Section 47 of 74 - Table of Contents
THE MABBOT STREET ENTRANCE OF NIGHTTOWN, BEFORE WHICH STRETCHES AN
UNCOBBLED TRAMSIDING SET WITH SKELETON TRACKS, RED AND GREEN WILL-O'-THE-
WISPS AND DANGER SIGNALS. ROWS OF GRIMY HOUSES WITH GAPING DOORS. RARE
LAMPS WITH FAINT RAINBOW FINS. ROUND RABAIOTTI'S HALTED ICE GONDOLA
STUNTED MEN AND WOMEN SQUABBLE. THEY GRAB WAFERS BETWEEN WHICH ARE WEDGED
LUMPS OF CORAL 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.
THE CALLS: Wait, my love, and I'll be with you.
THE ANSWERS: Round behind the stable.
(A DEAFMUTE IDIOT WITH GOGGLE EYES, HIS SHAPELESS MOUTH DRIBBLING, JERKS
PAST, SHAKEN IN SAINT VITUS' DANCE. A CHAIN OF CHILDREN 'S HANDS
IMPRISONS HIM.)
THE CHILDREN: Kithogue! Salute!
THE IDIOT: (LIFTS A PALSIED LEFT ARM AND GURGLES) Grhahute!
THE CHILDREN: Where's the great light?
THE IDIOT: (GOBBING) Ghaghahest.
(THEY RELEASE HIM. HE JERKS ON. A PIGMY WOMAN SWINGS ON A ROPE SLUNG
BETWEEN TWO RAILINGS, COUNTING. A FORM SPRAWLED AGAINST A DUSTBIN AND
MUFFLED BY ITS ARM AND HAT SNORES, GROANS, GRINDING GROWLING TEETH, AND
SNORES AGAIN. ON A STEP A GNOME TOTTING AMONG A RUBBISHTIP CROUCHES TO
SHOULDER A SACK OF RAGS AND BONES. A CRONE STANDING BY WITH A SMOKY
OILLAMP RAMS HER 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 PAPER SHUTTLECOCK, CRAWLS SIDLING AFTER HER IN SPURTS, CLUTCHES
HER SKIRT, SCRAMBLES UP. A DRUNKEN NAVVY GRIPS WITH BOTH HANDS THE
RAILINGS OF AN AREA, LURCHING HEAVILY. AT A COMER TWO NIGHT WATCH IN
SHOULDERCAPES, 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.)
CISSY CAFFREY:
I GAVE IT TO MOLLY
BECAUSE SHE WAS JOLLY,
THE LEG OF THE DUCK,
THE LEG OF THE DUCK.
(PRIVATE CARR 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.)
THE VIRAGO: Signs on you, hairy arse. More power the Cavan girl.
CISSY CAFFREY: More luck to me. Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet. (SHE
SINGS)
I GAVE IT TO NELLY
TO STICK IN HER BELLY,
THE LEG OF THE DUCK,
THE LEG OF THE DUCK.
(PRIVATE CARR AND PRIVATE COMPTON TURN AND COUNTERRETORT, THEIR TUNICS
BLOODBRIGHT IN A LAMPGLOW, BLACK SOCKETS OF CAPS ON THEIR BLOND CROPPED
POLLS. STEPHEN DEDALUS AND LYNCH PASS THROUGH THE CROWD CLOSE TO THE
REDCOATS.)
PRIVATE COMPTON: (JERKS HIS FINGER) Way for the parson.
PRIVATE CARR: (TURNS AND CALLS) What ho, parson!
CISSY CAFFREY: (HER VOICE SOARING HIGHER)
SHE HAS IT, SHE GOT IT,
WHEREVER SHE PUT IT,
THE LEG OF THE DUCK.
(STEPHEN, FLOURISHING THE ASHPLANT IN HIS LEFT HAND, CHANTS WITH JOY THE
INTROIT FOR PASCHAL TIME. LYNCH, HIS JOCKEYCAP LOW ON HIS BROW, ATTENDS
HIM, A SNEER OF DISCONTENT WRINKLING HIS FACE.)
STEPHEN: VIDI AQUAM EGREDIENTEM DE TEMPLO A LATERE DEXTRO. ALLELUIA.
(THE FAMISHED SNAGGLETUSKS OF AN ELDERLY BAWD PROTRUDE FROM A DOORWAY.)
THE BAWD: (HER VOICE WHISPERING HUSKILY) Sst! Come here till I tell you.
Maidenhead inside. Sst!
STEPHEN: (ALTIUS ALIQUANTULUM) ET OMNES AD QUOS PERVENIT AQUA ISTA.
THE BAWD: (SPITS IN THEIR TRAIL HER JET OF VENOM) Trinity medicals.
Fallopian tube. All prick and no pence.
(EDY BOARDMAN, SNIFFLING, CROUCHED WITH BERTHA SUPPLE, DRAWS HER SHAWL
ACROSS HER NOSTRILS.)
EDY BOARDMAN: (BICKERING) And says 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, Kilbride, the enginedriver, and lancecorporal Oliphant.
STEPHEN: (TRIUMPHALITER) SALVI FACTI SUNT.
(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 SCARES IT WITH A KICK.)
LYNCH: So that?
STEPHEN: (LOOKS BEHIND) So that gesture, not music not odour, 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 Mecklenburgh 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 or wine in Omar. Hold
my stick.
LYNCH: Damn your yellow stick. Where are we going?
STEPHEN: Lecherous lynx, TO LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI, Georgina Johnson,
AD DEAM QUI LAETIFICAT IUVENTUTEM MEAM.
(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.)
LYNCH: Which is the jug of bread? It skills not. That or the customhouse.
Illustrate thou. Here take your crutch and walk.
(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 SIDEPOCKET. FROM GILLEN'S HAIRDRESSER'S 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 CONVEX MIRROR GRIN UNSTRUCK THE
BONHAM EYES AND FATCHUCK CHEEKCHOPS OF JOLLYPOLDY THE RIXDIX DOLDY.
AT ANTONIO PABAIOTTI'S DOOR BLOOM HALTS, SWEATED UNDER THE BRIGHT
ARCLAMP. HE DISAPPEARS. IN A MOMENT HE REAPPEARS AND HURRIES ON.)
BLOOM: Fish and taters. N. g. Ah!
(HE DISAPPEARS INTO OLHAUSEN'S, THE PORKBUTCHER'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 RIBS AND GROANS.)
BLOOM: Stitch in my side. Why did I run?
(HE TAKES BREATH WITH CARE AND GOES FORWARD SLOWLY TOWARDS THE LAMPSET
SIDING. THE GLOW LEAPS AGAIN.)
BLOOM: What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.
(HE STANDS AT CORMACK'S CORNER, WATCHING)
BLOOM: AURORA BOREALIS or a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade, of course.
South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar's bush. We're
safe. (HE HUMS CHEERFULLY) London's burning, London's burning! On fire,
on fire! (HE CATCHES SIGHT OF THE NAVVY LURCHING THROUGH THE CROWD AT THE
FARTHER SIDE OF TALBOT STREET) I'll miss him. Run. Quick. Better cross
here.
(HE DARTS TO CROSS THE ROAD. URCHINS SHOUT.)
THE URCHINS: Mind out, mister! (TWO CYCLISTS, WITH LIGHTED PAPER LANTERNS
ASWING, SWIM BY HIM, GRAZING HIM, THEIR BELLS RATTLING)
THE BELLS: Haltyaltyaltyall.
BLOOM: (HALTS ERECT, STUNG BY A SPASM) Ow!
(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.)
THE GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.
(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.)
THE MOTORMAN: Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?
BLOOM: (BLOOM TRICKLEAPS TO THE CURBSTONE AND HALTS AGAIN. HE BRUSHES A
MUDFLAKE FROM HIS CHEEK WITH A PARCELLED HAND.) 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.
(HE FEELS HIS TROUSER POCKET) Poor mamma's panacea. Heel easily catch in
track 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. (HE CLOSES HIS EYES
AN INSTANT) Bit light in the head. Monthly or effect of the other.
Brainfogfag. That tired feeling. Too much for me now. Ow!
(A SINISTER FIGURE LEANS ON PLAITED LEGS AGAINST O'BEIRNE'S WALL, A
VISAGE UNKNOWN, INJECTED WITH DARK MERCURY. FROM UNDER A WIDELEAVED
SOMBRERO THE FIGURE REGARDS HIM WITH EVIL EYE.)
BLOOM: BUENAS NOCHES, SENORITA BLANCA. QUE CALLE ES ESTA?
THE FIGURE: (IMPASSIVE, RAISES A SIGNAL ARM) Password. SRAID MABBOT.
BLOOM: Haha. MERCI. Esperanto. SLAN LEATH. (HE MUTTERS) Gaelic league
spy, sent by that fireeater.
(HE STEPS FORWARD. A SACKSHOULDERED RAGMAN BARS HIS PATH. HE STEPS LEFT,
RAGSACKMAN LEFT.)
BLOOM: I beg. (HE SWERVES, SIDLES, STEPASIDE, SLIPS PAST AND ON.)
BLOOM: Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a signpost planted by
the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon? I who lost
my way and contributed to the columns of the IRISH CYCLIST the letter
headed IN DARKEST STEPASIDE. 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.
(JACKY CAFFREY, HUNTED BY TOMMY CAFFREY, RUNS FULL TILT AGAINST BLOOM.)
BLOOM: O
(SHOCKED, ON WEAK HAMS, HE HALTS. TOMMY AND JACKY VANISH THERE, THERE.
BLOOM PATS WITH PARCELLED HANDS WATCH FOBPOCKET, BOOKPOCKET, PURSEPOKET,
SWEETS OF SIN, POTATO SOAP.)
BLOOM: Beware of pickpockets. Old thieves' dodge. Collide. Then snatch
your purse.
(THE RETRIEVER APPROACHES SNIFFING, 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 SMOKINGCAP WITH MAGENTA TASSELS. HORNED SPECTACLES
HANG DOWN AT THE WINGS OF THE NOSE. YELLOW POISON STREAKS ARE ON THE
DRAWN FACE.)
RUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today. I told you not go with
drunken goy ever. So you catch no money.
BLOOM: (HIDES THE CRUBEEN AND TROTTER BEHIND HIS BACK AND, CRESTFALLEN,
FEELS WARM AND COLD FEETMEAT) JA, ICH WEISS, PAPACHI.
RUDOLPH: What you making down this place? Have you no soul? (WITH FEEBLE
VULTURE TALONS HE FEELS THE SILENT FACE OF BLOOM) 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: (WITH PRECAUTION) I suppose so, father. Mosenthal. All that's left
of him.
RUDOLPH: (SEVERELY) One night they bring you home drunk as dog after
spend your good money. What you call them running chaps?
BLOOM: (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) Harriers, father. Only that once.
RUDOLPH: Once! Mud head to foot. Cut your hand open. Lockjaw. They make
you kaputt, Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps.
BLOOM: (WEAKLY) They challenged me to a sprint. It was muddy. I slipped.
RUDOLPH: (WITH CONTEMPT) GOIM NACHEZ! Nice spectacles for your poor
mother!
BLOOM: Mamma!
ELLEN BLOOM: (IN PANTOMIME DAME'S STRINGED MOBCAP, WIDOW TWANKEY'S
CRINOLINE AND BUSTLE, BLOUSE WITH MUTTONLEG SLEEVES BUTTONED BEHIND, GREY
MITTENS AND CAMEO BROOCH, HER PLAITED HAIR IN A CRISPINE NET, APPEARS
OVER THE STAIRCASE BANISTERS, A SLANTED CANDLESTICK IN HER HAND, AND
CRIES OUT IN SHRILL ALARM) O blessed Redeemer, what have they done to
him! My smelling salts! (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) Sacred Heart of Mary, where were
you at all at all?
(BLOOM, MUMBLING, HIS EYES DOWNCAST, BEGINS TO BESTOW HIS PARCELS IN HIS
FILLED POCKETS BUT DESISTS, MUTTERING.)
A VOICE: (SHARPLY) Poldy!
BLOOM: Who? (HE DUCKS AND WARDS OFF A BLOW CLUMSILY) At your service.
(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 YELLOW CUMMERBUND GIRDLES HER. A
WHITE YASHMAK, VIOLET IN THE NIGHT, COVERS HER FACE, LEAVING FREE ONLY
HER LARGE DARK EYES AND RAVEN HAIR.)
BLOOM: Molly!
MARION: Welly? Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to
me. (SATIRICALLY) Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?
BLOOM: (SHIFTS FROM FOOT TO FOOT) No, no. Not the least little bit.
(HE BREATHES IN DEEP AGITATION, SWALLOWING GULPS OF AIR, QUESTIONS,
HOPES, CRUBEENS FOR HER SUPPER, THINGS TO TELL HER, EXCUSE, 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.)
MARION: Nebrakada! Femininum!
(THE CAMEL, LIFTING A FORELEG, PLUCKS FROM A TREE A LARGE 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.)
BLOOM: I can give you ... I mean as your business menagerer ... Mrs
Marion ... if you ...
MARION: So you notice some change? (HER HANDS PASSING SLOWLY OVER HER
TRINKETED STOMACHER, A SLOW FRIENDLY MOCKERY IN HER EYES) 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.
(HE PATS DIVERS POCKETS) This moving kidney. Ah!
(HE POINTS TO THE SOUTH, THEN TO THE EAST. A CAKE OF NEW CLEAN LEMON SOAP
ARISES, DIFFUSING LIGHT AND PERFUME.)
THE SOAP:
We're a capital couple are Bloom and I.
He brightens the earth. I polish the sky.
(THE FRECKLED FACE OF SWENY, THE DRUGGIST, APPEARS IN THE DISC OF THE
SOAPSUN.)
SWENY: Three and a penny, please.
BLOOM: Yes. For my wife. Mrs Marion. Special recipe.
MARION: (SOFTLY) Poldy!
BLOOM: Yes, ma'am?
MARION: TI TREMA UN POCO IL CUORE?
(IN DISDAIN SHE SAUNTERS AWAY, PLUMP AS A PAMPERED POUTER PIGEON, HUMMING
THE DUET FROM Don Giovanni.)
BLOOM: Are you sure about that VOGLIO? I mean the pronunciati ...
(HE FOLLOWS, FOLLOWED BY THE SNIFFING TERRIER. THE ELDERLY BAWD SEIZES
HIS SLEEVE, THE BRISTLES OF HER CHINMOLE GLITTERING.)
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.
(SHE POINTS. IN THE GAP OF HER DARK DEN FURTIVE, RAINBEDRAGGLED, BRIDIE
KELLY STANDS.)
BRIDIE: Hatch street. Any good in your mind?
(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.)
THE BAWD: (HER WOLFEYES SHINING) 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.
(LEERING, GERTY MACDOWELL LIMPS FORWARD. SHE DRAWS FROM BEHIND, OGLING,
AND SHOWS COYLY HER BLOODIED CLOUT.)
GERTY: With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. (SHE MURMURS) 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: (TO BLOOM) When you saw all the secrets of my bottom drawer. (SHE
PAWS HIS SLEEVE, SLOBBERING) Dirty married man! I love you for doing that
to me.
(SHE GLIDES 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.)
MRS BREEN: Mr ...
BLOOM: (COUGHS GRAVELY) 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: (HURRIEDLY) Not so loud my name. Whatever do you think of me?
Don't give me away. Walls have ears. 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: (HOLDS UP A FINGER) Now, don't tell a big fib! I know somebody
won't like that. O just wait till I see Molly! (SLILY) Account for
yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!
BLOOM: (LOOKS BEHIND) She often said she'd like to visit. Slumming. The
exotic, you see. Negro servants in livery too if she had money. Othello
black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the bones and cornerman at the
Livermore christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter.
(TOM AND SAM BOHEE, COLOURED COONS IN WHITE DUCK SUITS, SCARLET SOCKS,
UPSTARCHED SAMBO CHOKERS AND LARGE 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.)
TOM AND SAM:
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.
(THEY WHISK BLACK MASKS FROM RAW BABBY FACES: THEN, CHUCKLING, CHORTLING,
TRUMMING, TWANGING, THEY DIDDLE DIDDLE CAKEWALK DANCE AWAY.)
BLOOM: (WITH A SOUR TENDERISH SMILE) 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: (SCREAMS GAILY) 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. (GLOOMILY) 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the dear gazelle.
MRS BREEN: Glory Alice, you do look a holy show! Killing simply. (SHE
PUTS OUT HER HAND INQUISITIVELY) What are you hiding behind your back?
Tell us, there's a dear.
BLOOM: (SEIZES HER WRIST WITH HIS FREE HAND) 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 snuffbox?
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: (SQUIRE OF DAMES, IN DINNER JACKET WITH WATEREDSILK FACINGS, BLUE
MASONIC BADGE IN HIS BUTTONHOLE, BLACK BOW AND MOTHER-OF-PEARL STUDS, A
PRISMATIC CHAMPAGNE GLASS TILTED IN HIS HAND) Ladies and gentlemen, I
give you Ireland, home and beauty.
MRS BREEN: The dear dead days beyond recall. Love's old sweet song.
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