sank at once. Then the next
one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth,
murmuring all the time.
Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your
mouth. What? Corpus: body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them
first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it: only swallow it
down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it.

PARHe stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by
one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in its
corner, nursing his hat and newspaper.
These pots we have to wear. We
ought to have hats modelled on our heads.
They were about him here and
there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt
in their stomachs.
Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread:
unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy.
Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind
it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants.
Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the
theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. In
our confraternity. Then come out a bit spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if
you really believe in it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock
apparition, statues bleeding. Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox.
Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all
pain. Wake this time next year.

PARHe saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel
an instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace
affair he had on.
Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what to
do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I. N. R. I? No: I. H. S. Molly
told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered, it is. And
the other one? Iron nails ran in.

PARMeet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up
with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here
with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly.
Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the invincibles
he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning.
This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of.

Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home. And
plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good
name for them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. They're
not straight men of business either. O, no, she's not here: the flower: no,
no. By the way, did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.

PARThe priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs
Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank
what they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage
Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale
(aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine: only the other. Cold
comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser
worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the whole
atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.

PARMr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music.
Pity. Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make
that instrument talk, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say he had in
Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater of
Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ,
but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped.
Could hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I
could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up:
Quis est homo.

PARSome of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last
words. Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that. Those old popes keen on
music, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example
too. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting, regular
hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still, having
eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is
it? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses. Connoisseurs.
Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall
into flesh, don't they? Gluttons, tall, long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One
way out of it.

PARHe saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about
and bless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom
glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up
at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he
sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar, holding
the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered each other in
Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a card:

PAR—O God, our refuge and our strength .....

PARMr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw
them the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass?
Glorious and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More
interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation

certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants to. Then I will
tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon in their hands. More
than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And
did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look down at her ring to
find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears. Husband learn to his
surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep.
Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers,
incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant
imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the
Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they work the whole
show. And don't they rake in the money too? Bequests also: to the P. P. for
the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to
be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in
that Fermanagh will case in the witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had
his answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the
church. The doctors of the church: they mapped out the whole theology of

PARThe priest prayed:

PAR—Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our
safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain
him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the
power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked
spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.

PARThe priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The
women remained behind:

PARBetter be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate
perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.

PARHe stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all
the time? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a
(whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked.
Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me
before. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south.
passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door
into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl
while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the
low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow in her
Notice because I'm in mourning myself. He covered himself. How
goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made
up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place. Chemists
rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton
Long's, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there.
Visit some day.

PARHe walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the
other trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O
well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait.

I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been or
the second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions book.

PARThe chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he
seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher's stone.
The alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then.
Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character.
Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his alabaster
lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure
you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor Whack. He ought to physic himself a
bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure
himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to
chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose
of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad
for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy
where you least expect it. Clever of nature.

PAR—About a fortnight ago, sir?

PAR—Yes, Mr Bloom said.

PARHe waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the
dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs.
Lot of time taken up telling your
aches and pains.

PAR—Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then
orangeflower water ....

PARIt certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.

PAR—And white wax also, he said.

PARBrings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to
her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs.
Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles
and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. Skinfood. One of
the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin. Leopold,
yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you
want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau d'Espagne. That
orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Pure curd soap.
Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt
gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I.
Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine business with
pleasure. Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be
rather glum.

PAR—Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a

PAR—No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and I'll
take one of these soaps. How much are they?

PAR—Fourpence, sir.

PARMr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.

PAR—I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.  


—Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you come

PAR—Good, Mr Bloom said.

PARHe strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit,
the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.

PARAt his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:

PAR—Hello, Bloom. What's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute.

PARShaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To
look younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.

PARBantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants
a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears'
soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.

PAR—I want to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam
Lyons said.
Where the bugger is it?

PARHe rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar.
Barber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and
get shut of him.

PAR—You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.

PAR—Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum
the second.

PAR—I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.

PARBantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

PAR—What's that? his sharp voice said.

PAR—I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away
that moment.

PARBantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread
sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.

PAR—I'll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.

PARHe sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut.

PARMr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the
soap in it, smiling.
Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it
lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender
turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to
gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come
back. Fleshpots of Egypt.

PARHe walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you
of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see.
eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up
like a cod in a pot.
Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a
wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college.
Something to catch the eye.

PARThere's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on
hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr
Hornblower? How do you do, sir?

PARHeavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.
Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here.
Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare
street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line.
And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor.
Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the
stream of life we trace is dearer thaaan them all.

PAREnjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle
tepid stream. This is my body.

PARHe foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of
warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and
limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow:
his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating,
floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid
floating flower.