ULYSSES - Chap. 10 - The Wandering Rocks //

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Conventions for this chapter:

  • External narrative

  • Internal narrative ...in Leopold Bloom's mind (See for ex., lines 586-90)

  • Internal narrative ...in Stephen Dedalus' mind (See for ex., lines 804-10)

  • Internal narrative ...in passages with Father Conmee (See for ex., lines 2-6), Thornton's blonde girl and Boylan (lines 329-32), Miss Dunne (lines 370-71), M'Coy (lines 514-5), Mr. Kernan (lines 717-37), Patrick Dignam (lines 1133-36)

  • —External dialog ...All individual speech included

  • Telegraphic external narrative ...Reporting collective dialog and musing, silent reading (See for ex., lines 19-29, 41-5, etc)

  • Annotations ...Displayed on selected words when link is touched by mouse pointer
  • (O) ...Navigation icons for sources of an interpolation or for related interpolations

  • [X] ...Navigation icons for characrters or for related events in the text

  • 00 ...Line counter by tens (if touched by mouse pointer, it displays a brief summary of the action in the adjacent lines)..


        The background color above indicates the begining of one of the 19 sections which are part of chapter 10. In this case, section 1 is indicated by the central icon, which. if touched by the mouse also displays information about the place and the time of the action of the section.

        This background color indicates an interpolation. The text describes a piece of action unrelated to the
        ongoing plot, usually describing something taking place simultaneously elsewhere. (See for ex., lines





          PARThe superior, the very reverend John Conmee S. J. reset his smooth
          watch in his interior pocket as he came down the presbytery steps.
          Five to
          three. Just nice time to walk to Artane. What was that boy's name again?
          Dignam. Yes. Vere dignum et iustum est. Brother Swan was the person to
          see. Mr Cunningham's letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible. Good practical
          catholic: useful at mission time.

          PARA onelegged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of his
          crutches, growled some notes. He jerked short before the convent of the
          sisters of charity and held out a peaked cap for alms towards the very
          reverend John Conmee S. J. Father Conmee blessed him in the sun for his
          purse held, he knew, one silver crown.

          PARFather Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. He thought, but not for
          long, of soldiers and sailors, whose legs had been shot off by cannonballs,
          ending their days in some pauper ward, and of cardinal Wolsey's words: If
          I had served my God as I have served my king He would not have
          abandoned me in my old days
          He walked by the treeshade of sunnywinking
          leaves: and towards him came the wife of Mr David Sheehy M. P.

          PAR—Very well, indeed, father. And you, father?

          PARFather Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. He would go to Buxton
          probably for the waters. And her boys, were they getting on well at
          Belvedere? Was that so? Father Conmee was very glad indeed to hear that.
          And Mr Sheehy himself? Still in London. The house was still sitting, to be
          sure it was. Beautiful weather it was, delightful indeed. Yes, it was very
          probable that Father Bernard Vaughan would come again to preach. O,
          yes: a very great success. A wonderful man really.

          PARFather Conmee was very glad to see the wife of Mr David Sheehy
          M. P. looking so well and he begged to be remembered to Mr David Sheehy
          M. P. Yes, he would certainly call.

          PAR—Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy.

          PARFather Conmee doffed his silk hat and smiled, as he took leave, at the
          jet beads of her mantilla inkshining in the sun. And smiled yet again, in
          going. He had cleaned his teeth, he knew, with arecanut paste.

          PARFather Conmee walked and, walking, smiled for he thought on Father
          Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and cockney voice.

          PARPilate! Wy don't you old back that owlin mob?

                      10 - 180

          PARA zealous man, however. Really he was. And really did great good in.
          his way. Beyond a doubt. He loved Ireland, he said, and he loved the Irish.
          Of good family too would one think it? Welsh, were they not?

          PARO, lest he forget. That letter to father provincial.

          PARFather Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of
          Mountjoy square. Yes: they were from Belvedere. The little house. Aha.
          And were they good boys at school? O. That was very good now. And what
          was his name? Jack Sohan. And his name? Ger. Gallaher. And the other
          little man? His name was Brunny Lynam. O, that was a very nice name to

          PARFather Conmee gave a letter from his breast to Master Brunny Lynam
          and pointed to the red pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon street.

          PAR—But mind you don't post yourself into the box, little man, he said.

          PARThe boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed:

          PAR—O, sir.

          PAR—Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Conmee said.

          PARMaster Brunny Lynam ran across the road and put Father Conmee's
          letter to father provincial into the mouth of the bright red letterbox. Father
          Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoy square


            PAR(O) Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, in silk hat, slate
            frockcoat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers,
            canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking with grave deportment
            most respectfully took the curbstone as he passed lady Maxwell at the
            corner of Dignam's court.


              PARWas that not Mrs M'Guinness?

              PARMrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee from
              the farther footpath along which she sailed. And Father Conmee smiled and
              saluted. How did she do?

              PARA fine carriage she had. Like Mary, queen of Scots, something. And to
              think that she was a pawnbroker! Well, now! Such a... what should he
              say?.... such a queenly mien.

              PARFather Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced at the
              shutup free church on his left. The reverend T. R. Greene B. A. will (D. V.)
              The incumbent they called him. He felt it incumbent on him to say a
              few words. But one should be charitable. Invincible ignorance. They acted
              according to their lights.

              PARFather Conmee turned the corner and walked along the North
              Circular road.
              It was a wonder that there was not a tramline in such an
              important thoroughfare. Surely, there ought to be.

              PARA band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street. All
              raised untidy caps.
              Father Conmee greeted them more than once benignly.
              Christian brother boys.

              PARFather Conmee smelt incense on his right hand as he walked. Saint
              Joseph's church, Portland row. For aged and virtuous females.

                          10 - 181

              Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament. Virtuous: but occasionally
              they were also badtempered.

              PARNear Aldborough house Father Conmee thought of that spendthrift
              And now it was an office or something.

              PARFather Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and was
              saluted by Mr William Gallagher who stood in the doorway of his shop.
              Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours
              that came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter. He passed
              Grogan's the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a
              dreadful catastrophe in New York.
              In America those things were
              continually happening. Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared.
              Still, an act of perfect contrition.

              PARFather Conmee went by Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the
              window of which two unlabouring men lounged. They saluted him and
              were saluted.

              PARFather Conmee passed H. J. O'Neill's funeral establishment where
              Corny Kelleher totted figures in the daybook while he chewed a blade of
              hay. A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and Father Conmee
              saluted the constable. In Youkstetter's, the porkbutcher's, Father Conmee
              observed pig's puddings, white and black and red, lie neatly curled in tubes.
              Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw a turfbarge,
              a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with a hat of dirty straw seated
              amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar above him. It was
              idyllic: and Father Conmee reflected on the providence of the Creator who
              had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig it out and bring it to
              town and hamlet to make fires in the houses of poor people.

              PAROn Newcomen bridge the very reverend John Conmee S. J. of saint

              Francis Xavier's church, upper Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward
              bound tram.

              PAROff an inward bound tram stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley
              C. C. of saint Agatha's church, north William street, on to Newcomen

              PARAt Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound
              tram for he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island.

              PARFather Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked
              with care in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a sixpence
              and five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalm into his purse.
              Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspector usually made his
              visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket. The solemnity of the
              occupants of the car seemed to Father Conmee excessive for a journey so
              short and cheap. Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.

              PARIt was a peaceful day. The gentleman with the glasses opposite Father
              Conmee had finished explaining and looked down. His wife, Father
              Conmee supposed.

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              PARA tiny yawn opened the mouth of the wife of the gentleman with the
              glasses. She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so gently, tiptapping
              her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled tinily, sweetly.

              PARFather Conmee perceived her perfume in the car. He perceived also
              that the awkward man at the other side of her was sitting on the edge of the

              PARFather Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the
              mouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head.

              PARAt Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an
              old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The conductor pulled
              the bellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with her basket and a
              marketnet: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and
              basket down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed
              the end of the penny fare, she was one of those good souls who had always
              to be told twice bless you, my child, that they have been absolved, pray for
              . But they had so many worries in life, so many cares, poor creatures.

              PARFrom the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick
              niggerlips at Father Conmee.

              PARFather Conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow
              men and of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S. J. and the African mission
              and of the propagation of the faith and of the millions of black and brown
              and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last
              hour came like a thief in the night. That book by the Belgian jesuit, Le
              Nombre des lus
              , seemed to Father Conmee a reasonable plea. Those were
              millions of human souls created by God in His Own likeness to whom the
              faith had not (D. V.) been brought. But they were God's souls, created by
              God. It seemed to Father Conmee a pity that they should all be lost, a waste,
              if one might say.

              PARAt the Howth road stop Father Conmee alighted, was saluted by the
              conductor and saluted in his turn.

              PARThe Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Conmee, road and
              The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de Malahide,
              immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the seas adjoining.
              Then came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and widow in one day.
              Those were old worldish days, loyal times in joyous townlands, old times in
              the barony.

              PARFather Conmee, walking, thought of his little book Old Times in the
              and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of
              Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of Belvedere.

              PARA listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough
              Ennel, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening,
              not startled when an otter plunged. Who could know the truth? Not the
              jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had not committed
              adultery fully, eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris, with her

                          10 - 183


              husband's brother? She would half confess if she had not all sinned as
              women did. Only God knew and she and he, her husband's brother.

              PARFather Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed
              however for man's race on earth, and of the ways of God which were not
              our ways.

              PARDon John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore. He was
              humane and honoured there. He bore in mind secrets confessed and he
              smiled at smiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with full
              fruit clusters. And the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom, noble to noble,
              were impalmed by Don John Conmee.

              PARIt was a charming day.

              PARThe lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of cabbages,
              curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of
              small white clouds going slowly down the wind.
              Moutonner, the French
              said. A just and homely word.

              PARFather Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning
              clouds over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the stubble

              of Clongowes field. He walked there, reading in the evening, and heard the
              cries of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the quiet evening. He
              was their rector: his reign was mild.

              PARFather Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary
              out. An ivory bookmark told him the page.

              PARNones. He should have read that before lunch. But lady Maxwell had

              PARFather Conmee read in secret Pater and Ave and crossed his breast.
              Deus in adiutorium.

              PARHe walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till
              he came to Res in Beati immaculati:

              PARPrincipium verborum tuorum veritas: in eternum omnia indicia iustitiae

              PARA flushed young man came from a gap of a hedge and after him came
              a young woman with wild nodding daisies in her hand. The young man
              raised his cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent and with slow care
              detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.

              PARFather Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his
              breviary. Sin:

              PARPrincipes persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis formidavit cor meum.



                  PARCorny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced with his
                  drooping eye at a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. He pulled himself erect,
                  went to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass
                  furnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by and came to

                              10 - 184

                  the doorway. There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes and
                  leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out.


                    PAR(O) Father John Conmee stepped into the Dollymount tram on
                    Newcomen bridge.


                      PARCorny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his hat
                      downtilted, chewing his blade of hay.

                      PARConstable 57 C, on his beat, stood to pass the time of day.

                      PAR—That's a fine day, Mr Kelleher.

                      PAR—Ay, Corny Kelleher said.

                      PAR—It's very close, the constable said.

                      PARCorny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his mouth

                        (O) while a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a

                          PAR—What's the best news? he asked.

                          PAR—I seen that particular party last evening, the constable said with bated



                              PARA onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell's corner,
                              skirting Rabaiotti's icecream car, and jerked himself up Eccles street.
                              Towards Larry O'Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he growled

                              PARFor England ....

                              PARHe swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus,
                              halted and growled:

                              PARhome and beauty.


                                PAR(O) J. J. O'Molloy's white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was
                                in the warehouse with a visitor.


                                  PARA stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and dropped
                                  it into the cap held out to her. The sailor grumbled thanks, glanced sourly
                                  at the unheeding windows, sank his head and swung himself forward four

                                  PARHe halted and growled angrily:

                                  PARFor England .....

                                  PARTwo barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near him,
                                  gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.

                                  PARHe swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head
                                  towards a window and bayed deeply:

                                  PARhome and beauty.

                                  PARThe gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased.
                                  The blind of the window was drawn aside. A card Unfurnished Apartments
                                  slipped from the sash and fell. A plump bare generous arm shone, was seen,

                                  held forth from a white petticoatbodice and taut shiftstraps. A woman's
                                  hand flung forth a coin over the area railings. It fell on the path.

                                              10 - 185

                                  PAROne of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the
                                  minstrel's cap, saying:

                                  PAR—There, sir.



                                      PARKatey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the closesteaming

                                      PAR—Did you put in the books? Boody asked.

                                      PARMaggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling
                                      suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.

                                      PAR—They wouldn't give anything on them, she said.


                                        PAR(O) Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked
                                        ankles tickled by stubble.


                                          PAR—Where did you try? Boody asked.


                                          PARBoody stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table.

                                          PAR—Bad cess to her big face! she cried.

                                          PARKatey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes.

                                          PAR—What's in the pot? she asked.

                                          PAR—Shirts, Maggy said.

                                          PARBoody cried angrily:

                                          PAR—Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

                                          PARKatey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked:

                                          PAR—And what's in this?

                                          PARA heavy fume gushed in answer.

                                          PAR—Peasoup, Maggy said.

                                          PAR—Where did you get it? Katey asked.

                                          PAR—Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said.


                                            PAR(O) The lacquey rang his bell.



                                              PARBoody sat down at the table and said hungrily:

                                              PAR—Give us it here.

                                              PARMaggy poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katey,
                                              sitting opposite Boody, said quietly, as her fingertip lifted to her mouth
                                              random crumbs:

                                              PAR—A good job we have that much. Where's Dilly?

                                              PAR—Gone to meet father, Maggy said.
                                              Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added:

                                              PAR—Our father who art not in heaven.

                                              PARMaggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey's bowl, exclaimed:

                                              PAR—Boody! For shame!


                                                PAR(O) A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down
                                                the Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed

                                                            10 - 186

                                                around the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls and anchorchains,
                                                between the Customhouse old dock and George's quay.




                                                    PARThe blond girl in Thornton's bedded the wicker basket with rustling
                                                    fibre. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper and
                                                    a small jar.

                                                    PAR—Put these in first, will you? he said.

                                                    PAR—Yes, sir, the blond girl said. And the fruit on top.

                                                    PAR—That'll do, game ball, Blazes Boylan said.

                                                    PARShe bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe
                                                    shamefaced peaches.

                                                    PARBlazes Boylan walked here and there in new tan shoes about the
                                                    fruitsmelling shop, lifting fruits, young juicy crinkled and plump red
                                                    tomatoes, sniffing smells.

                                                    PARH. E. L. Y'S filed before him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane,
                                                    plodding towards their goal.

                                                    PARHe turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch
                                                    from his fob and held it at its chain's length.

                                                    PAR—Can you send them by tram? Now?


                                                      PAR(O) A darkbacked figure under Merchants' arch scanned books on the
                                                      hawker's cart.


                                                        PAR—Certainly, sir. Is it in the city?

                                                        PAR—O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes.

                                                        PARThe blond girl handed him a docket and pencil.

                                                        PAR—Will you write the address, sir?

                                                        PARBlazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her.

                                                        PAR—Send it at once, will you? he said. It's for an invalid.

                                                        PAR—Yes, sir. I will, sir.

                                                        PARBlazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket.

                                                        PAR—What's the damage? he asked.

                                                        PARThe blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits.

                                                        PARBlazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet. He
                                                        took a red carnation from the tall stemglass.

                                                        PAR—This for me? he asked gallantly.

                                                        PARThe blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie
                                                        a bit crooked,

                                                        PAR—Yes, sir, she said.

                                                        PARBending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.

                                                        PARBlazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the
                                                        red flower between his smiling teeth.

                                                        PAR—May I say a word to your telephone, missy? he asked roguishly.

                                                                    10 - 187




                                                            PARMa! Almidano Artifoni said.

                                                            PARHe gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.

                                                            PARTwo carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore,
                                                            gripping the handrests. Palefaces. Men's arms frankly round their stunted
                                                            forms. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of the bank
                                                            of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed.

                                                            PARAnch'io ho avuto di queste idee, Almidano Artifoni said, quand' ero
                                                            giovine come Lei. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo ; una bestia.
                                                            peccato. Perch la sua voce .... sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. Invece, Lei
                                                            si sacrifica.

                                                            PARSacrifizio incruento, Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in slow
                                                            swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.

                                                            PARSperiamo, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. Ma, dia: retta a
                                                            me. Ci rifletta

                                                            PARBy the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram
                                                            unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.

                                                            PARCi rifletter, Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg.

                                                            PARMa, sul serio, eh? Almidano Artifoni said.

                                                            PARHis heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Human eyes. They gazed
                                                            curiously an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.

                                                            PAREccolo, Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. Venga a trovarmi e ci
                                                            pensi. Addio, caro.

                                                            PARArrivederla, maestro, Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand was
                                                            E grazie.

                                                            PARDi che? Almidano Artifoni said. Scusi, eh? Tante belle cose!

                                                            PARAlmidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal,
                                                            trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. In vain he trotted, signalling
                                                            in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling implements of music
                                                            through Trinity gates.



                                                                PARMiss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of The Woman in White
                                                                far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her

                                                                PARToo much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion?
                                                                Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.


                                                                  PAR(O) The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled
                                                                  them: six.


                                                                    PARMiss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:

                                                                    PAR—16 June 1904.


                                                                      PAR(O) Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's corner and
                                                                      the slab where Wolfe Tone's statue was not, eeled themselves turning
                                                                      H. E. L. Y'S and plodded back as they had come.


                                                                                    10 - 188


                                                                        PARThen she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming
                                                                        soubrette, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jotter sixteens and capital
                                                                        Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She's not nicelooking, is she? The
                                                                        way she's holding up her bit of a skirt. Wonder will that fellow be at the
                                                                        band tonight. If I could get that dressmaker to make a concertina skirt like
                                                                        Susy Nagle's. They kick out grand. Shannon and all the boatclub swells
                                                                        never took his eyes off her. Hope to goodness he won't keep me here till

                                                                        PARThe telephone rang rudely by her ear.

                                                                        PAR—Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring them up after five. Only those
                                                                        two, sir, for Belfast and Liverpool. All right, sir. Then I can go after six if
                                                                        you're not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir. Twentyseven and six. I'll tell him.
                                                                        Yes: one, seven, six.

                                                                        PARShe scribbled three figures on an envelope.

                                                                        PAR—Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from Sport was in looking for you.
                                                                        Mr Lenehan, yes. He said he'll be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes, sir.
                                                                        I'll ring them up after five.



                                                                            PARTwo pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch.

                                                                            PAR—Who's that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty?

                                                                            PAR—Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold.

                                                                            PAR—Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his
                                                                            pliant lath among the flickering arches.
                                                                            Come on. Mind your steps there.

                                                                            PARThe vesta in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a long
                                                                            soft flame and was let fall. At their feet its red speck died: and mouldy air
                                                                            closed round them.

                                                                            PAR—How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom.

                                                                            PAR—Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic
                                                                            council chamber of saint Mary's abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed
                                                                            himself a rebel in 1534. This is the most historic spot in all Dublin.
                                                                            O'Madden Burke is going to write something about it one of these days.
                                                                            The old bank of Ireland was over the way till the time of the union and the
                                                                            original jews' temple was here too before they built their synagogue over in
                                                                            Adelaide road. You were never here before, Jack, were you?

                                                                            PAR—No, Ned.

                                                                            PARHe rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, if my
                                                                            memory serves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court.

                                                                            PAR—That's right, Ned Lambert said. That's quite right, sir.

                                                                            PAR—If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to allow me
                                                                            perhaps ....

                                                                            PAR—Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring the camera whenever you like. I'll get
                                                                            those bags cleared away from the windows. You can take it from here or
                                                                            from here.

                                                                                        10 - 189

                                                                            PARIn the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the piled
                                                                            seedbags and points of vantage on the floor.


                                                                              PAR(O) From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.


                                                                                PAR—I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won't trespass on
                                                                                your valuable time....

                                                                                PAR—You're welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next
                                                                                week, say. Can you see?

                                                                                PAR—Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met you.

                                                                                PAR—Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.

                                                                                PARHe followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away
                                                                                among the pillars. With J. J. O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's
                                                                                abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut
                                                                                meal, O'Connor, Wexford.

                                                                                PARHe stood to read the card in his hand.

                                                                                PAR—The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Present address: Saint
                                                                                Michael's, Sallins. Nice young chap he is. He's writing a book about the
                                                                                Fitzgeralds he told me. He's well up in history, faith.


                                                                                  PAR(O) The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a
                                                                                  clinging twig.


                                                                                    PAR—I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O'Molloy said.

                                                                                    PARNed Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.

                                                                                    PAR—God! he cried. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare after
                                                                                    he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? I'm bloody sorry I did it,
                                                                                    says he, but I declare to God I thought the archbishop was inside
                                                                                    . He
                                                                                    mightn't like it, though. What? God, I'll tell him anyhow. That was the
                                                                                    great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they were all of them, the

                                                                                    PARThe horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He
                                                                                    slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:

                                                                                    PAR—Woa, sonny!

                                                                                    PARHe turned to J. J. O'Molloy and asked:

                                                                                    PAR—Well, Jack. What is it? What's the trouble? Wait awhile. Hold hard.

                                                                                    PARWith gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an
                                                                                    instant, sneezed loudly.

                                                                                    PAR—Chow! he said. Blast you!

                                                                                    PAR—The dust from those sacks, J. J. O'Molloy said politely.

                                                                                    PAR—No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a .... cold night before .... blast your
                                                                                    soul ... night before last ... and there was a hell of a lot of draught ....

                                                                                    PARHe held his handkerchief ready for the coming ...

                                                                                    PAR—I was .... Glasnevin this morning ... poor little ... what do you call him ...
                                                                                    Chow! ... Mother of Moses!

                                                                                                10 - 190




                                                                                        PARTom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his
                                                                                        claret waistcoat.

                                                                                        PAR—See? he said. Say it's turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.

                                                                                        PARHe slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove, wobbled
                                                                                        a while, ceased, ogling them: six.


                                                                                          PAR(O) Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the
                                                                                          consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying the
                                                                                          costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the
                                                                                          admiralty division of king's bench to the court of appeal an elderly female
                                                                                          with false teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirt of great


                                                                                            PAR—See? he said. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over. The
                                                                                            impact. Leverage, see?

                                                                                            PARHe showed them the rising column of disks on the right.

                                                                                            PAR—Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in late can
                                                                                            see what turn is on and what turns are over.

                                                                                            PAR—See? Tom Rochford said.

                                                                                            PARHe slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop:
                                                                                            four. Turn Now On.

                                                                                            PAR—I'll see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and sound him. One good
                                                                                            turn deserves another.

                                                                                            PAR—Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience.

                                                                                            PAR—Goodnight, M'Coy said abruptly. When you two begin ....

                                                                                            PARNosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.

                                                                                            PAR—But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked.

                                                                                            PAR—Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later.

                                                                                            PARHe followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.

                                                                                            PARHe's a hero, he said simply.

                                                                                            PAR—I know, M'Coy said. The drain, you mean.

                                                                                            PAR—Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole.

                                                                                            PARThey passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming
                                                                                            soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.

                                                                                            PARGoing down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall
                                                                                            Lenehan showed M'Coy how the whole thing was. One of those manholes
                                                                                            like a bloody gaspipe and there was the poor devil stuck down in it, half
                                                                                            choked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest
                                                                                            and all, with the rope round him. And be damned but he got the rope round
                                                                                            the poor devil and the two were hauled up.

                                                                                            PAR—The act of a hero, he said.

                                                                                            PARAt the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past
                                                                                            them for Jervis street.

                                                                                            PAR—This way, he said, walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam's to see
                                                                                            Sceptre's starting price. What's the time by your gold watch and chain?

                                                                                            PARM'Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses' sombre office, then at
                                                                                            O'Neill's clock.  

                                                                                                        10 - 191


                                                                                            PAR—After three, he said. Who's riding her?

                                                                                            PAR—O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is.

                                                                                            PARWhile he waited in Temple bar M'Coy dodged a banana peel with
                                                                                            gentle pushes of his toe from the path to the gutter.
                                                                                            Fellow might damn easy
                                                                                            get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.



                                                                                              PAR(O) The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal


                                                                                                PAR—Even money, Lenehan said returning. I knocked against Bantam Lyons in
                                                                                                there going to back a bloody horse someone gave him that hasn't an
                                                                                                earthly. Through here.

                                                                                                PARThey went up the steps and under Merchants' arch. A darkbacked
                                                                                                figure scanned books on the hawker's cart.

                                                                                                PAR—There he is, Lenehan said.

                                                                                                PAR—Wonder what he's buying, M'Coy said, glancing behind.

                                                                                                PARLeopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye, Lenehan said.

                                                                                                PAR—He's dead nuts on sales, M'Coy said. I was with him one day and he
                                                                                                bought a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob. There were fine
                                                                                                plates in it worth double the money, the stars and the moon and comets
                                                                                                with long tails. Astronomy it was about.

                                                                                                PARLenehan laughed.

                                                                                                PAR—I'll tell you a damn good one about comets' tails, he said. Come over in
                                                                                                the sun.

                                                                                                PARThey crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by
                                                                                                the riverwall.


                                                                                                  PAR(O) Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late
                                                                                                  Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.


                                                                                                    PAR—There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said
                                                                                                    The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord mayor
                                                                                                    was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson
                                                                                                    spoke and there was music. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard .....

                                                                                                    PAR—I know, M'Coy broke in. My missus sang there once.

                                                                                                    PAR—Did she? Lenehan said.


                                                                                                      PAR(O) A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on the windowsash of
                                                                                                      number 7 Eccles street.


                                                                                                        PARHe checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.

                                                                                                        PAR—But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the
                                                                                                        catering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were
                                                                                                        there. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curaoa to
                                                                                                        which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came
                                                                                                        solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies ....

                                                                                                        PAR—I know, M'Coy said. The year the missus was there .....

                                                                                                        PARLenehan linked his arm warmly.

                                                                                                        PAR—But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after all the
                                                                                                        jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o'clock the morning after
                                                                                                        the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter's night on the

                                                                                                                    10 - 192

                                                                                                        Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one side of the
                                                                                                        car and I was with the wife on the other. We started singing glees and duets:
                                                                                                        Lo, the early beam of morning. She was well primed with a good load of
                                                                                                        Delahunt's port under her bellyband. Every jolt the bloody car gave I had
                                                                                                        her bumping up against me. Hell's delights! She has a fine pair, God bless
                                                                                                        her. Like that.

                                                                                                        PARHe held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning:

                                                                                                        PAR—I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the time. Know
                                                                                                        what I mean?

                                                                                                        PARHis hands moulded ample curves of air. He shut his eyes tight in
                                                                                                        delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips.

                                                                                                        PAR—The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She's a gamey
                                                                                                        mare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets
                                                                                                        in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the great bear and
                                                                                                        Hercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was
                                                                                                        lost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At last she
                                                                                                        spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. And what star is that, Poldy? says
                                                                                                        she. By God, she had Bloom cornered. That one, is it? says Chris Callinan,
                                                                                                        sure that's only what you might call a pinprick. By God, he wasn't far wide
                                                                                                        of the mark.

                                                                                                        PARLenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft

                                                                                                        PAR—I'm weak, he gasped.

                                                                                                        PARM'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave.
                                                                                                        Lenehan walked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his
                                                                                                        hindhead rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy.

                                                                                                        PAR—He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He's not one of
                                                                                                        your common or garden ... you know ... There's a touch of the artist about
                                                                                                        old Bloom.



                                                                                                            PARMr Bloom turned over idly pages of The Awful Disclosures of Maria
                                                                                                            , then of Aristotle's Masterpiece.
                                                                                                            Crooked botched print. Plates:
                                                                                                            infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows.
                                                                                                            Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world. All butting with
                                                                                                            their skulls to get out of it. Child born every minute somewhere. Mrs

                                                                                                            PARHe laid both books aside and glanced at the third: Tales of the Ghetto
                                                                                                            by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.

                                                                                                            PAR—That I had, he said, pushing it by.

                                                                                                            PARThe shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.

                                                                                                            PAR—Them are two good ones, he said.

                                                                                                            PAROnions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined
                                                                                                            mouth. He bent to make a bundle of the other books, hugged them against
                                                                                                            his unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain.

                                                                                                                        10 - 193



                                                                                                              PAR(O) On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment
                                                                                                              and gay apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c.


                                                                                                                PARMr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. Fair Tyrants by James
                                                                                                                Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.

                                                                                                                PARHe opened it. Thought so.

                                                                                                                PARA woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: the man.

                                                                                                                PARNo: she wouldn't like that much. Got her it once.

                                                                                                                PARHe read the other title: Sweets of Sin. More in her line. Let us see.

                                                                                                                PARHe read where his finger opened.

                                                                                                                PARAll the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on
                                                                                                                wondrous gowns and costliest frillies. For him! For Raoul!

                                                                                                                PARYes. This. Here. Try.

                                                                                                                PARHer mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands felt
                                                                                                                for the opulent curves inside her deshabille.

                                                                                                                PARYes. Take this. The end.

                                                                                                                PARYou are late, he spoke hoarsely, eying her with a suspicious glare.

                                                                                                                PARThe beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her
                                                                                                                queenly shoulders and heaving embonpoint. An imperceptible smile played
                                                                                                                round her perfect lips as she turned to him calmly.

                                                                                                                PARMr Bloom read again: The beautiful woman....

                                                                                                                PARWarmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yielded
                                                                                                                amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils
                                                                                                                arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments (for him! for Raoul!).

                                                                                                                Armpits' oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime (her heaving embonpoint!). Feel!
                                                                                                                Press! Chrished! Sulphur dung of lions!

                                                                                                                PARYoung! Young!


                                                                                                                  PAR(O) An elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts of
                                                                                                                  chancery, king's bench, exchequer and common pleas, having heard in the
                                                                                                                  lord chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the admiralty
                                                                                                                  division the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the Lady Cairns
                                                                                                                  versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court of appeal reservation of
                                                                                                                  judgment in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee


                                                                                                                    PARPhlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy
                                                                                                                    curtains. The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven
                                                                                                                    reddened face, coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the
                                                                                                                    floor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along it, and
                                                                                                                    bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.

                                                                                                                    PARMr Bloom beheld it.

                                                                                                                    PARMastering his troubled breath, he said:

                                                                                                                    PAR—I'll take this one.

                                                                                                                    PARThe shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum.

                                                                                                                    PARSweets of Sin, he said, tapping on it. That's a good one.


                                                                                                                                10 - 194




                                                                                                                        PARThe lacquey by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell
                                                                                                                        twice again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet.

                                                                                                                        PARDilly Dedalus, loitering by the curbstone, heard the beats of the bell,
                                                                                                                        the cries of the auctioneer within. Four and nine. Those lovely curtains.
                                                                                                                        Five shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling new at two guineas. Any advance on
                                                                                                                        five shillings? Going for five shillings.

                                                                                                                        PARThe lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it:



                                                                                                                          PAR(O) Bang of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint.
                                                                                                                          J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their stretched
                                                                                                                          necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College library.


                                                                                                                            PARMr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, came round from Williams's
                                                                                                                            row. He halted near his daughter.

                                                                                                                            PAR—It's time for you, she said.

                                                                                                                            PAR—Stand up straight for the love of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus said. Are you
                                                                                                                            trying to imitate your uncle John, the cornetplayer, head upon shoulder?
                                                                                                                            Melancholy God!

                                                                                                                            PARDilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and held them back.

                                                                                                                            PAR—Stand up straight, girl, he said. You'll get curvature of the spine. Do you
                                                                                                                            know what you look like?

                                                                                                                            PARHe let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his
                                                                                                                            shoulders and dropping his underjaw.

                                                                                                                            PAR—Give it up, father, Dilly said. All the people are looking at you.

                                                                                                                            PARMr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache.

                                                                                                                            PAR—Did you get any money? Dilly asked.

                                                                                                                            PAR—Where would I get money? Mr Dedalus said. There is no-one in Dublin
                                                                                                                            would lend me fourpence.

                                                                                                                            PAR—You got some, Dilly said, looking in his eyes.

                                                                                                                            PAR—How do you know that? Mr Dedalus asked, his tongue in his cheek.


                                                                                                                              PAR(O) Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked, walked boldly
                                                                                                                              along James's street.


                                                                                                                                PAR—I know you did, Dilly answered. Were you in the Scotch house now?

                                                                                                                                PAR—I was not, then, Mr Dedalus said, smiling. Was it the little nuns taught
                                                                                                                                you to be so saucy? Here.

                                                                                                                                PARHe handed her a shilling.

                                                                                                                                PAR—See if you can do anything with that, he said.

                                                                                                                                PAR—I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give me more than that.

                                                                                                                                PAR—Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said threateningly. You're like the rest of them,
                                                                                                                                are you? An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor mother died. But
                                                                                                                                wait awhile. You'll all get a short shrift and a long day from me. Low
                                                                                                                                blackguardism! I'm going to get rid of you. Wouldn't care if I was stretched
                                                                                                                                out stiff. He's dead. The man upstairs is dead.

                                                                                                                                            10 - 195

                                                                                                                                PARHe left her and walked on. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat.

                                                                                                                                PAR—Well, what is it? he said, stopping.

                                                                                                                                PARThe lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.


                                                                                                                                PAR—Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him.

                                                                                                                                PARThe lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his bell
                                                                                                                                but feebly:


                                                                                                                                PARMr Dedalus stared at him.

                                                                                                                                PAR—Watch him, he said. It's instructive. I wonder will he allow us to talk.

                                                                                                                                PAR—You got more than that, father, Dilly said.

                                                                                                                                PAR—I'm going to show you a little trick, Mr Dedalus said. I'll leave you all
                                                                                                                                where Jesus left the jews. Look, there's all I have. I got two shillings from
                                                                                                                                Jack Power and I spent twopence for a shave for the funeral.

                                                                                                                                PARHe drew forth a handful of copper coins, nervously.

                                                                                                                                PAR—Can't you look for some money somewhere? Dilly said.

                                                                                                                                PARMr Dedalus thought and nodded.

                                                                                                                                PAR—I will, he said gravely. I looked all along the gutter in O'Connell street.
                                                                                                                                I'll try this one now.

                                                                                                                                PAR—You're very funny, Dilly said, grinning.

                                                                                                                                PAR—Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies. Get a glass of milk for
                                                                                                                                yourself and a bun or a something. I'll be home shortly.

                                                                                                                                PARHe put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on.


                                                                                                                                  PAR(O) The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out
                                                                                                                                  of Parkgate.


                                                                                                                                    PAR—I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.

                                                                                                                                    PARThe lacquey banged loudly.

                                                                                                                                    PARMr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a
                                                                                                                                    pursing mincing mouth gently:

                                                                                                                                    PAR—The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they wouldn't do anything! O,
                                                                                                                                    sure they wouldn't really! Is it little sister Monica!



                                                                                                                                        PARFrom the sundial towards James's gate walked Mr Kernan, pleased
                                                                                                                                        with the order he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along
                                                                                                                                        James's street, past Shackleton's offices.
                                                                                                                                        Got round him all right. How do
                                                                                                                                        you do, Mr Crimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be up in your
                                                                                                                                        other establishment in Pimlico. How are things going? Just keeping alive.
                                                                                                                                        Lovely weather we're having. Yes, indeed. Good for the country. Those
                                                                                                                                        farmers are always grumbling. I'll just take a thimbleful of your best gin,
                                                                                                                                        Mr Crimmins. A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible affair that General Slocum
                                                                                                                                        explosion. Terrible, terrible! A thousand casualties. And heartrending
                                                                                                                                        scenes. Men trampling down women and children. Most brutal thing. What

                                                                                                                                                    10 - 196

                                                                                                                                        do they say was the cause? Spontaneous combustion. Most scandalous
                                                                                                                                        revelation. Not a single lifeboat would float and the firehose all burst. What
                                                                                                                                        I can't understand is how the inspectors ever allowed a boat like that ....
                                                                                                                                        Now, you're talking straight, Mr Crimmins. You know why? Palm oil. Is
                                                                                                                                        that a fact? Without a doubt. Well now, look at that. And America they say
                                                                                                                                        is the land of the free. I thought we were bad here.

                                                                                                                                        PARI smiled at him. America, I said quietly, just like that. What is it? The
                                                                                                                                        sweepings of every country including our own. Isn't that true?
                                                                                                                                        That's a fact.

                                                                                                                                        PARGraft, my dear sir. Well, of course, where there's money going there's
                                                                                                                                        always someone to pick it up.

                                                                                                                                        PARSaw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress does it. Nothing like a
                                                                                                                                        dressy appearance. Bowls them over.


                                                                                                                                          PARHello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?

                                                                                                                                          PAR—Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.


                                                                                                                                            PARMr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of
                                                                                                                                            Peter Kennedy, hairdresser.
                                                                                                                                            Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson
                                                                                                                                            street. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Never built under
                                                                                                                                            three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some Kildare street club toff
                                                                                                                                            had it probably. John Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernian bank, gave
                                                                                                                                            me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he remembered me.

                                                                                                                                            PARAham! Must dress the character for those fellows. Knight of the road.
                                                                                                                                            Gentleman. And now, Mr Crimmins, may we have the honour of your
                                                                                                                                            custom again, sir. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as the old saying has it.


                                                                                                                                              PAR(O) North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with hulls and
                                                                                                                                              anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpled throwaway,
                                                                                                                                              rocked on the ferrywash, Elijah is coming.


                                                                                                                                                PARMr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image. High colour, of course.
                                                                                                                                                Grizzled moustache. Returned Indian officer.
                                                                                                                                                Bravely he bore his stumpy
                                                                                                                                                body forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders.
                                                                                                                                                Is that Ned
                                                                                                                                                Lambert's brother over the way, Sam? What? Yes. He's as like it as damn it.
                                                                                                                                                No. The windscreen of that motorcar in the sun there. Just a flash like that.
                                                                                                                                                Damn like him.

                                                                                                                                                PARAham! Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath.
                                                                                                                                                Good drop of gin, that was. His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his
                                                                                                                                                fat strut.

                                                                                                                                                PARDown there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Greasy black
                                                                                                                                                rope. Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant's wife
                                                                                                                                                drove by in her noddy.

                                                                                                                                                PARBad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with. Great topers
                                                                                                                                                too. Fourbottle men.

                                                                                                                                                PARLet me see. Is he buried in saint Michan's? Or no, there was a
                                                                                                                                                midnight burial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through a secret door in
                                                                                                                                                the wall. Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well. Better turn
                                                                                                                                                down here. Make a detour.

                                                                                                                                                            10 - 197

                                                                                                                                                PARMr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling street by
                                                                                                                                                the corner of Guinness's visitors' waitingroom. Outside the Dublin
                                                                                                                                                Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the
                                                                                                                                                reins knotted to the wheel.
                                                                                                                                                Damn dangerous thing. Some Tipperary
                                                                                                                                                bosthoon endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway horse.


                                                                                                                                                  PAR(O) Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John
                                                                                                                                                  Henry Menton's office, led his wife over O'Connell bridge, bound for the
                                                                                                                                                  office of Messrs Collis and Ward.


                                                                                                                                                    PARMr Kernan approached Island street. Times of the troubles. Must ask
                                                                                                                                                    Ned Lambert to lend me those reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington.
                                                                                                                                                    When you look back on it all now in a kind of retrospective arrangement.
                                                                                                                                                    Gaming at Daly's. No cardsharping then. One of those fellows got his hand
                                                                                                                                                    nailed to the table by a dagger. Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald
                                                                                                                                                    escaped from major Sirr. Stables behind Moira house.

                                                                                                                                                    PARDamn good gin that was.

                                                                                                                                                    PARFine dashing young nobleman. Good stock, of course. That ruffian,
                                                                                                                                                    that sham squire, with his violet gloves gave him away. Course they were on
                                                                                                                                                    the wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days. Fine poem that is: Ingram.
                                                                                                                                                    They were gentlemen. Ben Dollard does sing that ballad touchingly.
                                                                                                                                                    Masterly rendition.

                                                                                                                                                    At the siege of Ross did my father fall.

                                                                                                                                                    PARA cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders
                                                                                                                                                    leaping, leaping in their, in their saddles. Frockcoats. Cream sunshades.

                                                                                                                                                    PARMr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily.

                                                                                                                                                    PARHis Excellency! Too bad! Just missed that by a hair. Damn it! What a


                                                                                                                                                        PARStephen Dedalus watched through the webbed window the lapidary's
                                                                                                                                                        fingers prove a timedulled chain. Dust webbed the window and the
                                                                                                                                                        showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust
                                                                                                                                                        slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies,
                                                                                                                                                        leprous and winedark stones.

                                                                                                                                                        PARBorn all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights
                                                                                                                                                        shining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their
                                                                                                                                                        brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them.

                                                                                                                                                        PARShe dances in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. A
                                                                                                                                                        sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. A long and
                                                                                                                                                        seafed silent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her
                                                                                                                                                        hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.

                                                                                                                                                        PAROld Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem,
                                                                                                                                                        turned it and held it at the point of his Moses' beard.
                                                                                                                                                        Grandfather ape
                                                                                                                                                        gloating on a stolen hoard.  

                                                                                                                                                                    10 - 198

                                                                                                                                                        PARAnd you who wrest old images from the burial earth? The brainsick
                                                                                                                                                        words of sophists: Antisthenes. A lore of drugs. Orient and immortal wheat
                                                                                                                                                        standing from everlasting to everlasting.


                                                                                                                                                          PAR(O) Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged through
                                                                                                                                                          Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a sanded tired umbrella, one
                                                                                                                                                          with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled.



                                                                                                                                                            PARThe whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the
                                                                                                                                                            powerhouse urged Stephen to be on.
                                                                                                                                                            Beingless beings. Stop! Throb always
                                                                                                                                                            without you and the throb always within. Your heart you sing of. I between
                                                                                                                                                            them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I. Shatter
                                                                                                                                                            them, one and both. But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter me you who
                                                                                                                                                            can. Bawd and butcher were the words. I say! Not yet awhile. A look

                                                                                                                                                            PARYes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. You
                                                                                                                                                            say right, sir. A Monday morning. 'Twas so, indeed.

                                                                                                                                                            PARStephen went down Bedford row, the handle of the ash clacking
                                                                                                                                                            against his shoulderblade. In Clohissey's window a faded 1860 print of
                                                                                                                                                            Heenan boxing Sayers held his eye. Staring backers with square hats stood
                                                                                                                                                            round the roped prizering. The heavyweights in tight loincloths proposed
                                                                                                                                                            gently each to other his bulbous fists.
                                                                                                                                                            And they are throbbing: heroes'

                                                                                                                                                            PARHe turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.

                                                                                                                                                            PAR—Twopence each, the huckster said. Four for sixpence.

                                                                                                                                                            PARTattered pages. The Irish Beekeeper. Life and Miracles of the Cure' of
                                                                                                                                                            Ars. Pocket Guide to Killarney.

                                                                                                                                                            PARI might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. Stephano Dedalo,
                                                                                                                                                            alumno optimo, palmam ferenti.


                                                                                                                                                              PAR(O) Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the
                                                                                                                                                              hamlet of Donnycarney, murmuring vespers.


                                                                                                                                                                PARBinding too good probably. What is this? Eighth and ninth book of
                                                                                                                                                                Moses. Secret of all secrets. Seal of King David. Thumbed pages: read and
                                                                                                                                                                read. Who has passed here before me? How to soften chapped hands.
                                                                                                                                                                Recipe for white wine vinegar. How to win a woman's love. For me this.
                                                                                                                                                                Say the following talisman three times with hands folded:

                                                                                                                                                                PARSe el yilo nebrakada femininum! Amor me solo! Sanktus! Amen.

                                                                                                                                                                PARWho wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most blessed abbot
                                                                                                                                                                Peter Salanka to all true believers divulged. As good as any other abbot's
                                                                                                                                                                charms, as mumbling Joachim's. Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your

                                                                                                                                                                PAR—What are you doing here, Stephen?

                                                                                                                                                                PARDilly's high shoulders and shabby dress.

                                                                                                                                                                PARShut the book quick. Don't let see.

                                                                                                                                                                PAR—What are you doing? Stephen said.

                                                                                                                                                                            10 - 199

                                                                                                                                                                PARA Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. It
                                                                                                                                                                glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. I told her of
                                                                                                                                                                Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck
                                                                                                                                                                bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. Nebrakada femininum.

                                                                                                                                                                PAR—What have you there? Stephen asked.

                                                                                                                                                                PAR—I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing
                                                                                                                                                                Is it any good?

                                                                                                                                                                PARMy eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? Quick, far and
                                                                                                                                                                daring. Shadow of my mind.

                                                                                                                                                                PARHe took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal's French

                                                                                                                                                                PAR—What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French?

                                                                                                                                                                PARShe nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips.

                                                                                                                                                                PARShow no surprise. Quite natural.

                                                                                                                                                                PAR—Here, Stephen said. It's all right. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you. I
                                                                                                                                                                suppose all my books are gone.

                                                                                                                                                                PAR—Some, Dilly said. We had to.

                                                                                                                                                                PARShe is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will
                                                                                                                                                                drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me,
                                                                                                                                                                my heart, my soul. Salt green death.


                                                                                                                                                                PARAgenbite of inwit. Inwit's agenbite.

                                                                                                                                                                PARMisery! Misery!




                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

                                                                                                                                                                    PARThey clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's. Father
                                                                                                                                                                    Cowley brushed his moustache often downward with a scooping hand.

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—What's the best news? Mr Dedalus said.

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Why then not much, Father Cowley said. I'm barricaded up, Simon, with
                                                                                                                                                                    two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance.

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Jolly, Mr Dedalus said. Who is it?

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—O, Father Cowley said. A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance.

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—With a broken back, is it? Mr Dedalus asked.

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben of that ilk. I'm just
                                                                                                                                                                    waiting for Ben Dollard. He's going to say a word to long John to get him
                                                                                                                                                                    to take those two men off. All I want is a little time.

                                                                                                                                                                    PARHe looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple
                                                                                                                                                                    bulging in his neck.

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He's always
                                                                                                                                                                    doing a good turn for someone. Hold hard!

                                                                                                                                                                    PARHe put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Here he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.

                                                                                                                                                                                10 - 200


                                                                                                                                                                    PARBen Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops
                                                                                                                                                                    crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came towards them
                                                                                                                                                                    at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails.

                                                                                                                                                                    PARAs he came near Mr Dedalus greeted:

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.

                                                                                                                                                                    PARMr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben
                                                                                                                                                                    Dollard's figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day?

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I
                                                                                                                                                                    threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.

                                                                                                                                                                    PARHe stood beside them beaming, on them first and on his roomy
                                                                                                                                                                    clothes from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying:

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow.

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Bad luck to the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be to
                                                                                                                                                                    God he's not paid yet.

                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked.


                                                                                                                                                                      PAR(O) Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring,
                                                                                                                                                                      glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club.


                                                                                                                                                                        PARBen Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave
                                                                                                                                                                        forth a deep note.

                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—Aw! he said.

                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—That's the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone.

                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty? What?

                                                                                                                                                                        PARHe turned to both.

                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—That'll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also.


                                                                                                                                                                          PAR(O) The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old chapterhouse of
                                                                                                                                                                          saint Mary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended
                                                                                                                                                                          by Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of


                                                                                                                                                                            PARBen Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them
                                                                                                                                                                            forward, his joyful fingers in the air.

                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—Come along with me to the subsheriff's office, he said. I want to show you
                                                                                                                                                                            the new beauty Rock has for a bailiff. He's a cross between Lobengula and
                                                                                                                                                                            Lynchehaun. He's well worth seeing, mind you. Come along. I saw John
                                                                                                                                                                            Henry Menton casually in the Bodega just now and it will cost me a fall if I
                                                                                                                                                                            don't ... Wait awhile ..... We're on the right lay, Bob, believe you me.

                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said anxiously.

                                                                                                                                                                            PARBen Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a dangling
                                                                                                                                                                            button of his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he wiped away
                                                                                                                                                                            the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright.

                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—What few days? he boomed. Hasn't your landlord distrained for rent?

                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—He has, Father Cowley said.

                                                                                                                                                                                        10 - 201

                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—Then our friend's writ is not worth the paper it's printed on, Ben Dollard
                                                                                                                                                                            The landlord has the prior claim. I gave him all the particulars. 29
                                                                                                                                                                            Windsor avenue. Love is the name?

                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—That's right, Father Cowley said. The reverend Mr Love. He's a minister
                                                                                                                                                                            in the country somewhere. But are you sure of that?

                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—You can tell Barabbas from me, Ben Dollard said, that he can put that
                                                                                                                                                                            writ where Jacko put the nuts.

                                                                                                                                                                            PARHe led Father Cowley boldly forward, linked to his bulk.

                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—Filberts I believe they were, Mr Dedalus said, as he dropped his glasses on
                                                                                                                                                                            his coatfront, following them.



                                                                                                                                                                                PAR—The youngster will be all right, Martin Cunningham said, as they passed
                                                                                                                                                                                out of the Castleyard gate.

                                                                                                                                                                                PARThe policeman touched his forehead.

                                                                                                                                                                                PAR—God bless you, Martin Cunningham said, cheerily.

                                                                                                                                                                                PARHe signed to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the reins and set on
                                                                                                                                                                                towards Lord Edward street.


                                                                                                                                                                                  PAR(O) Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head,
                                                                                                                                                                                  appeared above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel.


                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Yes, Martin Cunningham said, fingering his beard. I wrote to Father
                                                                                                                                                                                    Conmee and laid the whole case before him.

                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—You could try our friend, Mr Power suggested backward.

                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Boyd? Martin Cunningham said shortly. Touch me not.

                                                                                                                                                                                    PARJohn Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them
                                                                                                                                                                                    quickly down Cork hill.


                                                                                                                                                                                      PAR(O) On the steps of the City hall Councillor Nannetti, descending, hailed
                                                                                                                                                                                      Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending.

                                                                                                                                                                                      PARThe castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street.


                                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—Look here, Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them at the Mail
                                                                                                                                                                                        I see Bloom put his name down for five shillings.

                                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—Quite right, Martin Cunningham said, taking the list. And put down the
                                                                                                                                                                                        five shillings too.

                                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—Without a second word either, Mr Power said.

                                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—Strange but true, Martin Cunningham added.

                                                                                                                                                                                        PARJohn Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.

                                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—I'll say there is much kindness in the jew, he quoted, elegantly.

                                                                                                                                                                                        PARThey went down Parliament street.

                                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—There's Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said, just heading for Kavanagh's.

                                                                                                                                                                                        PAR—Righto, Martin Cunningham said. Here goes.


                                                                                                                                                                                          PAR(O) Outside la maison Claire Blazes Boylan waylaid Jack Mooney's
                                                                                                                                                                                          brother-in-law, humpty, tight, making for the liberties.


                                                                                                                                                                                            PARJohn Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power, while Martin
                                                                                                                                                                                            Cunningham took the elbow of a dapper little man in a shower of hail suit,
                                                                                                                                                                                            who walked uncertainly, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches.

                                                                                                                                                                                                        10 - 202

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—The assistant town clerk's corns are giving him some trouble, John Wyse
                                                                                                                                                                                            Nolan told Mr Power.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARThey followed round the corner towards James Kavanagh's
                                                                                                                                                                                            winerooms. The empty castle car fronted them at rest in Essex gate. Martin
                                                                                                                                                                                            Cunningham, speaking always, showed often the list at which Jimmy Henry
                                                                                                                                                                                            did not glance.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—And long John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, as large as

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARThe tall form of long John Fanning filled the doorway where he

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—Good day, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said, as all halted and

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARLong John Fanning made no way for them. He removed his large
                                                                                                                                                                                            Henry Clay decisively and his large fierce eyes scowled intelligently over all
                                                                                                                                                                                            their faces.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations? he said
                                                                                                                                                                                            with rich acrid utterance to the assistant town clerk.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARHell open to christians they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly,
                                                                                                                                                                                            about their damned Irish language. Where was the marshal, he wanted to
                                                                                                                                                                                            know, to keep order in the council chamber. And old Barlow the
                                                                                                                                                                                            macebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in order, no
                                                                                                                                                                                            quorum even, and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little
                                                                                                                                                                                            Lorcan Sherlock doing locum tenens for him. Damned Irish language,
                                                                                                                                                                                            language of our forefathers.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARLong John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARMartin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his beard, to
                                                                                                                                                                                            the assistant town clerk and the subsheriff, while John Wyse Nolan held his

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—What Dignam was that? Long John Fanning asked.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARJimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—O, my corns! he said plaintively. Come upstairs for goodness' sake till I
                                                                                                                                                                                            sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARTestily he made room for himself beside Long John Fanning's flank
                                                                                                                                                                                            and passed in and up the stairs.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff. I don't think
                                                                                                                                                                                            you knew him or perhaps you did, though.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARWith John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said to the stalwart back of Long John
                                                                                                                                                                                            Fanning ascending towards Long John Fanning in the mirror.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—Rather lowsized. Dignam of Menton's office that was, Martin
                                                                                                                                                                                            Cunningham said.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARLong John Fanning could not remember him.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARClatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—What's that? Martin Cunningham said.

                                                                                                                                                                                                        10 - 203

                                                                                                                                                                                            PARAll turned where they stood. John Wyse Nolan came down again.
                                                                                                                                                                                            From the cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament
                                                                                                                                                                                            street, harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. Gaily they went
                                                                                                                                                                                            past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of the leaders,
                                                                                                                                                                                            leaping leaders, rode outriders.

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—What was it? Martin Cunningham asked, as they went on up the

                                                                                                                                                                                            PAR—The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse
                                                                                                                                                                                            Nolan answered from the stairfoot.



                                                                                                                                                                                                PARAs they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind
                                                                                                                                                                                                his Panama to Haines:

                                                                                                                                                                                                PAR—Parnell's brother. There in the corner.

                                                                                                                                                                                                PARThey chose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man
                                                                                                                                                                                                whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard.

                                                                                                                                                                                                PAR—Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.

                                                                                                                                                                                                PAR—Yes, Mulligan said. That's John Howard, his brother, our city marshal.

                                                                                                                                                                                                PARJohn Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey
                                                                                                                                                                                                claw went up again to his forehead whereat it rested. An instant after, under
                                                                                                                                                                                                its screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at his foe and fell once more
                                                                                                                                                                                                upon a working corner.

                                                                                                                                                                                                PAR—I'll take a mlange, Haines said to the waitress.

                                                                                                                                                                                                PAR—Two mlanges, Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some scones and butter
                                                                                                                                                                                                and some cakes as well.

                                                                                                                                                                                                PARWhen she had gone he said, laughing:

                                                                                                                                                                                                PAR—We call it D. B. C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you missed
                                                                                                                                                                                                Dedalus on Hamlet.

                                                                                                                                                                                                PARHaines opened his newbought book.

                                                                                                                                                                                                PAR—I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all minds
                                                                                                                                                                                                that have lost their balance.


                                                                                                                                                                                                  PAR(O) The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street:

                                                                                                                                                                                                  PAREngland expects .....


                                                                                                                                                                                                    PARBuck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance. Wandering
                                                                                                                                                                                                    Aengus I call him.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—I am sure he has an ide fixe, Haines said, pinching his chin thoughtfully
                                                                                                                                                                                                    with thumb and forefinger.
                                                                                                                                                                                                    Now I am speculating what it would be likely to
                                                                                                                                                                                                    be. Such persons always have.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PARBuck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell. He will never
                                                                                                                                                                                                    capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white death
                                                                                                                                                                                                    and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet. The joy of
                                                                                                                                                                                                    creation ....

                                                                                                                                                                                                                10 - 204

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled him this
                                                                                                                                                                                                    morning on belief. There was something on his mind, I saw. It's rather
                                                                                                                                                                                                    interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point
                                                                                                                                                                                                    out of that.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PARBuck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to unload
                                                                                                                                                                                                    her tray.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said, amid the
                                                                                                                                                                                                    cheerful cups.
                                                                                                                                                                                                    The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of
                                                                                                                                                                                                    retribution. Rather strange he should have just that fixed idea. Does he
                                                                                                                                                                                                    write anything for your movement?

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PARHe sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped
                                                                                                                                                                                                    cream. Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over
                                                                                                                                                                                                    its smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write something
                                                                                                                                                                                                    in ten years.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—Seems a long way off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon. Still, I
                                                                                                                                                                                                    shouldn't wonder if he did after all.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PARHe tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PAR—This is real Irish cream I take it, he said with forbearance. I don't want to
                                                                                                                                                                                                    be imposed on.


                                                                                                                                                                                                      PAR(O) Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by flanks of
                                                                                                                                                                                                      ships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping
                                                                                                                                                                                                      street past Benson's ferry, and by the threemasted schooner Rosevean from
                                                                                                                                                                                                      Bridgwater with bricks.



                                                                                                                                                                                                          PARAlmidano Artifoni walked past Holles street, past Sewell's yard.
                                                                                                                                                                                                          Behind him Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, with
                                                                                                                                                                                                          stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's
                                                                                                                                                                                                          house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square. Distantly behind him a
                                                                                                                                                                                                          blind stripling tapped his way by the wall of College park.

                                                                                                                                                                                                          PARCashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as
                                                                                                                                                                                                          Mr Lewis Werner's cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along
                                                                                                                                                                                                          Merrion square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.

                                                                                                                                                                                                          PARAt the corner of Wilde's house he halted, frowned at Elijah's name
                                                                                                                                                                                                          announced on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at the distant pleasance of
                                                                                                                                                                                                          duke's lawn. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. With ratsteeth bared
                                                                                                                                                                                                          he muttered:

                                                                                                                                                                                                          PARCoactus volui.

                                                                                                                                                                                                          PARHe strode on for Clare street, grinding his fierce word.

                                                                                                                                                                                                          PARAs he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway of his
                                                                                                                                                                                                          dustcoat brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept
                                                                                                                                                                                                          onwards, having buffeted a thewless body. The blind stripling turned his
                                                                                                                                                                                                          sickly face after the striding form.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                      10 - 205

                                                                                                                                                                                                          PAR—God's curse on you, he said sourly, whoever you are! You're blinder nor
                                                                                                                                                                                                          I am, you bitch's bastard!




                                                                                                                                                                                                              PAROpposite 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.

                                                                                                                                                                                                              PARAfter 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
                                                                                                                                                                                                              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.

                                                                                                                                                                                                              PARMaster 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.

                                                                                                                                                                                                              PARIn 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.

                                                                                                                                                                                                              PARNo Sandymount tram.

                                                                                                                                                                                                              PARMaster Dignam walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to
                                                                                                                                                                                                              his other hand. His collar sprang up again and he tugged it down.
                                                                                                                                                                                                              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.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                          10 - 206


                                                                                                                                                                                                              PARHis 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.

                                                                                                                                                                                                              PARPa 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.



                                                                                                                                                                                                                  PARWilliam 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. in attendance.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  PARThe 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

                                                                                                                                                                                                                              10 - 207

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  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
                                                                                                                                                                                                                  alltimesticking 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  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                              10 - 208

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  College park. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and drumthumped
                                                                                                                                                                                                                  after the cortege:

                                                                                                                                                                                                                      But though she's a factory lass
                                                                                                                                                                                                                      And wears no fancy clothes.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Yet I've a sort of a
                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Yorkshire relish for
                                                                                                                                                                                                                      My little Yorkshire rose.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  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.