And  don't you
smash that piano. Who's paying here?
     (<i>She goes to the pianola. Stephen fumbles in his pocket and, taking out
a banknote by its corner, hands it to her</i>.)
     STEPHEN (With <i>exaggerated politeness</i>.) This silken purse I made  out of
the  sow's  ear of  the public.  Madam,  excuse  me.  If  you allow  me. (<i>He
indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom</i>.) We are all in the same sweepstake, Kinch
and Lynch. <i>Dans ce bordel oÙ tenons nostre État</i>.
     LYNCH (<i>Calls from the hearth</i>.) Dedalus! Give her your blessing for me.
     STEPHEN (<i>Hands Bella a coin</i>.) Gold. She has it.
     BELLA (<i>Looks at the money,  then at Zoe, Florry and Kitty</i>.) Do you want
three girls? It's ten shillings here.
     STEPHEN (<i>Delightedly</i>.) A hundred  thousand apologies. (<i>He fumbles again
and takes out  and hands her two  crowns</i>.)  Permit, <i>brevi manu</i>,  my sight is
somewhat troubled.
     (<i>Bella  goes to the table  to count the  money  while Stephen talks  to
himself  in monosyllables. Zoe bounds  over  to the table.  Kitty leans over
Zoe's neck. Lynch gets  up, rights his cap and, clasping Kitty's waist, adds
his head to the group</i>.)
     FLORRY (<i>Strives heavily to rise</i>.) Ow! My foot's asleep. (<i>She limps over
to the table. Bloom approaches</i>.)
     <I>BELLA,  ZOE. KITTY,  LYNCH,  BLOOM</I>  (<i>Chattering  and  squabbling</i>.)  The
gentleman... ten shillings... paying for the three allow me a moment... this
gentleman  pays  separate  who's  touching  it?...  ow...  mind  who  you're
pinching... are you staying the night  or a short time? who did?... you're a
liar,  excuse me... the  gentle man paid  down like a gentleman...  drink...
it's long after eleven.
     STEPHEN (<i>At the  pianola, making a gesture  of abhorrence</i>.) No bottles!
What, eleven? A riddle.
     ZOE (<i>Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the top
of her stocking</i>.) Hard earned on the flat of my back.
     LYNCH (<i>Lifting Kitty from the table</i>.) Come!
     KITTY Wait. (<i>She clutches the two crowns</i>.)
     FLORRY And me?
     LYNCH Hoopla!  (<i>He lifts  her  carries  her  and bumps her  down on the
sofa</i>.)
     STEPHEN The fox crew, the cocks flew, The bells in heaven Were striking
eleven. 'Tis time for her poor soul To get out of heaven.
     BLOOM  (<i>Quietly lays a half  sovereign on the table  between Bella  and
Florry</i>.) So. Allow me. (<i>He takes up  the pound note</i>.) Three times ten. We're
square.
     BELLA (<i>Admiringly</i>.) You're such  a slyboots, old  cocky. I  could  kiss
you.
     ZOE (<i>Points</i>.) Hum? Deep as a drawwell. (<i>Lynch bends Kitty back over the
sofa and kisses her. Bloom goes with the poundnote to Stephen</i>.)
     BLOOM This is yours.
     STEPHEN  How  is that? <i>Le distrait</i>  or absentminded beggar. (<i>He fumbles
again in his pocket and draws out a handful of coins. An object falls</i>.) That
fell.
     BLOOM (<i>Stooping, picks up and hands a box of matches</i>.) This.
     STEPHEN Lucifer. Thanks.
     BLOOM (<i>Quietly</i>.) You had better hand over that cash to me to take  care
of. Why pay more?
     STEPHEN (<i>Hands him all his coins</i>.) Be just before you are generous.
     BLOOM I will but is it wise? (<i>He counts</i>.) One, seven, eleven, and five.
Six. Eleven. I don't answer for what you may have lost.
     STEPHEN  Why  striking eleven?  Proparoxyton. Moment  before  the  next
Lessing  says. Thirsty fox. (<i>He  laughs  loudly</i>.)  Burying  his grandmother.
Probably he killed her.
     BLOOM That is one pound six and eleven. One pound seven, say.
     STEPHEN Doesn't matter a rambling damn.
     BLOOM No, but...
     STEPHEN (<i>Comes  to  the  table</i>.)  Cigarette,  please. (<i>Lynch  tosses  a
cigarette  from the sofa to the table</i>.) And so Georgina Johnson is  dead and
married. (<i>A  cigarette appears on  the table. Stephen looks at  it</i>.) Wonder.
Parlour  magic. Married. Hm. (<i>He strikes a  match  and proceeds to light the
cigarette with enigmatic melancholy</i>.)
     LYNCH (Watching him.) You would have a  better chance of lighting it if
you held the match nearer.
     STEPHEN (<i>Brings the  match nearer his eye</i>.) Lynx eye. Must get glasses.
Broke them yesterday.  Sixteen years ago. Distance.  The  eye sees all flat.
(<i>He draws the match away. It goes out</i>.) Brain thinks. Near: far. Ineluctable
modality of the visible.  (<i>He  frowns  mysteriously</i>.) Hm. Sphinx.  The beast
that has two backs at midnight. Married.
     ZOE It was  a commercial  traveller married her and  took her away with
him.
     FLORRY (<i>Nods</i>.) Mr Lambe from London.
     STEPHEN Lamb of London, who takest away the sins of our world.
     LYNCH (<i>Embracing Kitty on  the sofa, chants deeply.) Dona  nobis pacem</i>.
(<i>The cigarette slips from Stephens fingers. Bloom picks it up  and throws it
into the grate</i>.)
     BLOOM Don't  smoke. You ought to eat. Cursed dog  I  met. (<i>To Zoe</i>.) You
have nothing?
     ZOE Is he hungry?
     STEPHEN (<i>Extends his  hand to her smiling and chants to  the air of the
bloodoath in the</i> Dusk of the Gods.)
     Hangende Hunger,
     Fragende Frau,
     Macht uns alle kaput.
     ZOE (<i>Tragically</i>.) Hamlet, I am thy  father's  gimlet!  (<i>She  takes  his
hand</i>.) Blue eyed beauty, I'll read your hand. (<i>She  points to his forehead</i>.)
No  wit,  no wrinkles. (<i>She  counts</i>.)  Two,  three,  Mars,  that's  courage.
(<i>Stephen shakes his head</i>.) No kid.
     LYNCH  Sheet  lightning courage.  The  youth who  could  not shiver and
shake. (<i>To Zoe</i>.) Who taught you palmistry?
     ZOE (<i>Turns</i>.) Ask my ballocks that I haven't got. (<i>To Stephen</i>.) I see it
in your face. The eye, like that. (<i>She frowns with lowered head</i>.)
     LYNCH (<i>Laughing, slaps Kitty behind twice</i>.) Like that. Pandy bat.
     (<i>Twice loudly a  pandybat cracks, the coffin of the pianola flies open,
the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of Father Dolan springs up</i>.)
     FATHER DOLAN Any boy want flogging? Broke his glasses? Lazy idle little
schemer. See it in your eye.
     (<i>Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the head of Don John  Conmee rises
from the pianola coffin</i>.)
     DON JOHN CONMEE Now, Father Dolan! Now. I'm sure that Stephen is a very
good little boy.
     ZOE (<i>Examining Stephen's palm</i>.) Woman's hand.
     STEPHEN (<i>Murmurs</i>.) Continue. Lie.  Hold me. Caress. I never could  read
His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on the haddock.
     ZOE What day were you born?
     STEPHEN Thursday. Today.
     ZOE  Thursday's  child  has far to go. (<i>She traces lines  on his hand</i>.)
Line of fate. Influential friends.
     FLORRY (<i>Pointing</i>.) Imagination.
     ZOE  Mount of the  moon. You'll meet with a... (<i>She peers at his  hands
abruptly</i>.) I won't tell you what's not good for you. Or do you want to know?
     BLOOM  (<i>Detaches her fingers and offers his palm</i>.) More harm than good.
Here. Read mine.
     BELLA Show. (<i>She turns up Bloom's hand</i>.) I thought so. Knobby knuckles,
for the women.
     ZOE (<i>Peering  at Bloom's  palm</i>.)  Gridiron. Travels beyond  the sea and
marry money.
     BLOOM Wrong.
     ZOE  (<i>Quickly</i>.) O, I see. Short little finger.  Henpecked husband. That
wrong?
     (<i>Black  Liz,  a  huge rooster  hatching  in a  chalked  circle,  rises,
stretches her wings and clucks</i>.)
     BLACK LIZ Gara. Klook. Klook. Klook.
     (<i>She sidles from her newlaid egg and waddles off</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Points  to his  hand</i>.) That weal there is  an accident. Fell and
cut it twenty-two years ago. I was sixteen.
     ZOE I see, says the blind man. Tell us news.
     STEPHEN See?  Moves to  one great  goal. I  am twenty two too.  Sixteen
years ago I twentytwo tumbled, twentytwo  years ago  he sixteen fell off his
hobbyhorse. (<i>He winces</i>.) Hurt my hand somewhere. Must see a dentist. Money?
     (<i>Zoe  whispers  to  Florry.  They  giggle. Bloom releases  his hand and
writes idly on the table in backhand, pencilling slow curves</i>.)
     FLORRY What?
     (<i>A   hackneycar  number   three  hundred   and   twentyfour,   with   a
gallantbuttocked mare,  driven by James  Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook,
trots past.  Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the  sideseats. The
Ormond  boots  crouches behind on the axle. Sadly over  the crossblind Lydia
Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze</i>.)
     THE BOOTS (<i>Jogging, mocks them with  thumb and wriggling  wormfingers.</i>)
Haw, haw, have you the horn?
     (<i>Bronze by gold they whisper</i>.)
     ZOE (<i>To Florry</i>.) Whisper.
     (<i>They whisper again.)
     (Over  the well  of the car Blazes Boylan  leans, his  boater straw set
sideways, a red flower in his mouth. Lenehan, in a yachtsman's cap and white
shoes, officiously detaches a long hair from Blazes Boylan s shoulder</i>.)
     LENEHAN  Ho! What do I here behold? Were you brushing the cobwebs off a
few quims?
     BOYLAN (<i>Seated, smiles</i>.) Plucking a turkey.
     LENEHAN A good night's work.
     BOYLAN (<i>Holding up four thick bluntungulated  fingers,  winks</i>.)  Blazes
Kate!  Up to sample or  your  money back. (<i>He holds out a forefinger</i>.) Smell
that.
     LENEHAN (<i>Smells gleefully</i>.) Ah! Lobster and mayonnaise. Ah!
     ZOE AND FLORRY (<i>Laugh together</i>.) Ha ha ha ha.
     BOYLAN  <i>bumps surely from the car and calls  loudly  for all to hear</i>. )
Hello, Bloom! Mrs Bloom up yet?
     BLOOM (<i>In a flunkey's plum plush  coat and kneebreeches, buff stockings
and powdered wig</i>.) I'm afraid not, sir, the last articles...
     BOYLAN (<i>Tosses him  sixpence</i>.) Here, to buy yourself a gin  and splash.
(<i>He hangs his hat smartly on a peg of Bloom's antlered head</i>.) Show me in.  I
have a little private business with your wife. You understand?
     BLOOM Thank you, sir. Yes, sir, Madam Tweedy is in her bath, sir.
     MARION He ought  to  feel himself highly honoured. (<i>She plops splashing
out of  the water</i>.) Raoul, darling, come and dry me. I'm in my pelt. Only my
new hat and a carriage sponge.
     BOYLAN (<i>A merry twinkle in his eye</i>.) Topping!
     BELLA What? What is it?
     (<i>Zoe whispers to her</i>.)
     MARION Let  him look,  the  pishogue! Pimp!  And scourge himself!  I'll
write to a  powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the bearded woman, to raise
weals out  on  him an inch thick and  make  him  bring me back a  signed and
stamped receipt.
     BELLA (<i>Laughing</i>.) Ho ho ho ho.
     BOYLAN (<i>To Bloom,  over  his shoulder</i>.)  You can apply  your eye to the
keyhole and play with yourself while I just go through her a few times.
     BLOOM Thank you, sir, I will, sir. May I bring two men chums to witness
the deed  and  take a snapshot? (<i>He holds an ointment  jar</i>.) Vaseline,  sir?
Orangeflower?... Lukewarm water?...
     KITTY (From the sofa.) Tell us, Florry. Tell us. What.
     (<i>Florry  whispers  to  her.  Whispering  lovewords  murmur  lip-lapping
loudly, poppysmic plopslop</i>.)
     MINA KENNEDY (<i>Her  eyes upturned</i>.)  O, it must  be like  the  scent  of
geraniums and lovely peaches! O, he simply idolises  every bit of her! Stuck
together! Covered with kisses!
     LYDIA DOUCE (<i>Her mouth opening</i>.) Yumyum. O, he's carrying her round the
room doing it! Ride a cock horse. You could hear them in Paris and New York.
Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream.
     KITTY (<i>Laughing</i>.) Hee hee hee.
     BOYLAN'S  VOICE (<i>Sweetly,  hoarsely, in the  pit of  his stomach</i>.)  Ah!
Gooblazqruk brukarchkrasht!
     MARION'S   VOICE   (<i>Hoarsely,   sweetly  rising  to  her  throat</i>.)   O!
Weeshwashtkissima, pooisthnapoohuck!
     BLOOM  (<i>His  eyes wildly  dilated,  clasps  himself</i>) Show! Hide!  Show!
Plough her! More! Shoot!
     BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY. KITTY Ho ho! Ha ha! Hee hee!
     LYNCH (<i>Points</i>.) The mirror up to  nature.  (<i>He laughs</i>.) Hu hu  hu hu hu
hu.
     (<i>Stephen and Bloom gaze in the mirror. The face of William Shakespeare,
beardless,  appears  there,  rigid  in  facial  paralysis,  crowned  by  the
reflection of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the hall</i>.)
     SHAKESPEARE  (<i>In dignified ventriloquy</i>.) 'Tis  the loud  laugh bespeaks
the vacant  mind. (<i>To Bloom</i>.) Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible.
Gaze. (<i>He crows with a black capon's laugh</i>.) Iagogo! How my Oldfellow chokit
his Thursdaymomun. Iagogogo!
     BLOOM (<i>Smiles yellowly at the whores</i>.) When will I hear the joke?
     ZOE Before you're twice married and once a widower.
     BLOOM Lapses are condoned. Even the  great Napoleon, when  measurements
were taken near the skin after his death...
     (<i>Mrs  Dignam,  widow  woman,  her  snubnose  and  cheeks  flushed  with
deathtalk, tears  and  Tunny's  tawny sherry,  hurries  by in her weeds, her
bonnet  awry,  rouging  and powdering her  cheeks,  lips  and  nose,  a  pen
chivvying her brood of cygnets. Beneath her skirt appear  her late husband's
everyday trousers and turnedup  boots,  lace eights.  She  holds  a Scottish
widow's insurance policy and lace marqueeumbrella under which her brood runs
with  her,  Patsy hopping on one  short foot, his collar  loose,  a  hank of
porksteaks dangling, Freddy whimpering, Susy with a crying cods mouth, Alice
struggling with the baby. She cuffs them on, her streamers flaunting aloft</i>.)
     FREDDY Ah, ma, you're dragging me along!
     SUSY Mamma, the beeftea is fizzing over!
     SHAKESPEARE (<i>With paralytic rage</i>.) Weda seca whokilla farst.
     (<i>The  face  of  Martin  Cunningham,  bearded,  refeatures  Shakespeares
beardless face. The marqueeumbrella sways drunkenly, the children run aside.
Under the  umbrella appears  Mrs  Cunningham  in  Merry Widow hat and kimono
gown. She glides sidling and bowing, twisting japanesily</i>.)
     MRS CUNNINGHAM (<i>Sings</i>.) And they call me the jewel of Asia.
     MARTIN CUNNINGHAM
     (<i>Gazes on her impassive</i>.) Immense! Most bloody awful demirep!
     STEPHEN <i>Et  exaltabuntur  cornua  iusti</i>.  Queens lay  with prize bulls.
Remember  Pasiphae  for whose  lust my grandoldgross  father  made the first
confessionbox. Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the
house of Lambert. And Noah was drunk with wine. And his ark was open.
     BELLA None of that here. Come to the wrong shop.
     LYNCH Let him alone. He's back from Paris.
     ZOE (<i>Runs to Stephen and links him</i>.) O go on! Give us some parleyvoo.
     (<i>Stephen  claps  hat  on head and leaps over to the fireplace, where he
stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands  outspread,  a  painted smile on
his face</i>.)
     LYNCH (<i>Pommelling on the sofa</i>.) Rmm Rmm Rmm Rrr rrrmmmmm.
     STEPHEN  (<i>Gobbles,  with  marionette  jerks</i>.  )  Thousand   places   of
entertainment to expenses your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and
other things perhaps  her  heart  beerchops  perfect fashionable house  very
eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about  princesses  like
are dancing cancan  and walking there parisian clowneries extra  foolish for
bachelors foreigns the  same  if talking a poor english how much  smart they
are on things love  and sensations  voluptuous.  Misters very selects for is
pleasure must to visit  heaven and hell show with mortuary  candles and they
tears  silver  which  occur  every  night.  Perfectly  shocking terrific  of
religion's things mockery  seen  in  universal  world. All chic womans which
arrive full  of modesty  then  disrobe and  squeal  loud to see  vampire man
debauch nun very fresh young with <i>dessous  troublants. (He clocks his tongue
loudly.) Ho, la la! Ce pif qu'il a!</i>
     LYNCH <i>Vive le vampire!</i>
     THE WHORES Bravo! Parleyvoo!
     STEPHEN (<i>Grimacing  with  head  back, laughs loudly, clapping  himself</i>)
Great success  of laughing. Angels much prostitutes like  and holy  apostles
big damn ruffians. <i>Demimondaines</i> nicely handsome  sparkling of diamonds very
amiable  cos  turned. Or do you are fond  better what  belongs  they moderns
pleasure turpitude of old mans? (<i>He points about him with grotesque gestures
which Lynch and the whores reply to</i>.) Caoutchouc  statue woman reversible or
lifesize tompeeptoms virgins  nudities very lesbic the kiss five  ten times.
Enter gentlemen to see in  mirrors every positions trapezes all that machine
there besides also if  desire  act awfully bestial butcher's boy pollutes in
warm veal liver or omelette on the belly <i>piÈce de Shakespeare.</i>
     BELLA  (<i>Clapping her belly, sinks  back  on  the sofa  with a shout  of
laughter</i>.) An omelette on the... Ho! ho! ho! ho!... Omelette on the...
     STEPHEN  (<i>Mincingly</i>.)  I love  you, Sir darling.  Speak  you englishman
tongue  for  <i>double  entente  cordiale</i>.  O yes,  <i>mon loup</i>.  How  much  cost?
Waterloo. Watercloset. (<i>He ceases suddenly and holds up a forefinger</i>.)
     BELLA (<i>Laughing</i>.) Omelette...
     THE WHORES (<i>Laughing</i>.) Encore! Encore!
     STEPHEN Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon.
     ZOE Go abroad and love a foreign lady.
     LYNCH Across the world for a wife.
     FLORRY Dreams go by contraries.
     STEPHEN  (<i>Extending  his  arms</i>.)  It was here.  Street of  harlots.  In
Serpentine Avenue  Beelzebub showed me her,  a fubsy widow.  Where's the red
carpet spread?
     BLOOM (<i>Approaching Stephen</i>.) Look.
     STEPHEN No, I  flew.  My foes  beneath  me. And ever  shall  be.  World
without end. (<i>He cries.) Pater!</i> Free!
     BLOOM I say, look...
     STEPHEN Break my spirit, will he? <i>O merde alors! (He cries, his vulture
talons sharpened</i>.) Hola! Hillyho!
     (<i>Simon Dedalus' voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready</i>.)
     SIMON  That's  all  right.  (<i>He  swoops  uncertainly  through  the air,
wheeling, uttering cries of  heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard wings</i>.)
Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with  those halfcastes.
Wouldn't let them within  the bawl of an ass. Head up! Keep our flag flying!
An eagle gules volant  in a field argent displayed. Ulster king at arms! hai
hoop!  (<i>He makes the  beagle's call giving tongue</i>.) Bulbul! Burblblbrurblbl!
Hai, boy!
     (<i>The fronds and spaces of the wallpaper  file rapidly across country. A
stout  fox drawn from covert, brush  pointed, having buried his grandmother,
runs  swift  for the  open,  bright-eyed,  seeking badger  earth,  under the
leaves. The  pack of staghounds follows, nose  to the ground, sniffing their
quarry, beaglebaying,  burblbrblng to be blooded.  Ward  Union huntsmen  and
huntswomen live with them, hot for  a  kill. From Six Mile Point, Flathouse,
Nine  Mile  Stone  follow the  footpeople  with knotty  sticks, salmongaffs,
lassos, flockmasters  with stockwhips, bearbaiters with  tomtoms,  toreadors
with bullswords,  grey negroes  waving  torches. The crowd bowls of  dicers,
crown and anchor players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse
bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly</i>.)
     THE CROWD
     Card of the races. Racing card!
     Ten to one the field!
     Tommy on the clay here!
     Tommy on the clay!
     Ten to one bar one.
     Ten to one bar one.
     Try your luck on spinning Jenny!
     Ten to one bar one!
     Sell the monkey, boys!
     Sell the monkey!
     I'll give ten to one!
     Ten to one bar one!
     (<i>A dark horse,  riderless, bolts  like  a phantom past the winningpost,
his  mane  moonfoaming,  his eyeballs stars. The field follows, a  bunch  of
bucking mounts. Skeleton horses: Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the
Duke of Westminsters Shotover, Repulse, the Duke of Beauforts'  Ceylon, prix
de Paris.  Dwarfs  ride  them, rusty  armoured, leaping,  leaping  in  their
saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain, on a broken-winded isabelle nag, Cock of
the  North, the favourite, honey cap, green  jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett
Deasy  up,  gripping  the  reins,  a hockey  stick at  the  ready.  His nag,
stumbling on whitegaitered feet, jogs along the rocky road</i>.)
     THE  ORANGE LODGES (<i>Jeering</i>.)  Get down and  push,  mister.  Last  lap!
You'll be home the night!
     GARRETT  DEASY  (<i>Bolt  upright,  his  nailscraped  face  plastered with
postage  stamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his blue  eyes flashing  in the
prism of the  chandelier as his mount lopes by at  a  schooling gallop.) Per
vias rectas!
     (A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag, a torrent
of  mutton broth  with  dancing  coins of  carrots, barley, onions, turnips,
potatoes</i>.)
     THE GREEN LODGES Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!
     (<i>Private  Carr,  Private Compton  and  Cissy Caffrey  pass  beneath the
windows, singing in discord</i>.)
     STEPHEN Hark! Our friend, noise in the street!
     ZOE (<i>Holds up her hand</i>.) Stop!
     PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON and CISSY CAFFREY
     Yet I've a sort a
     Yorkshire relish for...
     ZOE  That's me. (<i>She claps her hands</i>.) Dance! Dance!  (<i>She runs  to the
pianola</i>.) Who has twopence?
     BLOOM Who'll.
     LYNCH (<i>Handing her coins</i>.) Here.
     STEPHEN  (<i>Cracking his fingers impatiently</i>.) Quick!  Quick! Where's  my
augur's rod? (<i>He runs to the piano and takes  his ashplant, beating his foot
in tripudium</i>.)
     ZOE (<i>Turns the drumhandle</i>.) There.
     (<i>She drops two pennies in the slot.  Glow  pink and violet lights start
forth. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. Professor Goodwin, in
a bowknotted periwig, in court dress, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent
in two  from incredible age, totters across  the room, his hands fluttering.
He  sits  tinily  on the piano stool and lifts and beats handless  sticks of
arms on the keyboard, nodding with damsels grace, his bowknot bobbing</i>.)
     ZOE (<i>Twirls around herself heeltapping</i>.) Dance. Anybody here for there?
Who'll dance?
     (<i>The  pianola, with changing lights, plays in waltz time the prelude to</i>
My  Girl's a Yorkshire Girl.  <i>Stephen  throws his ashplant  on the table and
seizes  Zoe  around the waist. Florry and Bella push the table  towards  the
fireplace. Stephen, aiming Zoe  with exaggerated grace,  begins to waltz her
around the  room. Her sleeve,  falling  from gracing arms,  reveals  a white
fleshflower  of  vaccination.  Bloom  stands  aside.  Between  the curtains,
Professor Maginni inserts a leg  on the toepoint of  which spins a silk hat.
With a deft kick, he sends it spinning  to his crown and jauntyhatted skates
in. He  wears  a slate frockcoat with claret silk lapels,  a  go-et of cream
tulle,  a  green lowcut  waistcoat, stock collar  with  white kerchief tight
lavender trousers,  patent  pumps and  canary gloves. In his buttonhole is a
dahlia. He  twirls  in  reversed directions a clouded cane,  then wedges  it
tight  in  his oxter. He  places a hand limply on his  breastbone, bows  and
fondles his flower and buttons</i>.)
     MAGINNI The poetry of motion,  art of callisthenics. No connection with
Madam  Legget  Byrne's  or   Levinstone's.  Fancy   dress  balls   arranged.
Deportment.   The  Katty  Lanner  steps.  So.  Watch  me!  My  terpsichorean
abilities.  (<i>He minuets forward three paces on tripping bee's feet.) Tout le
monde an avant! RÉvÉrence! Tout le monde en place!
     (The prelude  ceases. Professor Goodwin,  beating  vague arms,shrivels,
shrinks,  his  live cape falling about  the stool.  The air, in firmer waltz
time, pounds. Stephen and Zoe circle freely.  The lights change, glow, fade,
gold, rose, violet</i>.)
     THE PIANOLA  Two  young  fellows were talking about their girls, girls,
girls, Sweethearts they'd left behind.
     (<i>From a corner the  morning hours run out, goldhaired, slim, in girlish
blue, waspwaisted,  with innocent hands. Nimbly they  dance,  twirling their
skipping  ropes. The hours of noon  follow in amber  gold. Laughing  linked,
high  haircombs  flashing,  they catch the sun  in  mocking mirrors, lifting
their arms</i>.)
     MAGINNI  (<i>Clipclaps  glovesilent  hands.)  CarrÉ!  Avant  deux!</i> Breathe
evenly! <i>Balance!
     (The  morning and noon hours waltz in their places, turning,  advancing
to each other, shaping their curves, bowing vis a vis. Cawaliers behind them
arch and suspend their arms, with hands descending to, touching, rising from
their shoulders</i>.)
     HOURS You may touch my.
     CAVALIERS May I touch your?
     HOURS O, but lightly!
     CAVALIERS O, so lightly!
     THE PIANOLA My little shy little lass has a waist.
     (<i>Zoe  and  Stephen turn  boldly with looser swing.  The twilight  hours
advance,  from  long  landshadows,  dispersed,  lagging,  languideyed, their
cheeks delicate  with cipria and false faint bloom. They are  in  grey gauze
with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the land breeze</i>.)
     MAGINNI <i>Avant! huit! TraversÉ! Salut! Cours de mains! CroisÉ!
     (The eight hours steal  to  the last place. Morning, noon and  twilight
hours retreat before them. They are masked, with daggered hair and bracelets
of dull bells. Weary, they curchycurchy under veils</i>.)
     THE BRACELETS Heigho! Heigho!
     ZOE (<i>Twisting, her hand to her brow.)</i> O!
     MAGINNI <i>Los tiroirs! ChaÎne de dames! La corbeille! Dos À dos!
     (Arabesquing  wearily, they  weave  a pattern  on  the floor,  weaving,
unweaving, curtseying, twisting, simply swirling</i>.)
     ZOE I'm giddy.
     (<i>She frees herself droops  on  a chair, Stephen seizes Florry and turns
with her</i>.)
     MAGINNI <i>BoulangÈre! Los ronds! Los ponts! Chevaux de bois! Escargots!
     (Twining,  receding, with interchanging hands,  the  night hours  link,
each with  arching arms, in a  mosaic of movements. Stephen and  Florry turn
cumbrously</i>.)
     MAGINNI  <i>Dansez  avec  vos  dames!  Changes de dames!  Donnes le  petit
bouquet a votre dame! Remerciez!</i>
     THE PIANOLA
     Best, best of all,
     Baraabum!
     KITTY  (<i>Jumps  up</i>.) O, they played that on the hobbyhorses at the Mirus
bazaar!
     (<i>She  runs  to Stephen. He leaves Florry brusquely and  seizes Kitty. A
screaming bit tern's harsh high whistle shrieks.  Groangrousegurgling Toft's
cumbersome whirligig turns slowly the room right roundabout the room</i>.)
     THE PIANOLA My girl's a Yorkshire girl.
     ZOE Yorkshire through and through. Come on all!
     (<i>She seizes Florry and waltzes her</i>.)
     STEPHEN <i>Pas seul!
     (He  wheels Kitty into Lynch's arm's, snatches up his ashplant from the
table and takes  the  floor.  All  wheel, whirl,  waltz,  twirl. Bloombella,
Kittylynch, Florryzoe, jujuby women. Stephen with hat ashplant frogsplits in
middle  highkicks with  skykicking  mouth shut hand clasp part  under thigh,
with clang  tinkle boomhammer tallyho horn blower blue green yellow flashes.
Toft's  cumbersome  turns with hobbyhorse riders from gilded snakes dangled,
bowels fandango leaping spurn soil foot and fall again</i>.)
     THE PIANOLA
     Though she's a factory lass
     And wears no fancy clothes.
     (<i>Closeclutched  swift  swifter   with  glareblareflare  scudding   they
scotlootshoot lumbering by. Baraabum!</i>)
     TUTTI Encore! Bis! Bravo! Encore!
     SIMON Think of your mother's people!
     STEPHEN Dance of death.
     (<i>Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, horse, nag,  steer piglings,
Conmee  on  Christass  lame  crutch  and  leg sailor  in cockboat  armfolded
ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe' through and through, Baraabum! On nags,
hogs, bellhorses,  Gadarene swine, Corny  in coffin. Steel shark  stone  one
handled Nelson,  two  trickies  Frauenzimmer plumstained from  pram  falling
bawling. Gum, he's a champion.  Fuseblue peer from barrel rev. evensong love
on hackney jaunt  Blazes  blind coddoubled bicyclers  Dilly with snowcake no
fancy clothes. Then in last wiswitchback lumbering up and down bump mash tub
sort of viceroy and reine relish for tublumber bumpshire rose. Baraabum!)
     (The couples fall aside. Stephen whirls giddily. Room whirls back. Eyes
closed,  he totters.  Red rails fly spacewards.  Stars all around  suns turn
roundabout. Bright midges dance on wall. He stops dead</i>.)
     STEPHEN Ho!
     (<i>Stephen's  mother, emaciated,  rises stark through the floor in  leper
grey with a wreath of faded orange blossoms and a torn bridal veil, her face
worn and  noseless,  green with grave mould. Her hair is scant and lank. She
fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets  on Stephen and opens  her toothless
mouth  uttering  a  silent  word. A  choir of  virgins  and  confessors sing
voicelessly</i>.)
     THE CHOIR
     Liliata rutilantium te confessorum...
     Iubilantium te virginum...
     (<i>From the top of a tower Buck Mulligan, in particoloured jester's dress
of puce and yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, stands  gaping at her,
a smoking buttered split scone in his hand</i>.)
     BUCK MULLIGAN She's  beastly  dead. The pity of it!  Mulligan meets the
afflicted mother. (<i>He upturns his eyes</i>.) Mercurial Malachi.
     THE MOTHER  (<i>With the subtle smile of death's madness</i>.) I was  once the
beautiful May Goulding. I am dead.
     STEPHEN (<i>Horrorstruck</i>.) Lemur, who are you?  What bogey man's trick  is
this?
     BUCK  MULLIGAN (<i>Shakes his  curling capbell</i>.) The mockery  of it! Kinch
killed  her  dogsbody  bitchbody.  She kicked  the bucket. (<i>Tears of  molten
butter  fall  from his eyes into  the scone</i>.) Our  great  sweet mother!  <i>Epi
oinopa ponton</i>.
     THE MOTHER  (<i>Comes  nearer,  breathing  upon him softly  her  breath of
wetted ashes</i>.) All must go through  it,  Stephen. More women than men in the
world. You too. Time will come.
     STEPHEN (<i>Choking with fright, remorse  and horror</i>.) They  said I killed
you, mother. He offended your memory. Cancer did it, not I. Destiny.
     THE MOTHER  (<i>A  green rill of bile trickling from a side of her mouth</i>.)
You sang that song to me. <i>Love's bitter mystery</i>.
     STEPHEN (<i>Eagerly</i>.) Tell me the word, mother, if  you know now. The word
known to all men.
     THE MOTHER Who saved you the night  you jumped into the train at Dalkey
with Paddy Lee? Who had pity  for you when you were sad among the strangers?
Prayer is  all powerful. Prayer  for the  suffering  souls in  the  Ursuline
manual, and forty days' indulgence. Repent, Stephen.
     STEPHEN The ghoul! Hyena!
     THE MOTHER I pray for you in my other world. Get Dilly to make you that
boiled rice every night after your brain work. Years and years I loved  you,
O my son, my firstborn, when you lay in my womb.
     ZOE (<i>Fanning herself with the grate fan</i>.) I'm melting!
     FLORRY (<i>Points to Stephen</i>) Look! He's white.
     BLOOM (<i>Goes to the window to open it more</i>.) Giddy.
     THE MOTHER (<i>With smouldering eyes</i>.) Repent! O, the fire of hell!
     STEPHEN (<i>Panting</i>.) The corpsechewer! Raw head and bloody bones!
     THE  MOTHER  (<i>Her  face drawing near  and nearer, sending out an  ashen
breath</i>.) Beware!  (<i>She  raises  her  blackened,  withered  right  arm slowly
towards Stephen's breast with outstretched  fingers</i>.) Beware! God's hand! (<i>A
green crab  with  malignant red  eyes  sticks  deep  its  grinning  claws in
Stephen's heart</i>.)
     STEPHEN (<i>Strangled with rage</i>.) Shite! (<i>His features grow drawn and grey
and old</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>At the window</i>.) What?
     STEPHEN <i>Ah non, par exemple!</i>  The intellectual imagination! With me all
or not at all. <i>Non serviam!</i>
     FLORRY Give him some cold water. Wait. (<i>She rushes out</i>.)
     THE MOTHER  (<i>Wrings  her hands  slowly, moaning  desperately</i>.) O Sacred
Heart  of  Jesus, have  mercy on him! Save  him  from  hell, O divine Sacred
Heart!
     STEPHEN No! No! No! Break  my  spirit all of you if you can! I'll bring
you all to heel!
     THE MOTHER  (<i>In  the agony of her deathrattle</i>.) Have mercy on  Stephen,
Lord,  for my sake! Inexpressible  was  my anguish  when expiring with love,
grief and agony on Mount Calvary.
     STEPHEN <i>Nothung!
     (He hits his ashplant high with both hands and smashes the  chandelier.
Time's livid final flame leaps and, in  the following darkness,  ruin of all
space, shattered glass and toppling masonry</i>.)
     THE GASJET Pwfungg!
     BLOOM Stop!
     LYNCH (<i>Rushes forward and  seizes Stephen's hand</i>.) Here! Hold on! Don't
run amok!
     BELLA Police!
     (<i>Stephen, abandoning his ashplant, his head and arms thrown back stark,
beats the ground and flees from the room past the whores at the door</i>.)
     BELLA (<i>Screams</i>.) After him!
     (<i>The two whores rush to the halldoors. Lynch and Kitty and Zoe stampede
from the room. They talk excitedly. Bloom follows, returns</i>.)
     THE WHORES (<i>Jammed in the doorway, pointing</i>.) Down there.
     ZOE (<i>Pointing</i>.) There. There's something up.
     BELLA Who pays  for the lamp? (<i>She seizes Bloom's coattail</i>.) There. You
were with him. The lamp's broken.
     BLOOM (<i>Rushes to the hall, rushes back</i>.) What lamp, woman?
     A WHORE He tore his coat.
     BELLA (<i>Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points</i>.) Who's to pay for
that? Ten Shillings. You're a witness.
     BLOOM (<i>Snatches up Stephen's ashplant</i>.) Me? Ten  shillings? Haven't you
lifted enough off him? Didn't he...
     BELLA (<i>Loudly</i>.) Here, none of your tall  talk. This isn't  a brothel. A
ten shilling house.
     BLOOM (<i>His hand under the  lamp, pulls the chain. Pulling,  the  gasjet
lights up a crushed  mauve purple shade. He raises the  ashplant</i>.) Only  the
chimney's broken. Here is all he...
     BELLA (<i>Shrinks back and screams</i>.) Jesus! Don't!
     BLOOM (<i>Warding off a blow</i>.) To show you  how he hit the paper.  There's
not a sixpenceworth of damage done. Ten shillings!
     FLORRY (<i>With a glass of water enters</i>.) Where is he?
     BELLA Do you want me to call the police?
     BLOOM  O, I know. Bulldog on the premises. But he's  a Trinity student.
Patrons  of your  establishment. Gentlemen  that pay the rent.  (<i>He makes  a
masonic sign</i>.)  Know what I mean? Nephew of the  vice-chancellor.  You don't
want a scandal.
     BELLA (<i>Angrily</i>.) Trinity! Coming down here ragging after the boat races
and paying nothing. Are you my commander here? Where is he? I'll charge him.
Disgrace him, I will. (<i>She shouts</i>.) Zoe! Zoe!
     BLOOM (<i>Urgently</i>.) And if it were your own son in Oxford! (<i>Warningly</i>.) I
know.
     BELLA (<i>Almost speechless</i>.) Who are you incog?
     ZOE (<i>In the doorway</i>.) There's a row on.
     BLOOM  What?  Where?  (He throws <i>a shilling on the  table  and shouts</i>.)
That's for the chimney. Where? I need mountain air. (<i>He hurries  out through
the hall. The whores  point. Florry follows, spilling water  from her tilted
tumbler.  On the doorstep all the whores clustered talk volubly, pointing to
the right  where  the fog  has cleared off From the left arrives  a jingling
hackney  car.  It  slows  to in front  of the house.  Bloom at  the halldoor
perceives  Corny Kelleher  who  is about to  dismount  from the car with two
silent lechers. He averts his face. Bella from within  the hall uses on  her
whores. They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses. Corny Kelleher replies with
a  ghostly  lewd smile. The silent  lechers turn  to pay the jarvey. Zoe and
Kitty  still point right. Bloom,  parting  them  swiftly, draws his caliph's
hood  and poncho and hurries down the steps with sideways face. Incog Haroun
al  Baschid, he  flits behind  the  silent lechers  and  hastens  on  by the
railings  with  fleet  step  of a pard strewing  the drag behind  him,  torn
envelopes  drenched in  aniseed. The ashplant  marks his  stride. A  pack of
bloodhounds, led  by Hornblower  of Trinity brandishing a dogwhip in tallyho
cap  and an old  pair of  grey trousers,  follows from far,  picking  up the
scent,  nearer,  baying, panting,  at fault,  breaking away,  throwing their
tongues, biting his  heels, leaping at his tail.  He  walks,  runs, zigzags,
gallops,  lugs  laid  back.   He  is   pelted  with  gravel,  cabbagestumps,
biscuitboxes,  eggs, potatoes, dead codfish, womans  slipperslappers.  After
him, freshfound, the hue  and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my
leader:  65 C 66 C night watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon,
Councillor  Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'Rourke, Joe Cuffe, Mrs O'Dowd
Pisser  Burke,  The  Nameless  One,  Mrs Riordan,  The  Citizen,  Garryowen,
Whatdoyoucallhim,  Strangeface,  Fellowthatslike,   Sawhimbefore,  Chapwith,
Chris  Callinan,  sir  Charles Cameron, Benjamin  Dollard,  Lenehan, Bartell
d'Arcy, Joe Hynes,  red  Murray,  editor  Brayden,  T.M. Healy,  Mr  Justice
Fitzgibbon, John Howard Parnell, the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly,
Mrs Breen,  Denis  Breen, Theodore Purefoy,  Mina Purefoy, the  Westland Row
postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, man in the street,
other man  in  the  street, Footballboots, pugnosed driver  rich  protestant
lady, Davy  Byrne,  Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Joe Gallaher  George  Lidwell,
Jimmy Henry on corns,  Superintendent Laracy, Father  Cowley, Crofton out of
the Collector Generals, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with  tweezers, Mrs
Bob   Doran,   Mrs   Kennefick,   Mrs   Wyse   Nolan,   John   Wyse   Nolan,
handsomemamedwomanrubbed againstwidebehindinClonskeatram, the bookseller  of
Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad,  Mesdames  Gerald  and Stanislaus
Moran of Roebuck, the managing  clerk of Drimmies colonel Hayes, Mastiansky,
Citron,  Penrose,  Aaron  Figatner,  Moses  Herzog,  Michael  E.   Geraghty,
Inspector Troy, Mrs Galbraith, the  constable off Eccles Street  corner  old
doctor Brady with stethoscope, the mystery man on the beach, a retriever Mrs
Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers</i>.
     THE  HUE AND  CRY  (<i>Helterskelterelterwelter</i>) He's  Bloom!  Stop Bloom!
Stopabloom! Stopperrobber! Hi! Hi! Stop him on the corner!
     (<i>At the corner of  Beaver Street  beneath the scaffolding Bloom panting
stops on the fringe of the noisy quarrelling knot, a  lot not  knowing a jot
what hi! hi! row and wrangle round the whowhat brawlaltogether</i>.)
     STEPHEN (<i>With elaborate gestures, breathing deeply and slowly</i>.) You are
my  guests. The uninvited. By  virtue of the fifth  of George and seventh of
Edward. History to blame. Fabled by mothers of memory.
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>To Cissy Caffrey</i>.) Was he insulting you?
     STEPHEN   Addressed  her   in  vocative   feminine.   Probably  neuter.
Ungenitive.
     VOICES No, he didn't. The girl's telling lies.  He  was in Mrs Cohen's.
What's up? Soldiers and civilians.
     CISSY CAFFREY I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do
- you know and the young man ran up behind me.  But  I'm faithful to the man
that's treating me though I'm only a shilling whore.
     STEPHEN (<i>Catches sight  of Kitty's and Lynch's  heads</i>.) Hail, Sisyphus.
(<i>He points to himself and the others</i>.) Poetic. Neopoetic.
     VOICES She's faithfultheman.
     CISSY CAFFREY Yes, to go with him. And me with a soldier friend.
     PRIVATE COMPTON  He  doesn't half want a thick ear, the blighter.  Biff
him one, Harry.
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>To  Cissy</i>.) Was  he  insulting you  while me and  him was
having a piss?
     LORD TENNYSON (<i>In Union Jack blazer  and  cricket flannels, bareheaded,
flowingbearded</i>.) Their's not to reason why.
     PRIVATE COMPTON Biff him, Harry.
     STEPHEN (<i>To Private Compton</i>. ) I don't know your name but you are quite
right. Doctor  Swift  says one  man  in armour  will  beat ten men  in their
shirts. Shirt is synechdoche. Part for the whole.
     CISSY CAFFREY (<i>To the crowd</i>.) No, I was with the private.
     STEPHEN (<i>Amiably</i>.) Why not? The bold soldier  boy. In my  opinion every
lady for example...
     PRIVATE CARR  (<i>His cap  awry, advancing to  Stephen</i>.) Say, how would it
be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw?
     STEPHEN  (<i>Looks  up  in the sky</i>.)  How? Very unpleasant.  Noble  art of
self-pretence.  Personally, I detest action. (<i>He waves his hand</i>)  Hand hurts
me slightly. <i>Enfin, ce sont vos oignons</i>.
     (<i>To Cissy Caffrey</i>.) Some trouble is on here. What is it, precisely?
     DOLLY  GRAY (<i>From her balcony waves her handkerchief giving the sign of
the heroine  of Jericho</i>.) Rahab.  Cook's son, goodbye.  Safe home  to Dolly.
Dream of the girl you left behind and she will dream of you.
     (<i>The soldiers turn their swimming eyes</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Elbowing through the crowd plucks  Stephen's sleeve vigorously</i>.)
Come now, professor, that carman is waiting.
     STEPHEN (<i>Turns</i>.)  Eh? (<i>He disengages himself</i>) Why should I not speak to
him or to  any  human being who walks upright  upon this oblate  orange? (<i>He
points  his finger</i>.) I'm not afraid of what  I can talk to if I see his eye.
Retaining the perpendicular.
     (<i>He staggers a pace back</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Propping him</i>.) Retain your own.
     STEPHEN  (<i>Laughs  emptily</i>.) My centre of  gravity is displaced. I  have
forgotten the trick. Let  us sit down somewhere  and  discuss.  Struggle for
life is the law of existence  but modern philirenists, notably the  tsar and
the king of England, have invented  arbitration.  (<i>He taps his brow</i>.) But in
here it is I must kill the priest and the king.
     BIDDY THE CLAP Did you hear  what the  professor said? He's a professor
out of the college.
     CUNTY KATE I did. I heard that.
     BIDDY THE CLAP He expresses himself  with  much  marked  refinement  of
phraseology.
     CUNTY KATE Indeed,  yes.  And at  the  same  time  with  such  apposite
trenchancy.
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>Pulls himself free and comes forward</i>.) What's that you're
saying about my king?
     (<i>Edward the Seventh  appears in an archway. He  wears a white jersey on
which an  image of the Sacred Heart is stitched, with the insignia of Garter
and  Thistle, Golden  Fleece, Elephant of Denmark,  Skinners'  and  Probyns'
horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of
Massachusetts. He sucks a red jujube. He is robed  as a  grand elect perfect
and sublime mason with trowel and apron, marked made in Germany. In his left
hand he holds a plasterers bucket  on which is printed:</i> DÉfense d'uriner.  <i>A
roar of welcome greets him</i>.)
     EDWARD THE SEVENTH (<i>Slowly, solemnly but  indistinctly</i>.) Peace, perfect
peace. For identification bucket in my hand. Cheerio, boys. (<i>He turns to his
subjects</i>.) We  have  come here  to witness a  clean  straight  fight and  we
heartily wish both men the best of good luck. Mahak makar a back.
     (<i>He shakes hands with Private Carr, Private Compton, Stephen, Bloom and
Lynch. General applause. Edward  the Seventh lifts the bucket graciously  in
acknowledgement</i>.)
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>To Stephen</i>.) Say it again.
     STEPHEN (<i>Nervous, friendly, pulls  himself up</i>.) I understand your point
of  view, though I have no king myself for  the moment. This  is  the age of
patent medicine. A discussion is difficult down here. But this is the point.
You  die  for your  country, suppose. (<i>He places  his arm  on Private Carr's
sleeve</i>.)  Not that I wish it for you.  But I say: Let my country die for me.
Up  to the present it has done so. I don't  want it to die. Damn death. Long
live life!
     EDWARD THE SEVENTH  (<i>Levitates over heaps of slain in the garb and with
the halo of Joking Jesus, a white jujube in his phosphorescent face</i>.)
     My methods are new and are causing surprise.
     To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes.
     STEPHEN Kings  and unicorns! (<i>He falls back a pace</i>.) Come somewhere and
we'll... What was that girl saying?...
     PRIVATE COMPTON Eh, Harry, give  him a kick in the  knackers. Stick one
into Jerry.
     BLOOM  (<i>To  the privates, softly</i>.)  He doesn't know what  he's  saying.
Taking a little more  than is good for him. Absinthe, the greeneyed monster.
I know him. He's a gentleman, a poet. It's all right.
     STEPHEN (<i>Nods, smiling and laughing</i>.)  Gentleman, patriot, scholar  and
judge of impostors.
     PRIVATE CARR I don't give a bugger who he is. PRIVATE  COMPTON We don't
give a bugger who he is.
     STEPHEN I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull.
     (<i>Kevin Egan of  Paris  in black Spanish tasselled shirt and peep-o'-day
boys hat signs to Stephen</i>.)
     KEVIN EGAN H'lo. <i>Bonjour!</i> The <i>vieille ogresse</i> with the <i>dents jaunes.
     (Patrice  Egan peeps from  behind, his  rabbit face nibbling  a  quince
leaf</i>.)
     PATRICE <i>Socialiste!</i>
     DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY (<i>In medieval hauberk, two
wild geese  volant on his helm, with  noble indignation points a mailed hand
against  the privates</i>.) Were those  eykes to footboden, big grand  porcos of
johnyellows todos covered of gravy!
     BLOOM (<i>To Stephen</i>.) Come home. You'll get into trouble.
     STEPHEN (<i>Swaying</i>.) I don't avoid it. He provokes my intelligence.
     BIDDY THE  CLAP  One  immediately  observes  that  he  is of  patrician
lineage.
     THE VIRAGO Green above the red, says he. Wolfe Tone.
     THE BAWD The red's  as good as the green, and better. Up the  soldiers!
Up King Edward!
     A ROUGH (<i>Laughs</i>.) Ay! Hands up to De Wet.
     THE CITIZEN (<i>With a huge emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls</i>.)
     May the God above
     Send down a cove
     With teeth as sharp as razors
     To slit the throat
     Of the English dogs
     That hanged our Irish leaders.
     THE CROPPY BOY (<i>The rope noose round  his neck,  gripes in his  issuing
bowels with both hands</i>.)
     I bear no hate to a living thing,
     But love my country beyond the king.
     RUMBOLD,  DEMON  BARBER  (<i>Accompanied  by  two blackmasked  assistants,
advances with  a  gladstone  bag which he opens</i>.) Ladies  and gents, cleaver
purchased  by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. Knife with which  Voisin  dismembered
the  wife of a  compatriot and hid  remains  in a sheet  in the cellar,  the
unfortunate  female's throat  being cut from  ear to  ear.  Phial containing
arsenic  retrieved from the body  of  Miss Barrow which  sent  Seddon to the
gallows.
     (<i>He jerks the  rope, the assistants leap at the  victims  legs and drag
him downward, grunting: the croppy boys tongue protrudes violently</i>.)
     THE CROPPY BOY <i>Horhot ho hray ho rhother's hest.
     (He gives up the ghost. A violent erection of the hanged sends gouts of
sperm spouting  through his  death  clothes  on  to  the  cobblestones.  Mrs
Bellingham,  Mrs Yelverton Barry and  the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush
forward with their handkerchiefs to sop it up</i>.)
     RUMBOLD I'm near it myself.  (<i>He undoes  the noose</i>.)  Rope which hanged
the awful rebel. Ten shillings a time as applied  to His Royal Highness. (<i>He
plunges his head into the gaping belly of the  hanged and draws out his head
again clotted with  coiled  and smoking entrails</i>.) My painful  duty  has now
been done. God save the king!
     EDWARD THE  SEVENTH (<i>Dances slowly, solemnly,  rattling his  bucket and
sings with soft contentment</i>.)
     On coronation day, on coronation day,
     O, Won't We have a merry time,
     Drinking whisky, beer and wine!
     PRIVATE CARR Here. What are you saying about my king?
     STEPHEN (<i>Throws  up his hands</i>.) O, this is too monotonous! Nothing.  He
wants my money and my life, though want must be his master, for some brutish
empire of his. Money I haven't. (<i>He  searches his pockets vaguely</i>.)  Gave it
to someone.
     PRIVATE CARR Who wants your bleeding money?
     STEPHEN (<i>Tries  to  move off</i>.) Will  some  one tell me where I am least
likely to meet these  necessary evils?  <i>Ça se voit  aussi À  Paris</i>. Not that
I... But by Saint Patrick!...
     (<i>The  women's heads coalesce. Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears
seated on a toadstool, the deathflower of the potato blight on her breast</i>.)
     STEPHEN Aha!  I  know  you, grammer! Hamlet, revenge! The old  sow that
eats her farrow!
     OLD GUMMY GRANNY  (<i>Rocking to and fro</i>.) Ireland's sweetheart,  the king
of Spain's daughter,  alanna. Strangers  in my house, bad manners  to  them!
(<i>She keens with banshee woe</i>.) Ochone! Ochone! Silk of the kine! (<i>She wails</i>.)
You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand?
     STEPHEN How do I stand you? The hat trick!  Where's the third person of
the Blessed Trinity? Soggarth Aroon? The reverend Carrion Crow.
     CISSY CAFFREY (<i>Shrill</i>.) Stop them from fighting!
     A ROUGH Our men retreated.
     PRIVATE  CARR (<i>Tugging at  his belt</i>.) I'll wring the neck of any bugger
says a word against my fucking king.
     BLOOM  (<i>Terrified</i>.)   He   said   nothing.   Not   a   word.   A   pure
misunderstanding.
     THE CITIZEN <i>Erin go bragh!</i> _
     (<i>Major  Tweedy  and   the   Citizen  exhibit  to   each  other  medals,
decorations, trophies of war wounds. Both salute with fierce hostility</i>.)
     PRIVATE COMPTON Go it, Harry. Do him one in the eye. He's a proboer.
     STEPHEN Did I? When?
     BLOOM (<i>To  the  redcoats</i>.)  We fought for  you  in South  Africa, Irish
missile troops. Isn't that history?  Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Honoured by our
monarch.
     THE  NAVVY (<i>Staggering past</i>.) O, yes. O, God, yes! O, make the kwawr  a
krowawr! O! Bo!
     (<i>Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spear
points. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko  the terrible,  in  bearskin cap
with hackle  plume  and  accoutrements, with  epaulette,  gilt chevrons  and
sabretache,  his  breast bright  with  medals, toes the  line.  He gives the
pilgrim warrior's sign of the knights templars</i>.)
     MAJOR TWEEDY (<i>Growls  gruffly</i>.) Rorke's Drift! Up, guards, and at them!
Mahal shalal hashbaz.
     PRIVATE CARR I'll do him in.
     PRIVATE  COMPTON  (<i>Waves  the crowd  back</i>.)  Fair play,  here.  Make  a
bleeding butcher's shop of the bugger.
     (<i>Massed bands blare</i> Garryowen <i>and</i> God save the king.)
     CISSY CAFFREY They're going to fight. For me!
     CUNTY KATE The brave and the fair.
     BIDDY THE CLAP Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the best.
     CUNTY  KATE (<i>Blushing deeply</i>.) Nay,  Madam. The gules doublet and merry
Saint George for me!
     STEPHEN  The  harlot's  cry  from  street  to street  Shall  weave  old
Ireland's windingsheet.
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>Loosening his belt, shouts</i>.) I'll  wring the neck of  any
fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.
     BLOOM  (<i>Shakes  Cissy Caffrey's shoulders</i>.) Speak, you! Are  you struck
dumb? You are the link between nations and generations. Speak, woman, sacred
lifegiver.
     CISSY CAFFREY (<i>Alarmed seizes Private Carr's sleeve.) Amn't I with you?
Amn't I your girl? Cissy's your girl. (She cries</i>.) Police!
     STEPHEN (<i>Ecstatically, to Cissy Caffrey</i>.)
     White thy fambles, red thy gan
     And thy quarrons dainty is.
     VOICES Police!
     DISTANT VOICES Dublin's burning! Dublin's burning! On fire, on fire!
     (<i>Brimstone  fires spring up. Dense clouds roll past. Heavy Gatling guns
boom.  Pandemonium.  Troops  deploy.  Gallop  of  hoofs.  Artillery.  Hoarse
commands. Bells  clang.  Backers  shout.  Drunkards  bawl.  Whores  screech.
Foghorns hoot. Cries  of valour. Shrieks of dying. Pikes clash on cuirasses.
Thieves  rob the slain.  Birds of prey,  winging from  the sea, rising  from
marsh lands, swooping from  eyries,  hover  screaming, gannets,  connorants,
vultures, goshawks, climbing woodcocks, peregrines, merlin, blackgrouse, sea
eagles,  gulls,  albatrosses, barnacle  geese. The midnight sun is darkened.
The  earth trembles. The dead  of Dublin from  Prospect and  Mount Jerome in
white  sheepskin overcoats  and black goat-fell  cloaks  arise and appear to
many. A  chasm opens with a noiseless yawn. Tom Rochford, winner in athletes
singlet and breeches,  arrives at  the head of the national  hurdle handicap
and leaps into the void. He is followed by a race of runners and leapers. In
wild attitudes  they  spring from the  brink. Their  bodies plunge.  Factory
lasses with fancy clothes toss redhot  Yorkshire baraabombs. Society  ladies
lift their skirts above their heads to protect themselves.  laughing witches
in  red cutty  sarks ride  through  the  air  on  broomsticks.  Quakerlyster
plasters blisters.  It rains  dragon's  teeth.  Armed heroes  spring up from
furrows. They  exchange in amity the pass  of knights  of  the red cross and
fight duels  with cavalry  sabres: Wolfe Tone against  Henry Grattan,  Smith
O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, Michael Davitt against  Isaac Butt, Justin
M'Carthy against Parnell, Arthur  Griffith against John Redmond John O'Leary
against   liar  O'Johnny,  lord  Edward  Fitzgerald  against   lord   Gerald
Fitzedward,  The  O'Donoghue of the Glens against The Glens of The Donoghue.
On an eminence,  the  centre of the earth,  rises  the  field altar of Saint
Barbara. Black candles rise  from  its  gospel and epistle horns. >From  the
high  barbicans of the tower  two  shafts of light  fall  on the smokepalled
altarstone. On  the  altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, goddess  of unreason, lies
naked, fettered,  a chalice  resting on  her  swollen belly.  Father Malachi
O'Flynn, in a long petticoat and reversed chasuble,  his two left feet  back
to the front, celebrates camp mash. The Reverend Mr Hugh C. Haines  love MA.
in a plain cassock and mortar board, his head and collar back to the  front,
holds over the celebrants head an open umbrella</i>.)
     FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN <i>Introibo ad altare diaboli</i>.
     THE REVEREND  MR HAINES LOVE To the devil which hath made glad my young
days.
     FATHER  MALACHI  O'FLYNN  (<i>Takes  from  the   chalice  and  elevates  a
blooddripping host.) Corpus Meum</i>.
     THE  REVEREND  MR  HAINES  LOVE  (<i>Raises high  behind  the  celebrant's
petticoats, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a carrot is
stuck</i>.) My body.
     THE  VOICE OF ALL  THE DAMNED  Htengier Tnetopinmo  Dog  Drol eht  rot,
Aiulella!
     (<i>From on high the voice of Adonai calls</i>.)
     ADONAI Dooooooooooog!
     THE  VOICE OF ALL THE  BLESSED  Alleluia,  for the Lord God  Omnipotent
reigneth!
     (<i>From on high the voice of Adonai calls</i>.)
     ADONAI Goooooooooood!
     (<i>In  strident discord peasants and townsmen of mange and Green factions
sing</i> Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.)
     PRIVATE  CARR (<i>With ferocious articulation</i>.) I'll do him in, so help me
fucking  Christ!  I'll wring  the bastard fucker's  bleeding blasted fucking
windpipe!
     OLD GUMMY GRANNY (<i>Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's hand</i>.) Remove him,
acushla. At 8.35 a.m. you will be in heaven and  Ireland will be  free. (<i>She
prays</i>.) O good God, take him!
     BLOOM (<i>Runs to Lynch</i>.) Can't you get him away?
     LYNCH He likes  dialectic, the  universal language. Kitty! (<i>To  Bloom</i>.)
Get him away, you. He won't listen to me. (<i>He drags Kitty away</i>.)
     STEPHEN (<i>Points.) Exit Judas. Et laqueo se suspendit</i>.
     BLOOM (<i>Runs  to  Stephen</i>.) Come along with me now before worse happens.
Here's your stick.
     STEPHEN Stick, no. Reason. This feast of pure reason.
     CISSY  CAFFREY  (<i>Pulling  Private  Carr</i>.)  Come  on,  you're boosed. He
insulted me but  I  forgive him.  (<i>Shouting  in  his ear</i>.) I forgive him for
insulting me.
     BLOOM (<i>Over Stephen's shoulder</i>.) Yes, go. You see he's incapable.
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>Breaks loose.)</i> I'll insult him.
     (<i>He rushes towards Stephen, fists outstretched, and  strikes him in the
face. Stephen totters,  collapses, falls stunned. He lies prone, his face to
the sky, his hat rolling to the wall. Bloom follows and picks it up</i>.)
     MAJOR TWEEDY (<i>Loudly</i>.) Carbine in bucket! cease fire! Salute!
     THE RETRIEVER (<i>Barking furiously</i>.) Ute ute ute ute ute ute uteute.
     THE CROWD Let  him  up! Don't strike him when he's down! Air! Who?  The
soldier  hit him. He's a professor. Is  he hurted? Don't manhandle him! He's
fainted!
     (<i>The retriever, nosing on the fringe of the crowd, barks noisily</i>.)
     What call  had the redcoat to  strike the  gentleman  and  he under the
influence? Let them go and fight the Boers!
     THE BAWD Listen to who's talking! Hasn't the soldier a right to go with
his girl? He gave him the coward's blow.
     (<i>They grab at each other's hair, claw at each other and spit</i>.)
     THE RETRIEVER (<i>Barking</i>.) Wow wow wow.
     BLOOM (<i>Shoves them back, loudly</i>.) Get back, stand back!
     PRIVATE COMPTON (<i>Tugging his comrade</i>.) Here  bugger off, Harry. There's
the cops!
     (<i>Two raincaped watch, tall, stand in the group</i>)
     FIRST WATCH What's wrong here?
     PRIVATE COMPTON We were with this lady and he insulted us and assaulted
my chum. (<i>The retriever barks</i>.) Who owns the bleeding tyke?
     CISSY CAFFREY (<i>With expectation</i>.) Is he bleeding?
     A MAN (<i>Rising from his knees</i>.) No. Gone off. He'll come to all right.
     BLOOM (<i>Glances sharply at the man</i>.) Leave him to me. I can easily...
     SECOND WATCH Who are you? Do you know him?
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>Lurches towards the watch</i>.) He insulted my lady friend.
     BLOOM  (<i>Angrily</i>.)  You  hit him  without  provocation. I'm  a  witness.
Constable, take his regimental number.
     SECOND WATCH  I don't want  your instructions in  the  discharge  of my
duty.  PRIVATE COMPTON (<i>Pulling his  comrade</i>.) Here,  bugger  off, Harry. Or
Bennett'll have you in the lockup.
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>Staggering as he is  pulled  away</i>.) God fuck old Bennett!
He's a whitearsed bugger. I don't give a shit for him.
     FIRST WATCH (<i>Taking out his notebook</i>.) What's his name?
     BLOOM (<i>Peering over the crowd</i>.) I just see a car there. If you  give me
a hand a second, sergeant.
     FIRST WATCH Name and address.
     (<i>Corny  Kelleher  weepers  round  his  hat, a death wreath in his hand,
appears among the bystanders</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Quickly</i>.) O, the very man! (<i>He whispers</i>.) Simon Dedalus'  son. A
bit sprung. Get those policemen to move those loafers back.
     SECOND WATCH Night, Mr Kelleher.
     CORNY KELLEHER (<i>To  the watch, with drawling eye</i>.) That's all  right. I
know him. Won a bit on the races. Gold cup. Throwaway.  (<i>He  laughs</i>.) Twenty
to one. Do you follow me?
     FIRST  WATCH (<i>Turns  to the crowd</i>.) Here, what  are you all  gaping at?
Move on out of that.
     (<i>The crowd disperses slowly, muttering, down the lane</i>.)
     CORNY  KELLEHER  Leave it to  me, sergeant. That'll  be  all right. (<i>He
laughs,  shaking  his  head</i>.)  We were often  as bad ourselves, ay or worse.
What? Eh, what?
     FIRST WATCH (<i>Laughs</i>.) I suppose so.
     CORNY  KELLEHER (<i>Nudges  the second watch</i>.) Come and wipe your name off
the slate.  (<i>He  lilts,  wagging  his  head</i>.)  With  my  tooraloom tooraloom
tooraloom tooraloom. What, eh, do you follow me?
     SECOND WATCH (<i>Genially</i>.) Ah, sure we were too.
     CORNY KELLEHER (<i>Winking</i>.) Boys will be boys. I've a car round there.
     SECOND WATCH All right, Mr Kelleher. Good night.
     CORNY KELLEHER I'll see to that.
     BLOOM  (<i>Shakes hands  with  both of the watch in  turn</i>.) Thank you very
much gentlemen, thank  you. (<i>He  mumbles confidentially</i>.)  We don't want any
scandal, you understand. Father is  a well known, highly  respected citizen.
Just a little wild oats, you understand.
     FIRST WATCH O, I understand, sir.
     SECOND WATCH That's all right, Sir.
     FIRST WATCH It  was only in  case of corporal injuries I'd have had  to
report it at the station.
     BLOOM (<i>Nods rapidly</i>.) Naturally. Quite right. Only your bounden duty.
     SECOND WATCH It's our duty.
     CORNY KELLEHER Good night, men.
     THE WATCH  (<i>Saluting together</i>.)  Night,  gentlemen. (<i>They move off with
slow heavy tread</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Blows</i>.) Providential you came on the scene. You have a car?.
     CORNY KELLEHER  (<i>Laughs, pointing his thumb over his right shoulder  to
the car brought  up  against  the scaffolding</i>.)  Two  commercials that  were
standing fizz in Jammet's. Like princes, faith. One of them lost two quid on
the race. Drowning his grief and were on for a go with the jolly girls. So I
landed them up on Behan's car and down to nighttown.
     BLOOM I was just going home by Gardiner street when I happened to...
     CORNY  KELLEHER (<i>Laughs</i>.) Sure they wanted me to join in with the mots.
No, by God, says I. Not for old stagers like myself and yourself. (<i>He laughs
again and leers with  lacklustre eye</i>.) Thanks be to  God we have it  in  the
house what, eh, do you follow me? Hah! hah! hah!
     BLOOM  (<i>Tries to laugh</i>.)  He, he, he! Yes.  Matter of fact I  was  just
visiting an old friend of mine there, Virag, you don't know him (poor fellow
he's laid up for  the past week) and we had a liquor together and I was just
making my way home...
     (<i>The horse neighs</i>.)
     THE HORSE Hohohohohohoh! Hohohohome!
     CORNY KELLEHER Sure it was Behan, our jarvey  there, that told me after
we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got
off to see. (<i>He laughs</i>.) Sober hearsedrivers a specialty. Will  I give him a
lift home? Where does he hang out? Somewhere in Cabra, what?
     BLOOM No, in Sandycove, I believe, from what he let drop.
     (<i>Stephen, prone, breathes to the  stars. Corny Kelleher asquint, drawls
at the horse. Bloom in gloom, looms down</i>.)
     CORNY KELLEHER  (<i>Scratches his  nape</i>.)  Sandycove!  (<i>He bends  down and
calls to  Stephen</i>.)  Eh! (<i>He calls again</i>.)  Eh!  He's covered with  shavings
anyhow. Take care they didn't lift anything off him.
     BLOOM No, no, no. I have his money and his hat here and stick.
     CORNY KELLEHER  Ah well, he'll get over it. No bones broken. Well, I'll
shove  along. (<i>He  laughs</i>.)  I've a  rendezvous  in the morning. Burying the
dead. Safe home!
     THE HORSE (<i>Neighs</i>.) Hohohohohome.
     BLOOM Good night. I'll just wait and take him along in a few...
     (<i>Corny Kelleher returns  to the  outside car  and mounts it.  The horse
harness jingles</i>.)
     CORNY KELLEHER (<i>From the car, standing</i>.) Night.
     BLOOM Night.
     (<i>The jarvey chucks the reins and raises his whip encouragingly. The car
and horse back slowly, awkwardly and  turn. Corny Kelleher on  the  sideseat
sways  his head to and  fro  in sign of  mirth at Blooms plight. The  jarvey
joins in the mute pantomimic  merriment nodding from the farther seat. Bloom
shakes his head in  mute mirthful  reply. With thumb and palm Corny Kelleher
reassures that the two bobbies  will  allow the sleep  to continue for  what
else  is to  be done. With a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is
exactly what Stephen  needs.  The car  jingles tooraloom round the corner of
the tooraloom lane. Corny  Kelleher again reassuralooms with his hand. Bloom
with  his hand  assuralooms Corny Kelleher  that he is  reassuraloomtay. The
tinkling   hoofs   and   jingling   harness    grow   fainter   with   their
tooralooloolooloo lay.  Bloom,  holding in  his hand Stephens  hat festooned
with shavings and ashplant, stands irresolute.  Then  he bends  to  him  and
shakes him by the shoulder</i>.)
     BLOOM  Eh! Ho! (<i>There is no answer he bends  again</i>.) Mr Dedalus! (<i>There
is no answer</i>.) The  name  if you  call.  Somnambulist.  (<i>He bends again and,
hesitating, brings his mouth  near the face of the prostrate form</i>.) Stephen!
(<i>There is no answer. He calls again</i>.) Stephen!
     STEPHEN (<i>Groans</i>.) Who? Black  panther  vampire. (<i>He sighs and stretches
himself  then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.)</i> Who... drive... Fergus
now. And pierce... wood's woven shade?...
     (<i>He turns on his left side, sighing, doubling himself together</i>.)
     BLOOM Poetry.  Well educated.  Pity.  (<i>He  bends again  and undoes  the
buttons  of Stephen's waistcoat</i>.) To breathe.  (<i>He brushes the wood shavings
from Stephen's clothes with light hands  and fingers</i>.) One  pound seven. Not
hurt anyhow. (<i>He listens</i>.) What!
     (<i>Murmurs</i>.)
     ... shadows... the woods
     ... white breast... dim...
     (<i>He  stretches  out  his arms,  sighs again and  curls his body.  Bloom
holding  his hat  and ashplant stands erect. A dog  barks in  the  distance.
Bloom  tightens  and  loosens  his  grip  on the  ashplant. He looks down on
Stephen's face and form</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Communes with the night</i>.) Face reminds me of his poor mother. In
the shady wood. The deep white breast. Ferguson, I  think I caught. A  girl.
Some girl. Best thing could happen him... (<i>He murmurs</i>.)... swear that I will
always hail, ever conceal,  never reveal,  any part or parts, art or arts...
(<i>He murmurs</i>.)  in the  rough sands of the sea. a cabletow's  length from the
shore... where the tide ebbs ... and flows...
     (<i>Silent, thoughtful, alert, he stands on guard, his fingers at his lips
in the  attitude of secret  master. Against the dark  wall a  figure appears
slowly,  a fairy boy of eleven, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed  in an Eton
suit  with  glass  shoes and a little bronze  helmet, holding a book  in his
hand. He reads from right to left inaudibly, smiling, kissing the page</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Wonderstruck, calls inaudibly</i>.) Rudy!
     RUDY (Gazes unseeing  into Bloom's eyes  and goes on  reading, kissing,
smiling. He has a  delicate mauveface. On  his suit he has diamond  and ruby
buttons.  In  his free left hand  he holds a  slim ivory cane with  a violet
howknot. A white lambkin peeps out of his waistcoat pocket.)


        Ulysses 15: Circe

     <i>The  Mabbot  street  entrance of nighttown,  before which  stretches an
uncobbled   transiding   set   with   skeleton   tracks,   red   and   green
will-o'-the-wisps and  danger  signals.  Rows  of  flimsy houses with gaping
doors.  Rare lamps with faint  rainbow fans.  Round Rabaiotti's  halted  ice
gondola stunted  men and women squabble. They grab  wafers between which are
wedged  lumps  of  coal  and copper  snow.  Sucking,  they  scatter  slowly.
Children.  The  swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges  on  through the
murk, white and blue under a lighthouse. Whistles call and answer</i>.
     THE CALLS Wait, my love, and I'll be with you.
     THE ANSWERS Round behind the stable.
     (<i>A deaf mute  idiot with  goggle eyes,  his shapeless  mouth dribbling,
jerks past,  shaken  in Saint  Vitus' dance.  A chain  of  children's  hands
imprisons him</i>.)
     THE CHILDREN Kithoguel Salute.
     THE IDIOT (<i>Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles.</i>) Grhahute!
     THE CHILDREN Where's the great light?
     THE IDIOT (<i>Gobbing.</i>) Ghaghahest.
     (<i>They release him.  He  jerks on. A pygmy woman swings  on a rope slung
between  the  railings,  counting.  A  form sprawled  against a  dustbin and
muffled  by  its arm and hat  moves,  groans,  grinding growling teeth,  and
snores again. On  a  step a gnome totting  among  a rubbish tip crouches  to
shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A crone standing by with a smoky oil lamp
rams the last bottle in the maw of his sack. He heaves his booty, tugs askew
his  peaked cap  and hobbles off mutely. The crone makes back for  her  lair
swaying  her  lamp.  A  bandy   child,   asquat  on   the  doorstep  with  a
papershuttlecock, crawls sidling  after her in  spurts,  clutches her skirt,
scrambles up. A drunken  navvy ups with both hands the railings of  an area,
lurching heavily. At a corner two night watch in shoulder capes, their hands
upon  their staffholsters, loom tall.  A plate  crashes;  a woman screams; a
child wails. Oaths of a man roar, mutter, cease. Figures wander, lurk,  peer
from warrens. In  a room lit by a candle stuck  in a bottleneck a slut combs
out the tatts  from the hair of a scrofulous child. Cissy  Caffrey's  voice,
still young, sings shrill from a lane</i>.)
     CISSY CAFFREY
     I gave it to Molly
     Because she was jolly,
     The leg of the duck
     The leg of the duck.
     (<i>Private Cart and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their oxters,
as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their mouths
a volleyed fart. Laughter of men from the lane. A hoarse virago retorts</i>.)
     THE VIRAGO Signs on you, hairy arse. More power the Cavan girl.
     CISSY CAFFREY More luck to me. Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet.
     (<i>She sings</i>.)
     I gave it to Nelly
     To stick in her belly
     The leg of the duck
     The leg of the duck.
     (<i>Private Cart and Private Compton turn and counterretort,  their tunics
bloodbright  in  a lampglow,  black  sockets of  caps on  their blond copper
polls. Stephen  Dedalus  and  Lynch pass through  the  crowd  close  to  the
redcoats</i>.)
     PRIVATE COMPTON (<i>Jerks his finger.</i>) Way for the parson.
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>Turns and calls.</i>) What ho, parson!
     CISSY CAFFREY (<i>Her voice soaring higher</i>.)
     She has it, she got it,
     Wherever she put it
     The leg of the duck.
     (<i>Stephen, flourishing the  ashplant  in his left hand, chants  with joy
the introit for paschal time. Lynch, his jockey cap low on his brow, attends
him, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face</i>.)
     STEPHEN <i>Vidi aquam egredientem de templo a latere dextro. Alleluia.</i>
     (<i>The famished snaggletusks of an elderly bawd protrude from a doorway</i>.)
     THE BAWD  (<i>Her  voice  whispering huskily.</i>) Sst! Come here till  I tell
you. Maidenhead inside. Sst.
     STEPHEN (<i>Altius aliqantulum) Et omnes ad quos pervenit acqua ista</i>.
     THE BAWD (<i>Spits in  their  trail her jet of  venom.</i>)  Trinity medicals.
Fallopian tube. All prick and no pence.
     (<i>Edy Boardman, sniffling,  crouched with Bertha Supple, draws her shawl
across her nostrils</i>.)
     EDY BOARDMAN (<i>Bickering.</i>) And say the one: I seen you up Faithful place
with your squarepusher, the greaser off the railway, in  his cometobed  hat.
Did you, says I. That's not for you to say, says I. You never seen me in the
mantrap with a married highlander,  says I. The likes  of her! Stag that one
is. Stubborn as a mule!  And her  walking with  two fellows  the  one  time,
Kildbride the enginedriver and lancecorporal Oliphant.
     STEPHEN (<i>Triumphaliter</i>.) <i>Salvi facti i sunt</i>.
     (<i>He flourishes his ashplant shivering the  lamp image, shattering light
over  the world. A liver and  white  spaniel on the  prowl slinks after him,
growling. Lynch scar's it with a kick.</i>)
     LYNCH So that?
     STEPHEN  (<i>Looks behind</i>.) So that  gesture, not music, not odours, would
be a universal  language, the gift of  tongues rendering visible not the lay
sense but the first entelechy, the structural rhythm.
     LYNCH Pornosophical philotheology. Metaphysics in Mecklenburg street!
     STEPHEN We have  shrewridden Shakespeare  and  henpecked Socrates. Even
the allwisest stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of love.
     LYNCH Ba!
     STEPHEN Anyway, who wants  two gestures to illustrate a loaf and a jug?
This movement illustrates the loaf  and jug of  bread and wine in Omar. Hold
my stick.
     LYNCH Damn your yellow stick. Where are we going?
     STEPHEN Lecherous lynx, to <i>la belle dame sans  merci</i>, Georgina Johnson,
<i>ad deam qui laetificat juventutem meam</i>.
     (<i>Stephen thrusts the ashplant on him and slowly holds  out  his  hands,
his head going back till both  hands are a span from his breast, down turned
in planes intersecting, the fingers about to part, the left being higher</i>.)
     LYNCH  Which  is  the  jug  of  bread?  It  skills  not.  That  or  the
customhouse. Illustrate thou. Here take your crutch and walk.
     (<i>They pass.  Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a gaslamp and, clasping, climbs
in  spasms. From the top spur he slides down. Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb.
The navvy  lurches against the lamp. The twins scuttle off in the dark.  The
navvy, swaying,  presses a forefinger against a wing of his nose and  ejects
from the farther nostril  a long liquid jet of snot. Shouldering the lamp he
staggers away through the crowd with his flaring cresset.
     Snakes  of  river fog creep slowly.  From  drains,  clefts,  cesspools,
middens arise on all sides stagnant  fumes. A glow leaps in the south beyond
the seaward  reaches  of the river. The navvy staggering forward cleaves the
crowd and lurches towards  the tramsiding. On  the farther  side  under  the
railway bridge Bloom appears flushed, panting, cramming  bread and chocolate
into  a side pocket. From Gillens hairdressers window a  composite  portrait
shows  him gallant Nelson's image. A  concave mirror at the side presents to
him  lovelorn longlost  lugubru  Booloohoom.  Grave Gladstone sees him level
Bloom for Bloom. He passes, struck by  the stare of truculent Wellington but
in the con vex mirror grin  unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops
of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
     At  Antonio  Babaiotti's  door Bloom  halts,  sweated under  the bright
arclamps. He disappears. In a moment he reappears and hurries on</i>.)
     BLOOM Fish and taters. N. g. Ah!
     (<i>He  disappears   into   Olhousen's,  the  pork  butcher's,  under  the
downcoming  rollshutter.  A few moments  later he  emerges  from  under  the
shutter puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. In each hand he holds a parcel, one
containing  a  lukewarm pig's crubeen,  the  other  a  cold  sheep's trotter
sprinkled with wholepepper He gasps, standing  upright. Then  bending to one
side he presses a parcel against his rib and groans</i>.)
     BLOOM Stitch in my side. Why did I run?
     (<i>He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly  towards the lampset
siding. The glow leaps again</i>.)
     BLOOM What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.
     (<i>He stands at Cormack's corner watching</i>.)
     BLOOM <i>Aurora  borealis</i> or a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade,  of course.
South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar's bush. We're safe.
(<i>He hums cheerfully</i>.) London's burning,  London's burning! On fire, on fire!
(<i>He  catches  sight  of the navvy lurching through the crowd at the  farther
side of Talbot street</i>.) I'll miss him. Run. Quick. Better cross here.
     (<i>He darts to cross the road. Urchins shout</i>.)
     THE  URCHINS  Mind  out,  mister!  (<i>Two  cyclists,  with  lighted paper
lanterns aswing, swim by him, grazing him, their bells rattling</i>.)
     THE BELLS Haltyaltyaltyall.
     BLOOM (<i>Halts erect stung by a spasm</i>.) Ow.
     (<i>He looks round, darts  forward  suddenly.  Through rising fog a dragon
sandstrewer, travelling at  caution, slews  heavily down  upon him, its huge
red headlight winking, its trolley  hissing on the wire.  The motorman bangs
his footgong</i>.)
     THE GONG Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.
     (<i>The brake cracks violently. Bloom,  raising  a policeman's whitegloved
hand,  blunders stifflegged, out of  the track. The motorman thrown forward,
pugnosed, on the guidewheel, yells as he slides past over chains and keys</i>.)
     THE MOTORMAN Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hattrick?
     BLOOM (<i>Bloom trickleaps to the curbstone and halts again. He  brushes a
mudflake from his cheek with a parcelled hand</i>.) No thoroughfare. Close shave
that but cured  the stitch. Must take up  Sandow's exercises  again.  On the
hands down.  Insure against street accident too. The Providential. (<i>He feels
his trouser  pocket</i>.)  Poor mamma's panacea.  Heel easily catch in tracks or
bootlace in a cog. Day the wheel of the black Maria peeled  off my  shoe  at
Leonard's  corner. Third time is the charm. Shoe  trick.  Insolent driver. I
ought to  report him. Tension makes them nervous. Might be the fellow balked
me this  morning with that horsey woman. Same style  of beauty. Quick of him
all the same. The stiff walk. True word spoken in jest. That awful cramp  in
Lad  lane. Something poisonous I  ate.  Emblem of  luck. Why?  Probably lost
cattle. Mark of the beast. (<i>He closes his eyes an instant</i>.) Bit light in the
head.  Monthly or  effect of the other. Brainfogfag. That tired feeling. Too
much for me now. Ow!
     (<i>A sinister  figure leans on plaited legs  against  O'Beirnes  wall,  a
visage unknown, injected with dark mercury. From under a wideleaved sombrero
the figure regards him with evil eye</i>.)
     BLOOM <i>Buenos noches, seÑorita Blanca, que calle es esta?</i>
     THE FIGURE (<i>Impassive, raises a signal arm</i>.) Password. <i>Sraid Mabbot</i>.
     BLOOM  Haha. <i>Merci</i>.  Esperanto. <i>Slan leath. (He mutters</i>.) Gaelic league
spy, sent by that fireeater.
     (<i>He steps forward.  A  sackshouldered ragman  bars  his path.  He steps
left, ragsackman left</i>.)
     BLOOM I beg. (<i>He swerves, sidles, stepsaside, slips past and on</i>.)
     BLOOM Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a fingerpost planted
by the Touring Club at Stepaside  who procured that public boon? I  who lost
my way  and  contributed  to  the columns of  the <i>Irish  Cyclist</i> the  letter
headed, In <i>darkest Stepaside</i>. Keep, keep, keep to the right. Rags and bones,
at midnight. A fence more likely. First place murderer  makes for.  Wash off
his sins of the world.
     (<i>Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey, runs full tilt against Bloom</i>.)
     BLOOM O!
     (<i>Shocked, on  weak hams, he halts. Tommy and Jacky vanish there, there.
Bloom  pats  with parcelled hands watch, fobpocket, bookpocket, pursepocket,
sweets of sin, potato soap</i>.)
     BLOOM Beware of pickpockets.  Old thieves'  dodge. Collide. Then snatch
your purse.
     (<i>The  retriever  approaches sniffling, nose to  the ground.  A sprawled
form sneezes. A stooped bearded figure appears garbed in the long caftan  of
an elder in Zion and a smoking cap  with magenta tassels.  Horned spectacles
hang  down at the  wings of the nose. Yellow poison streaks are on the drawn
face</i>.)
     RUDOLPH  Second halfcrown  waste money  today. I told you  not  go with
drunken goy ever. So. You catch no money.
     BLOOM (<i>Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back and,  crestfallen,
feels warm and cold feetmeat) Ja, ich weiss, papachi</i>.
     RUDOLPH What you making down this place? Have you no soul? (<i>With feeble
vulture talons  he  feels the  silent face  of  Bloom</i>) Are  you  not my  son
Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? Are you not  my dear son Leopold  who left
the house of his father and left the god of his fathers Abraham and Jacob?
     BLOOM (<i>With precaution</i>.)  I suppose  so, father. Mosenthal. All  that's
left of him.
     RUDOLPH  (<i>Severely</i>.) One night they bring you  home drunk  as dog after
spend your good money. What you call them running chaps?
     BLOOM  (<i>In  youth's  smart  blue  Oxford  suit  with  white  vestslips,
narrowshouldered,  in  brown Alpine  hat,  wearing  gent's  sterling  silver
waterbury keyless watch and double curb  Albert with seal attached, one side
of him coated with stiffening mud</i>.) Harriers, father. Only that once.
     RUDOLPH Once! Mud head to foot. Cut your hand open. Lockjaw.  They make
you kaput, Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps.
     BLOOM  (<i>Weakly</i>.)  They challenged  me to  a  sprint.  It  was muddy.  I
slipped.
     RUDOLPH  (<i>With contempt)  Ooim nachez</i>. Nice  spectacles for  your  poor
mother!
     BLOOM Mamma!
     ELLEN BLOOM (<i>In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, crinoline and bustle,
widow Twankey's blouse with  muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, grey mittens
and  cameo brooch,  her  hairplaited  in a  crisping  net,  appears over the
staircase  banisters,  a slanted candlestick  in  her hand and cries out  in
shrill  alarm</i>.) O blessed Redeemer, what have they done  to him! My smelling
salts! (<i>She hauls up a  reef of  skirt and ransacks the pouch of her striped
blay petticoat. A phial, an Agnus  Dei, a shrivelled  potato and a celluloid
doll fall out</i>.) Sacred Heart of Mary, where were you at all, at all?
     (<i>Bloom, mumbling, his  eyes downcast, begins to  bestow his  parcels in
his filled pockets but desists, muttering</i>.)
     A VOICE (<i>Sharply</i>.) Poldy!
     BLOOM Who? (<i>He ducks and wards off a blow clumsily</i>.) At your service.
     (<i>He  looks  up.  Beside  her  mirage of datepalms  a  handsome woman in
Turkish  costume  stands  before him.  Opulent  curves fill out her  scarlet
trousers and jacket slashed with  gold. A wide yells cummerbund girdles her.
A white yashmak violet in  the night, covers her face, leaving free only her
lace dark eyes and raven hair</i>.)
     BLOOM Molly!
     MARION Welly? Mrs  Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to
me. (<i>Satirically</i>.) Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?
     BLOOM (<i>Shifts from foot to foot</i>.) No, no. Not the least little bit.
     (<i>He breathes in deep  agitation,  swallowing gulps  of  air  questions,
hopes,  crubeens  for  her  supper  things  to  tell  her  excuses,  desire,
spellbound.  A coin  gleams  on  her  forehead. On  her  feet  are  jewelled
toerings.  Her  ankles are  linked by a slender fetterchain.  Beside  her  a
camel, hooded with a turreting turban, waits.  A silk ladder  of innumerable
rungs  climbs  to  his  bobbing  howdah.  He  ambles  near with  disgruntled
hindquarters. Fiercely she  slaps  his  haunch,  her  goldcurb  wristbangles
angriling, scolding him in Moorish</i>.)
     MARION Nebrakada! Feminimum.
     (<i>The  camel, lifting a  foreleg, plucks from a tree a lace mango fruit,
offers it to his mistress, blinking, in his cloven hoof then droops his head
and, grunting, with uplifted neck,  fumbles  to kneel. Bloom stoops his back
for leapfrog</i>.)
     BLOOM I can give you... I mean as your business menagerer Mrs Marion...
if you...
     MARION So  you  notice some  change? (<i>Her hands passing slowly over her
trinketed  stomacher. A  slow friendly mockery in her eyes</i>.) O Poldy, Poldy,
you are a poor old stick in the mud! Go and see life. See the wide world.
     BLOOM  I  was just  going back for that lotion  whitewax,  orangeflower
water. Shop closes  early on Thursday.  But the first thing in  the morning.
(<i>He pats divers pockets</i>.) This moving kidney. Ah!
     (<i>He points  to the south,  then  to the east. A cake of new clean lemon
soap arises, diffusing light and perfume</i>.)
     THE SOAP
     We're a capital couple are Bloom and I;
     He brightens the earth, I polish the sky.
     (<i>The freckled face of  Sweny, the druggist, appeals  in the disc of the
soapsun</i>.)
     SWENY Three and a penny, please.
     BLOOM Yes. For my wife, Mrs Marion. Special recipe.
     MARION (<i>Softly</i>.) Poldy!
     BLOOM Yes, ma'am?
     MARION <i>Ti trema un poco il cuore?</i>
     (<i>In disdain she  saunters  away, plump  as  a  pampered pouter  pigeon,
humming the duet from Don Giovanni</i>)
     BLOOM Are you sure about that <i>Voglio?</i> I mean the pronunciati...
     (<i>He follows, followed  by the sniffing terrier. The elderly bawd seizes
his sleeve, the bristles of her chinmole glittering</i>.)
     THE BAWD Ten shillings a maidenhead.  Fresh  thing  was never  touched.
Fifteen. There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk.
     (<i>She points. In the  gap of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled Bridie
Kelly stands</i>.)
     BRIDIE Hatch street. Any good in your mind?
     (<i>With a squeak she  flaps her bat shawl and runs. A burly rough pursues
with booted strides. He stumbles on the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom.
Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker</i>.)
     THE BAWD (<i>Her  wolfeyes shining</i>.) He's getting  his pleasure. You won't
get  a virgin in the flash houses. Ten shillings. Don't  be all night before
the polis in plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is a bitch.
     (<i>Leering  Gerty MacDowell limps forward. She  draws from behind ogling,
and shows coyly her bloodied clout</i>.)
     GERTY With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. (<i>She murmurs</i>.) You did
that. I hate you.
     BLOOM I? When? You're dreaming. I never saw you.
     THE BAWD Leave the gentleman  alone, you cheat. Writing  the  gentleman
false letters. Streetwalking and soliciting. Better for your mother take the
strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you.
     GERTY (<i>To Bloom</i>.)  When you saw all  the  secrets of my  bottom drawer.
(<i>She  paws his sleeve, slobbering</i>.) Dirty married man! I  love you for doing
that to me.
     (<i>She slides  away crookedly. Mrs Breen  in  man's  frieze overcoat with
loose  bellows pockets, stands in the causeway,  her roguish  eyes wideopen,
smiling in all her herbivorous buckteeth</i>.)
     MRS BREEN Mr.
     BLOOM (<i>Coughs gravely</i>.) Madam, when we last had this pleasure by letter
dated the sixteenth instant .
     MRS BREEN  Mr Bloom!  You down here in  the haunts of sin! I caught you
nicely! Scamp!
     BLOOM (<i>Hurriedly</i>.) Not so loud my name. Whatever do you think me? Don't
give  me away. Walls have hears. How  do  you do? It's ages since I.  You're
looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable weather we are having this  time
of  year. Black  refracts heat. Short  cut  home here. Interesting  quarter.
Rescue of fallen women Magdalen asylum. I am the secretary...
     MRS  BREEN (<i>Holds up  a  finger</i>.) Now  don't tell  a  big  fib!  I know
somebody won't like that. O just wait till I see Molly! (<i>Slily</i>.) Account for
yourself this very minute or woe betide you!
     BLOOM (<i>Looks behind</i>.) She often said she'd like to visit. Slumming. The
exotic, you  see. Negro servants too  in  livery  if  she had money. Othello
black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even  the bones and cornerman at the Livermore
christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter.
     (<i>Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in  white duck suits, scarlet socks,
upstarched Sambo chokers and  lace  scarlet asters in their buttonholes leap
out. Each has his banjo slung. Their paler smaller negroid hands  jingle the
twingtwang wires. Flashing white Kaffir eyes and tusks they rattle through a
breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing,  back  to back, toe heel, heel
toe, with smackfatclacking nigger lips</i>.)
     There's someone in the house with Dina
     There's someone in the house, I know,
     There's someone in the house with Dina
     Playing on the old banjo.
     (<i>They  whisk  black  masks  from  raw  babby  faces:  then,  chuckling,
chortling, trumming, twanging they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>With a sour  tenderish smile</i>.) A little frivol, shall we, if you
are so inclined? Would  you like  me  perhaps  to  embrace  you  just  for a
fraction of a second?
     MRS BREEN (<i>Screams gaily</i>.) O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself!
     BLOOM For old sake'sake. I  only meant a square party, a mixed marriage
mingling of our different little conjugials.  You  know I  had a soft corner
for you. (<i>Gloomily</i>.) 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the dear gazelle.
     MRS  BREEN  Glory Alice, you do look a holy show!  Killing simply. (<i>She
puts out her hand inquisitively</i>.) What are you hiding behind your back? Tell
us, there's a dear.
     BLOOM (<i>Seizes  her wrist  with his free hand</i>.)  Josie Powell that  was,
prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember, harking back in
a  retrospective  arrangement,  Old   Christmas  night   Georgina  Simpson's
housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin
blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this snuff box?
     MRS  BREEN  You  were  the  lion  of  the  night with  your  seriocomic
recitation  and you looked the  part. You  were  always a favourite with the
ladies.
     BLOOM  (<i>Squire  of dames, in  dinner jacket, with watered-silk facings,
blue masonic badge in his buttonhole, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a
prismatic champagne glass tilted in his hand</i>.)  Ladies and gentlemen, I give
you Ireland, home and beauty.
     MRS BREEN The dear dead days beyond recall. Love's old sweet song.
     BLOOM  (<i>Meaningfully  dropping  his voice</i>.)  I confess I'm  teapot with
curiosity to find out whether some person's something is a little  teapot at
present.
     MRS  BREEN  (<i>Gushingly</i>.) Tremendously teapot!  London's tea pot and I'm
simply teapot all  over  me.  (<i>She rubs sides  with  him</i>.) After the parlour
mystery games  and  the  crackers from  the  tree we  sat  on  the staircase
ottoman. Under the mistletoe. Two is company.
     BLOOM  (<i>Wearing a  purple  Napoleon  hat  with an amber  halfmoon,  his
fingers and thumbs passing slowly  down to  her  soft moist meaty palm which
she surrenders gently</i>.) The witching hour of night. I took the  splinter out
of this hand, carefully, slowly. (<i>Tenderly, as he slips on her finger a ruby
ring.) LÀ ci darem la mano</i>.
     MRS  BREEN  (<i>In a onepiece  eveningfrock executed  in moonlight blue, a
tinsel  sylph's  diadem on  her  brow with her dancecard fallen  beside  her
moonblue satin slipper curves her palm softly, breathing quickly.)  Voglio e
non</i>. You're hot! You're scalding! The left hand nearest the heart.
     BLOOM When you made your present choice they said it was beauty and the
beast.  I can never forgive you for  that. (<i>His clenched  fist at his brow</i>.)
Think what  it  means. All you meant  to  me then.  (<i>Hoarsely</i>.) Woman,  it's
breaking me!  (<i>Dennis Breen, whitetallhatted, with  Wisdom  Hely's  sandwich
board, shuffles  past them in cadet  slippers,  his  dull beard thrust  out,
muttering  to right and left. Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the pall  of the
ace of spaces, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter</i>.)
     ALF BERGAN (<i>Points jeering at the sandwich boards</i>.) U.p.: Up.
     MRS BREEN (<i>To Bloom</i>.) High jinks below  stairs. (<i>She gives him the glad
eye</i>.) Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well? You wanted to.
     BLOOM (<i>Shocked</i>.) Molly's best friend! Could you?
     MRS BREEN  (<i>Her  pulpy tongue between her lips, offers  a pigeon kiss</i>.)
Hnhn. The answer is a lemon. Have you a little present for me there?
     BLOOM  (<i>Off  handedly</i>.)  Kosher.  A snack for  supper. The home without
potted  meat is  incomplete. I  was  at <i>Leah</i>. Mrs Bandman Palmer.  Trenchant
exponent  of  Shakespeare.  Unfortunately threw away the programme. Rattling
good place round there for pig's feet. Feel.
     (<i>Richie  Goulding, three  ladies'  hats pinned  on  his  head,  appears
weighted  to one side by the black legal bag of Collis and  Ward on which  a
skull and crossbones are painted in white limewash. He ins it  and  shows it
full of polonies, kippered, herrings, Findon haddies and tightpacked pills</i>.)
     RICHIE Best value in Dub.
     (<i>Bald Pat,  bothered  beetle,  stands  on  the curbstone,  folding  his
napkin, waiting to wait</i>.)
     PAT  (<i>Advances with a tilted  dish of spillspilling  gravy</i>.) Steak  and
kidney. Bottle of lager. Hee hee hee. Wait till I wait.
     RICHIE Goodgod. Inev erate inall...
     (<i>With hanging head he marches doggedly forward. The navvy, lurching by,
gores him with his flaming pronghorn</i>.)
     RICHIE (<i>With a cry of pain, his hand to his back</i>) Ah! Bright's! Lights!
     BLOOM  (<i>Points to the navvy</i>.) A  spy.  Don't  attract attention. I hate
stupid crowds. I am not on pleasure bent. I am in a grave predicament.
     MRS BREEN  Humbugging and delutbering as  per usual with your  cock and
bull story.
     BLOOM I  want to tell you a little secret  about how I came to be here.
But you must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a most particular reason.
     MRS BREEN (<i>All agog</i>.) O, not for worlds.
     BLOOM Let's walk on. Shall us?
     MRS BREEN Let's.
     (<i>The  bawd makes an unheeded sign.  Bloom walks on with Mrs Breen.  The
terrier follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail</i>.)
     THE BAWD Jewman's melt!
     BLOOM (<i>In an oatmeal  sporting suit, a  sprig of woodbine in the lapel,
tony buff shirt,  shepherd's  plaid  Saint Andrew's  cross  scarftie,  white
spats,  fawn  dustcoat  on  his arm,  tawny  red  brogues,  fieldglasses  in
bandolier and a grey billycock hat</i>.) Do you remember a long long time, years
and years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called  her, was  weaned when
we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it?
     MRS BREEN (<i>In smart Saxe  tailormade,  white  velours  hat  and  spider
veil</i>.) Leopardstown.
     BLOOM I mean, Leopardstown. And  Molly won seven  shillings on  a three
year  old named Nevertell  and  coming home  along  by  Foxrock  in that old
fiveseater shanderadan of a waggonette you were in  your heyday then and you
had on that new  hat  of white  velours with a surround  of molefur that Mrs
Hayes advised you to buy because  it was marked down to nineteen and eleven,
a  bit of wire and  an old rag of velveteen,  and I'll lay you what you like
she did it on purpose...
     MRS BREEN She did, of course, the cat! Don't tell me! Nice adviser!
     BLOOM Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the other ducky
little tammy toque with the bird of paradise wing in it  that  I admired  on
you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was  a pity to
kill it, you cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of
a fullstop.
     MRS BREEN (<i>Squeezes his arm, simpers</i>.) Naughty cruel I was.
     BLOOM  (<i>Low, secretly, ever  more  rapidly</i>.)  And  Molly  was eating  a
sandwich  of spiced  beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's  lunch basket.  Frankly,
though she had her advisers  or admirers, I never cared  much for her style.
She was .
     MRS BREEN Too.
     BLOOM Yes.  And Molly was laughing because  Rogers  and Maggot O'Reilly
were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the
tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her
name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked  me if I ever heard
or read or knew or came across .
     MRS BREEN (<i>Eagerly</i>.) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
     (<i>She  fades  from  his side. Followed by the  whining  dog  he walks on
towards hellsgates. In an  archway a  standing woman, bent forward, her feet
apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of loiterers listen to
a tale  which their  broken snouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour. An
armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in maimed sodden playfight</i>.)
     THE GAFFER (<i>Crouches, his voice twisted in his snout</i>.)  And when Cairns
came down from the scaffolding  in Beaver Street what was  he after doing it
into only into the bucket of  porter that was there waiting  on the shavings
for Derwan's plasterers.
     THE LOITERERS (<i>Guffaw with cleft palates</i>.) O jays!
     (<i>Their paintspeckled hats  wag. Spattered with size and lime  of  their
lodges they frisk limblessly about him</i>.)
     BLOOM  Coincidence too.  They think it funny. Anything but  that. Broad
daylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman.
     THE LOITERERS Jays, that's a good  one. Glauber salts. O jays, into the
men's porter.
     (<i>Bloom  passes. Cheap  whores, singly,  coupled, shawled,  dishevelled,
call from lanes, doors, corners</i>.)
     THE WHORES Are  you going far, queer fellow? How's your middle leg? Got
a match on you? Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.
     (<i>He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. >From
a  bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a  battered brazen trunk.  In
the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy and the two redcoats</i>.)
     THE NAVVY (<i>Belching</i>.) Where's the bloody house?
     THE  SHEBEENKEEPER  Purdon  street.  Shilling  a   bottle   of   stout.
Respectable woman.
     THE NAVVY (<i>Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them</i>.) Come
on, you British army!
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>Behind his back</i>.) He aint half balmy.
     PRIVATE COMPTON (<i>LAughs</i>.) What ho!
     PRIVATE CARR (<i>To the  navvy</i>.) Portobello barracks canteen.  You ask for
Carr. Just Carr.
     THE NAVVY (<i>Shouts</i>.)
     We are the boys. Of Wexford.
     PRIVATE COMPTON Say! What price the sergeantmajor?
     PRIVATE CARR Bennett? He's my pal. I love old Bennett.
     THENAVVY (<i>Shouts</i>.)
     The galling chain.
     And free our native land.
     (<i>He staggers forward, dragging  them with him. Bloom stops,  at  fault.
The dog approaches, his tongue outlolling, panting</i>.)
     BLOOM  Wildgoose  chase this. Disorderly houses. Lord knows  where they
are  gone. Drunks cover distance double quick. Nice mixup. Scene at Westland
row. Then  jump in  first class with third  ticket. Then too far. Train with
engine behind. Might have taken me to Malahide or  a siding for the night or
collision. Second drink  does  it. Once is a  dose. What am  I following him
for? Still, he's  the best  of that lot. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy
Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have  met. Kismet. He'll lose that
cash. Relieving office here. Good  biz for  cheapjacks,  organs. What do  ye
lack?  Soon  got,  soon  gone.  Might  have  lost  my  life  too  with  that
mangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut only  for  presence of  mind.  Can't
always  save  you, though. If I  had  passed Truelock's  window that day two
minutes  later would have been  shot. Absence of body. Still if  bullet only
went  through my  coat  get damages for shock, five hundred pounds. What was
he? Kildare street club toff. God help his gamekeeper.
     (<i>He gazes ahead  reading on the wall a  scrawled chalk legend</i> Wet Dream
and <i>a phallic design</i>.)
     Odd! Molly  drawing  on  the frosted  carriagepane at Kingstown. What's
that  like?  (<i>Gaudy  dollwomen  loll  in  the  lighted  doorways, in  window
embrasures, smoking birdseye  cigarettes.  The odour  of the sicksweet  weed
floats towards him in slow round ovalling wreaths</i>.)
     THE WREATHS Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin.
     BLOOM My spine's a bit limp. Go or turn?  And this food? Eat it and get
all pigsticky. Absurd  I  am. Waste of money. One  and eightpence too  much.
(<i>The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand, wagging his
tail</i>.) Strange  how they take to me. Even that brute today. Better  speak to
him first. Like women they like <i>rencontres</i>.  Stinks  like a  polecat. <i>Chacun
son goÛt</i>. He might be mad.  Fido. Uncertain in his  movements.  Good fellow!
Garryowen!  (<i>The  wolfdog  sprawls  on his  back,  wriggling  obscenely with
begging  paws,  his  long  black  tongue  lolling  out</i>.)  Influence  of  his
surroundings.  Give  and  have  done  with  it.  Provided  nobody.  (<i>Calling
encouraging words he shambles back with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by
the setter into a dark stalestunk  corner. He unrolls one parcel and goes to
dump the crubeen softly but holds back and feels the  trotter</i>.) Sizeable for
threepence. But then I have  it in my left hand. Calls for more effort. Why?
Smaller from want of use. O, let it slide. Two and six.
     (<i>With  regret he lets  unrolled crubeen and  trotter slide. The mastiff
mauls the bundle  clumsily and  gluts himself with growling greed, crunching
the  bones. Two  raincaped  watch  approach, silent,  vigilant.  They murmur
together</i>.)
     THE WATCH Bloom. Of Bloom. For Bloom. Bloom.
     (<i>Each lays a hand on Blooms shoulder</i>.)
     FIRST WATCH Caught in the act. Commit no nuisance.
     BLOOM (<i>Stammers</i>.) I am doing good to others.
     (<i>A covey of gulls, storm petrels, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with
Banbury cakes in their beaks</i>.)
     THE GULLS Kaw kave kankury kake.
     BLOOM The friend of man. Trained by kindness.
     (<i>He points.  Bob Doran,  toppling from a high bars tool, sways over the
munching spaniel</i>.)
     BOB DORAN Towser. Give us the paw. Give the paw.
     (<i>The bulldog growls,  his  scruff standing,  a gobbet  of pigs  knuckle
between  his  molars through which  rabid scrumspittle  dribbles.  Bob Doran
falls silently into an area</i>.)
     SECOND WATCH Prevention of cruelty to animals.
     BLOOM (<i>Enthusiastically</i>.) A  noble work! I  scolded  that tramdriver on
Harold's cross bridge for illusing the poor horse with his harness scab. Bad
French I  got for my pains. Of course  it was frosty and  the last tram. All
tales of circus life are highly demoralising.
     (<i>Signor Maffei, passion pale, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs
in his shirtfront, steps forward,  holding a  circus paper hoop,  a  curling
carriagewhip and a revolver with which he covers the going boarhound</i>.)
     SIGNOR  MAFFEI  (<i>With  a  sinister  smile</i>.)  Ladies and  gentlemen,  my
educated  greyhound.  It was  I broke in  the bucking  broncho  Ajax with my
patent spiked  saddle for carnivores. Lash  under the  belly with a  knotted
thong.  Block tackle and a strangling pully will bring your lion to heel, no
matter  how  fractious,  even <i>Leo ferox</i> there, th