Chapter4 Calypso

MR LEOPOLD BLOOM ATE WITH RELISH THE INNER ORGANS OF BEASTS and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.

Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel a bit peckish.

The coals were reddening.

Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didn't like her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.

-- Mkgnao!

-- O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.

The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writing-table. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.

Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.

-- Milk for the pussens, he said.

-- Mrkgnao! the cat cried.

They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.

-- Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.

Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.

-- Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.

-- Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.

He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can't mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.

He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz's. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped slower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough? To lap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round him. No.

On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by the bedroom door. She might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter she likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way.

He said softly in the bare hall:

-- I am going round the corner. Be back in a minute.

And when he had heard his voice say it he added:

-- You don't want anything for breakfast?

A sleepy soft grunt answered:

-- Mn.

No. She did not want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled. Must get those settled really. Pity. All the way from Gibraltar. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for it. Old style. Ah yes, of course. Bought it at the governor's auction. Got a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. At Plevna that was. I rose from the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it. Still he had brains enough to make that corner in stamps. Now that was farseeing.

His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat, and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too. Course they do. The sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. White slip of paper. Quite safe. On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there. In the trousers I left off. Must get it. Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe. No use disturbing her. She turned over sleepily that time. He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the threshold, a limp lid. Looked shut. All right till I come back anyhow.

He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Be a warm day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Black conducts, reflects (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldn't go in that light suit. Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as he walked in happy warmth. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Makes you feel young. Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at dawn, travel round in front of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Walk along a strand, strange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old Tweedy's big moustaches leaning on a long kind of a spear. Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged smoking a coiled pipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Wander along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well, meet him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques along the pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal, the evening wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A mother watches from her doorway. She calls her children home in their dark language. High wall: beyond strings twanged. Night sky moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. Strings. Listen. A girl playing one of these instruments what do you call them: dulcimers. I pass.

Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read: in the track of the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He smiled, pleasing himself. What Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the Freeman leader: a homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that: homerule sun rising up in the northwest.

He approached Larry O'Rourke's. From the cellar grating floated up the flabby gush of porter. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however: just the end of the city traffic. For instance M'Auley's down there: n. g. as position. Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the cattle market to the quays value would go up like a shot.

Bald head over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for an ad. Still he knows his own business best. There he Is, sure enough, my bold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his eyes screwed up. Do you know what I'm going to tell you? What's that, Mr O'Rourke? Do you know what? The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese.

Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke.

Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the doorway:

-- Good day, Mr O'Rourke.

-- Good day to you.

-- Lovely weather, sir.

-- 'Tis all that.

Where do they get the money? Coming up redheaded curates from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then think of the competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. Save it they can't. Off the drunks perhaps. Put down three and carry five. What is that? A bob here and there, dribs and drabs. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with the town travellers. Square it with the boss and we'll split the job, see?

How much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten barrels of stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more. Ten. Fifteen. He passed Saint Joseph's, National school. Brats' clamour. Windows open. Fresh air helps memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee double you. Boys are they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At their joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom.

He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. Fifty multiplied by. The figures whitened in his mind unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links packed with forcemeat fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pig's blood.

A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last. He stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it too, calling the items from a slip in her hand. Chapped: washing soda. And a pound and a half of Denny's sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips. Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldfish. New blood. No followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the clothesline. She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack.

The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Sound meat there like a stallfed heifer.

He took up a page from the pile of cut sheets. The model farm at Kinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Can become ideal winter sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall round it, blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting: read it nearer, the blurred cropping cattle, the page rustling. A young white heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their hands. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his soft subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt swinging whack by whack by whack.

The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace.

-- Now, my miss, he said.

She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.

-- Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you, please?

Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and walk behind her if she went slowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the morning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines. She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He sighed down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted toenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For another a constable off duty cuddled her in Eccles Lane. They like them sizeable. Prime sausage. O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the wood.

-- Threepence, please.

His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the till.

-- Thank you, sir. Another time.

A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. No: better not: another time.

-- Good morning, he said, moving away.

-- Good morning, sir.

No sign. Gone. What matter?

He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely. Agendath Netaim: planter's company. To purchase vast sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. You pay eight marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered for life as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15.

Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it.

He looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silvered powdered olivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning ripening. Olives are packed in jars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows the taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too. Wonder is poor Citron still alive in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky with the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in Citron's basketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Always the same, year after year. They fetched high prices too Moisel told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. Must be without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them in soiled dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you? Doesn't see. Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore. His back is like that Norwegian captain's. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Watering cart. To provoke the rain. On earth as it is in heaven.

A cloud began to cover the sun wholly slowly wholly. Grey. Far.

No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind would lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's clutching a noggin bottle by the neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more. Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world.

Desolation.

Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he turned into Eccles Street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of the bed. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down. Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that? Valuation is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes.

Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley Road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind.

Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stopped and gathered them. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quick heart slowed at once. Bold hand. Mrs Marion.

-- Poldy!

Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head.

-- Who are the letters for?

He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly.

-- A letter for me from Milly, he said carefully, and a card to you. And a letter for you.

He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of her knees.

-- Do you want the blind up?

Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow.

-- That do? he asked, turning.

She was reading the card, propped on her elbow.

-- She got the things, she said.

He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a snug sigh.

-- Hurry up with that tea, she said. I'm parched.

-- The kettle is boiling, he said.

But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed.

As he went down the kitchen stairs she called:

-- Poldy!

-- What?

-- Scald the teapot.

On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the spout. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle then to let water flow in. Having set it to draw, he took off the kettle and crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the lump of butter slide and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed hungrily against him. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Say they won't eat pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He sprinkled it through his fingers, ringwise, from the chipped eggcup.

Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over. Thanks: new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls.

The tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Only five she was then. No wait: four. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. He smiled, pouring.

Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still he was a courteous old chap. Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the platform. And the little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought it into the parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! All we laughed. Sex breaking out even then. Pert little piece she was.

He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the teapot on the tray. Its hump bumped as he took it up. Everything on it? Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes. He carried it upstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.

Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it on the chair by the bedhead.

-- What a time you were, she said.

She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. The warmth of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she poured.

A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.

-- Who was the letter from? he asked.

Bold hand. Marion.

-- O, Boylan, she said. He's bringing the programme.

-- What are you singing?

-- La ci darem with J. C. Doyle, she said, and Love's Old Sweet Song.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Like foul flowerwater.

-- Would you like the window open a little?

She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking:

-- What time is the funeral?

-- Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn't see the paper.

Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole.

-- No: that book.

Other stocking. Her petticoat.

-- It must have fell down, she said.

He felt here and there. Voglio e non vorvez. Wonder if she pronounces that right: voglio. Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped and lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of the orange-keyed chamberpot.

-- Show here, she said. I put a mark in it. There's a word I wanted to ask you.

She swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by nothandle and, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to search the text with the hairpin till she reached the word.

-- Met him what? he asked.

-- Here, she said. What does that mean?

He leaned downwards and read near her polished thumbnail.

-- Metempsychosis?

-- Yes. Who's he when he's at home?

-- Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It's Greek: from the Greek. That means the transmigration of souls.

-- O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain words.

He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eye. The same young eyes. The first night after the charades. Dolphin's Barn. He turned over the smudged pages. Ruby: the Pride of the Ring. Hello. Illustration. Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor naked. Sheet kindly lent. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him with an oath. Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals. Trapeze at Hengler's. Had to look the other way. Mob gaping. Break your neck and we'll break our sides. Families of them. Bone them young so they metempsychosis. That we live after death. Our souls. That a man's soul after he dies. Dignam's soul...

-- Did you finish it? he asked.

-- Yes, she said. There's nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the first fellow all the time?

-- Never read it. Do you want another?

-- Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Nice name he has.

She poured more tea into her cup, watching its flow sideways.

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that's the word.

-- Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in another body after death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives.

The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Better remind her of the word: metempsychosis. An example would be better. An example.

The Bath of the Nymph over the bed. Given away with the Easter number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. Tea before you put milk in. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Three and six I gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the people that lived then.

He turned the pages back.

-- Metempsychosis, he said, is what the ancient Greeks called it. They used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for instance. What they called nymphs, for example.

Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils.

-- There's a smell of burn, she said. Did you leave anything on the fire?

-- The kidney! he cried suddenly.

He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork's legs. Pungent smoke shot up in an angry Jet from a side of the pan. By prodding a prong of the fork under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Only a little burned. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it.

Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Then he put a forkful into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread, sopped one in the gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that about some young student and a picnic? He creased out the letter at his side, reading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the gravy and raising it to his mouth.

Dearest Papli,

Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. It suits me splendid. Everyone says I'm quite the belle in my new tam. I got mummy's lovely box of creams and am writing. They are lovely. I am getting on swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of me and Mrs will send when developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair day and all the beef to the heels were in. We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a few friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano downstairs. There is to be a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday. There is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his cousins or something are big swells he sings Boylan's (I was on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's) song about those seaside girls. Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. Must now close with fondest love.

Your fond daughter, MILLY.

P.S. Excuse bad writing, am in a hurry. Byby.

M.

Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first birthday away from home. Separation. Remember the summer morning she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old woman. Lots of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew from the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Well, God is good, sir. She knew at once. He would be eleven now if he had lived.

His vacant face stared pitying at the postscript. Excuse bad writing. Hurry. Piano downstairs. Coming out of her shell. Row with her in the XL Café about the bracelet. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Saucebox. He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still, she might do worse. Music hall stage. Young student. He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal. Then he read the letter again: twice.

O well: she knows how to mind herself. But if not? No, nothing has happened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does. A wild piece of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny. Ripening now.

Vain: very.

He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window. Day I caught her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. An&Aelig;mic a little. Was given milk too long. On the Erin's King that day round the Kish. Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf loose in the wind with her hair. All dimpled cheek's and curls, Your head it simply swirls.

Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers pockets, jarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band,

Milly too. Young kisses: the first. Far away now past. Mrs Marion. Reading lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling, braiding.

A soft qualm regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will happen, yes. Prevent. Useless: can't move. Girl's sweet light lips. Will happen too. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move now. Lips kissed, kissing kissed. Full gluey woman's lips.

Better where she is down there: away. Occupy her. Wanted a dog to pass the time. Might take a trip down there. August bank holiday, only two and six return. Six weeks off however. Might work a press pass. Or through M'Coy.

The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper, nosed at it and stalked to the door. She looked back at him, mewing. Wants to go out. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Let her wait. Has the fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her ear with her back to the fire too.

He felt heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his bowels. He stood up, undoing the waistband of his trousers. The cat mewed to him.

-- Miaow! he said in answer. Wait till I'm ready.

Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs to the landing.

A paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm.

In the table drawer he found an old number of Titbits. He folded it under his armpit, went to the door and opened it. The cat went up in soft bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed.

Listening, he heard her voice:

-- Come, come, pussy. Come.

He went out through the backdoor into the garden: stood to listen towards the next garden. No sound. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. The maid was in the garden. Fine morning.

He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall. Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to manure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur. All soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is? The hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. Best of all though are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in that corner there. Lettuce. Always have fresh greens then. Still gardens have their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.

He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny, I don't remember that. Hallstand too full. Four umbrellas, her rain cloak. Picking up the letters. Drago's shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown brilliantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder have I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox there got away James Stephens they say. O'Brien.

Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agenda what is it? Now, my miss. Enthusiast.

He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get these trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the nextdoor window. The king was in his counting house. Nobody.

Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper turning its pages over on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a bit. Our prize titbit. Matcham's Masterstrike. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three. Three pounds thirteen and six.

Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently, that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive one tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. Matcham often thinks of the master-stroke by which he won the laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in hand. Smart. He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds thirteen and six.

Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story for some proverb which? Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting her nether Hip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her. 9.15. Did Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What possessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. I'm swelled after that cabbage. A speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot.

Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stocking calf. Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the hours. Explain that morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then night hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night. Her head dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money. Why? I noticed he had a good smell off his breath dancing. No use humming then. Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night. The mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it. Lines in her eyes. It wouldn't pan out somehow.

Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then black with daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea pink, then golden, then grey, then black. Still true to life also. Day, then the night.

He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom into the air.

In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his black trousers, the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time is the funeral? Better find out in the paper.

A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells of George's church. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron.

Quarter to. There again: the overtone following through the air, third.

Poor Dignam!

-------------------------------------------

[1]离布卢姆夫妇所住的埃克尔斯街七号最近的一家以汉隆为店名的牛奶店，坐落在下多尔塞特街二十六号。

[2]普列文是保加利亚北部的城市。在俄土战争(1877－1878)中， 俄军对土耳其人占领下的普列文进行围攻，土耳其人被迫投降。布卢姆的岳父特威迪当年曾在支援士耳其的英军中服役，以后又到西班牙南端的英国要塞直布罗陀服役。

[3]这个白纸片上印有“亨利・弗罗尔”字样，是布卢姆为了和一位叫作玛莎・克利弗德的女打字员秘密通信而用的化名。

[4]土豆是布卢姆亡母的纪念品。他总把它当作护身符，随身携带。

[5]一种半圆形或三角形的馅饼。

[6]可怕的土耳克，参看第一章注[42]。这里指此人长得像戏里的土耳克王。

[7]《自由人报》是一七八0年左右创办的一份爱尔兰报纸，一九三O 年停办。该报站在温和保守的立场上主张爱尔兰自治。以爱尔兰银行大楼(1800年英、爱议会合并前为爱尔兰议会大厦)后一轮太阳为其社论花饰。

[8]布卢姆以替《自由人报》拉广告为业。

[9]这里，布卢姆联想到一首爱尔兰歌谣(见第十二章注[189])，其主人公与这位老板同名。

[10]这一天是一九0四年六月十六日，日俄战争已打了四个月。

[11]利特里姆是爱尔兰西北部康诺特省偏僻的郡，当地居民被看作是乡巴佬。

[12]亚当・S・芬德莱特尔斯是个经营茶叶和酒的商人，除了总公司 ，还开设了十一家分公司。丹尼尔・塔隆斯是个经营食品杂货和酒的商人，一八九九至一九00年任都柏林市市长。

[13]这是为了便于儿童记忆，用二十六个英文字母编成的一首歌。这里，原作中用拼音把此歌的唱腔表示出来了。

[14]伊尼施土耳克(爱尔兰语：公猪岛)、伊尼沙克(爱尔兰语：公牛岛)和伊尼施勃芬(爱尔兰语：白母牛岛)都是爱尔兰中部西岸的岛屿。

[15]布卢姆山位于都柏林市以南五十五英里处，系同名山脉的主峰。

[16]太巴列湖即加利利海的异称，位于巴勒斯坦东北部。《约书亚记》第19章第35节中曾提及基尼烈城，它坐落在加利利海西南，有时也把加利利海叫作基尼烈湖。本世纪初有些犹太企业家在此筹建犹太人聚居区。

[17]库西・蒙特斐奥雷(1784－1885)，犹太裔慈善家。出身于意大利犹太商人世家，幼年随家到英国。他毕生致力于改善流浪于欧洲和中东的犹太人的处境。开办这座农场也是为了给犹太工人提供就业机会。

[18]据第十七章，布卢姆曾在牲畜市场附近住过，并于一八九三至一八九四年间，在一个叫作约瑟夫・卡夫的牲畜业者手下当过雇员。

[19]原文作scapular，也作“肩衣”解。教徒们迷信褐色肩衣是保持贞操的护身符，故以崇敬圣母为宗旨的天主教在俗组织的年轻女子，把它作为虔诚的标志穿在身上。这里把女仆穿的无袖工作服比作肩衣。

[20]在一九0四年，身高五英尺九英寸以上的男子才能当上都柏林市的警察，超过一般市民。

[21]《求求你啦，警察先生，噢噢噢》是十九世纪九十年代蒂利姐妹何在都柏林演唱的一首歌的标题，歌词作者为E・安德鲁斯。 “我在树林子里迷了路”则引自英国童话《树林里的娃娃们》。还有一首同名的民谣。

[22]布卢姆原想告诉德鲁加茨，他也是匈牙利裔犹太人，但又打消了这个念头。

[23]阿根达斯・内泰穆是希伯来文移民垦殖公司的译音。这是一九0 五年夏天创办的一个企业，旨在帮助犹太人在巴勒斯坦(当时属于土耳其帝国)定居。这里把日期提前了一年。

[24]雅法是以色列西部的港口。一九五0年与特拉维夫合并，改成特拉维夫－雅法，是以色列最大城市和商业、交通、文化中心。

[25]一狄纳穆等于一千平方米。以色列目前仍采用这种面积单位。下文中的西十五区，在第十五章中作西十三区(参看该章注[132])。

[26]香橼，原文作citron。布卢姆由此联想到住在圣凯文步道十七号的西特伦(Citron)。

[27]圣凯文步追是都柏林市城南的一条街。在布卢姆夫妇当年住过的西伦巴德街的拐角处。

[28]阿尔布图斯小街也距西伦巴德街不远。莫依塞尔住在该街二十号，因而与布卢姆是街坊。

[29]普莱曾茨是都柏林市城南的街道。

[30]犹太教一年一度的住棚节(感恩节，开始于希伯来历第七个月的十五日)期间使用的香橼，不但一个碴儿也不能有，连栽培技术及环境也有各种讲究。

[31]黎凡特是第一次世界大战前地中海东部诸国的通称。指小亚细亚沿海地带和叙利亚。该词也是中东或近东的同义词。

[32]按这位挪威船长是个驼背，他叫都柏林的裁缝J・H・克尔斯为自己做了一件衣服，却抱怨说剪裁不得体。克尔斯反驳说，根本无法照着他的身材做衣服。参看艾尔曼著《詹姆斯・乔伊斯》(第23页)。

[33]这是天主教祷文《天主经》中的半句话，全句是:“愿你的旨意实现在地上，如同在天上一样。”见《马太福音》第6章第l0节。

[34]据《创世记》第19章，所多玛与蛾摩拉是罪恶之城，天主使“燃烧着的硫磺从天上降落”，将其毁灭。遗址在今以色列境内死海南端附近利桑半岛以南的浅水之下。这原是青铜时代中期(约公元前2000年－前1500年)土地肥沃的地区，根据地质学家的考证，系毁于地震时石油与天然气喷发燃烧导致的天灾。

[35]埃多姆(旧译以东)，古代地名，与古以色列相邻，在今约旦西南部，死海与亚喀巴湾之间。

[36]参看《创世记》第19章第24至26节:所多玛和蛾摩拉城被毁后， “罗得的妻子回过头来看一看，就变成一根盐柱。”

[37]指爱尔兰大力士尤金・桑道(原名弗雷德里卡・马勒，1867－1925)所编排的健身操。第十七章中提到，布卢姆的书架上有一本桑道所著《体力与健身术》。

[38]托尔斯、巴特斯比、诺思和麦克阿瑟都是都柏林的房地产经纪人。

[39]这句话既指阳光，又隐喻米莉。参看第十四章注[243]至[245]及有关正文。下文中的波尔迪是利奥波德的爱称。

[40]语出自英国诗人埃德蒙・斯宾塞(1552－1599)的长诗《仙后》(1590－1596)。独眼的马尔贝科发现自己的妻子海伦诺尔与人通奸，他便死命地往前跑，眼睛却依然“盯着后面”。见该诗第8章第l0节第56段。

[41]这是苏格兰人喜戴的一种宽顶无檐软帽，通常用呢料做成，有点像贝雷帽，顶上有个毛线球儿。

[42]科格伦是开照相馆的，布卢姆的女儿米莉在他手下工作。

[43]年轻的学生指亚历克・班农，参看第一章注[123]。

[44]布莱泽斯・博伊兰是音乐家，系布卢姆之妻女高音歌手玛莉恩的代理人，与她有暧昧关系。他擅长唱哈里・B・诺里斯作词并谱曲的《海滨的姑娘们》(1899)一歌。

[45]搪须杯里有一种装置，可避免饮水时将胡子沾湿。

[46]德比瓷器是约于一七五O至一八四八年间在英国德比制造的一种瓷雕和餐具。

[47]这里套用爱尔兰诗人、歌词作家塞缪尔・洛弗(1797－1868)所作的诗(收于1835年出版的《爱尔兰传说与故事》)，并把原诗中的“撒迪・布雷迪”改成“米莉・布卢姆”，“布赖恩・加拉格尔虽有房子”改成“凯西・基奥虽有驴”。

[48]古德温是个钢琴师，一八八八至一八九五年间曾为摩莉伴奏。下文中提到的那次音乐会是一八九三年举行的。

[49]原文为意大利语，出自奥地利作曲家沃尔夫冈・阿马德乌斯・莫扎特(1756－1791)所作歌剧《唐乔万尼》(1787)第1幕第3场中的二重唱。男主人公唐乔万尼引诱农村姑娘泽莉娜，说：“咱们将结婚，咱们将手拉着手前往……”J・C、 多伊尔，参看第六章注[33]。

[50]《古老甜蜜的情歌》(1884)是G・克利夫顿・宾厄姆(1859－1913) 作词、爱尔兰作曲家詹姆斯・莱曼・莫洛伊(1837－1909)配曲的一首歌曲。下文中的“酸臭的气味”，布卢姆在夜间重新提到。参看第十五章注[666]。

[51]、[52]原文为意大利歌词，是摩莉即将演唱的泽莉娜对唐乔万尼所作的答复，原作Vorreienonvorrei，意即，“我愿意，又不愿意”，表达了女主人公在受诱惑时的矛盾心绪。在这里，布卢姆却把vorrei(愿意)误作voglio(要)了。

[51]、[52]原文为意大利歌词，是摩莉即将演唱的泽莉娜对唐乔万尼所作的答复，原作Vorreienonvorrei，意即，“我愿意，又不愿意”，表达了女主人公在受诱惑时的矛盾心绪。在这里，布卢姆却把vorrei(愿意)误作voglio(要)了。

[53]原文metemPsychosis系源于希腊文的外来语，意思是轮回、转生。 此词的前半截metem，与英语methim(遇见了他)发音相近，故不懂希腊文的玛莉恩有此误会。

[54]海啄仓是都柏林市西南郊的一条小巷，卢克和卡罗琳・多伊尔夫妇就住在这里。布卢姆与玛莉恩是在他们家初次相遇的。

[55]此书原名叫《鲁碧，根据一个马戏团女演员的生活写成的小说》( 伦敦，1889)，作者为艾米・里德。这里还把马戏团老板恩里科的名字改成马菲。该书写一个十三岁上被卖给马戏团的小姑娘鲁碧被虐待致死的事。

[56]原文作Sheetkindlylent。扎克・鲍恩在《詹姆斯・乔伊斯的音乐暗喻》(1974，第88页)中指出,此句与英国枢机主教约翰・亨利・纽曼(1801－1890)所作的颂歌《云柱》(1833)中的诗句Leadkindlylight(光啊，仁慈地引导)发音相近。

[57]指查理・亨格勒(1820－1887)及其胞弟艾伯特所经营的马戏团的表演。该团在都柏林、爱丁堡、伦敦等六个城市均有固定场地，而不是搭棚做巡回演出。

[58]查理－保罗・德・科克(1793－1871)，法国作家。所著反映巴黎生活的小说，略有色情描写，曾在欧洲风靡一时。他的全集出版于一八三五至一八四四年间。

[59]当时都柏林确有个叫约瑟夫・卡尔尼的人，在卡佩尔街十四号经售书籍乐谱。

[60]宁芙是音译，希腊神话中半神半人的少女。她们通常住在山林水泽中。

[61]《摄影点滴》是一八九八年问世的伦敦一种周刊，每册一便士，逢星期四出版，所刊照片略带色情味道。

[62]他指博伊兰。

[63]鲁迪是布卢姆的儿子，生下来十一天就夭折了。桑顿太太是个接生婆。

[64]爱琳王号是一艘游览船，沿都柏林湾航行，并绕过基什的灯台船。基什，见第三章注[138]。

[65]歌词中的晕字，原文作swirls。他指博伊兰。因咬字不清，唱成swurls了。英文中无此字。

[66]银行假日指星期日外的公假日，在英国，一年有六次，即耶稣酥受难日、复活节次日、圣灵降临节(复活节后第五十天)次日、八月的第一个星期一、圣诞节、圣诞节次日。

[67]麦科伊是布卢姆的朋友。这个人物曾出现在《都柏林人・圣恩》中，是个铁道办事员，在本书中是都柏林市的验尸官助手。

[68]指设在楼梯平台处的厕所。

[69]《珍闻・摘自世界最有趣的书报杂志》是一八八一年问世的一种周刊，每册一便士，逢星期四出版，被认为是现代通俗刊物的滥觞。

[70]这里套用爱尔兰一首儿歌。全段为;“国王在帐房里，数着他的钱币;王后在客厅里，吃面包和蜂蜜。女仆在园子里，晾晒着衣服呢;飞来只小黑鸟， 咬掉她的鼻尖。”

[71]布卢姆曾于五月二十三日被蜜蜂蜇过，他多次忆及此事。

[72]塔拉街是通往巴特桥的一条街，街上有公共澡堂。

[73]詹姆斯・斯蒂芬斯是爱尔兰独立运动的志士，参看第二章注[54]。

[74] 和斯蒂芬斯打过交道的奥布赖恩有两个， 但均未直接参与救他出狱的活动。爱尔兰爱国主义者、青年爱尔兰运动领导人威廉・史密斯・奥布赖恩( 1803－1864)，曾于一八四八年在蒂珀雷斯郡的巴林加里领导农民起义， 斯蒂芬斯也参加了。起义以失败告终，斯蒂芬斯逃脱，奥布赖恩被捕，以叛国罪被判处死刑。后成为终身流放。一八五四年获释，住在布鲁塞尔。另一个叫詹姆斯・弗朗西斯・泽维尔・奥布赖恩(1828－1905)。他于一八五八年在美国参加了芬尼运动。南北战争期间，他在联邦军中当外科医师。战后赴爱尔兰，一八六七年在科克参加芬尼社起义，失败后被捕，一度判处死刑，后于一八六九年获释。

[75]布卢姆在回忆刚才肉铺老板德鲁加赤对买腊肠的邻居女仆说的话。

[76]据艾尔曼著《詹姆斯・乔伊斯》(第308页脚注) ，乔伊斯在意大利的底里雅斯特教过一个叫作摩西・德鲁加赤(与肉铺老板同姓)的年轻学生。那是个犹太复国主义者，想“在巴勒斯坦为犹太人建立起政治上和法律上都有保障的家园”。

[77]“国王在帐房里”，参看本章注[70]。

[78]原文作cuckstool，可译为惩椅。旧时把奸商或荡妇绑在上面示众。

[79]十九世纪九十年代确实有个叫作菲利普・博福伊的人经常为《珍闻》撰稿。然而《马查姆的妙举》却是乔伊期的杜撰。

[80]这里，布卢姆在做心算。一基尼为二十一先令，一镑为二十先令。三栏是三镑三先令。再加上半栏。所以是三镑十三先令六便士，六便士相当于半先令。

[81]药鼠李是产于北美太平洋沿岸的一种植物，其树皮可制作缓泻剂。

[82]葛莉塔・康罗伊是《都柏林人・死者》的女主人公。

[83]乐队名，属于都柏林一家出售乐谱并教授音乐和钢琴的梅氏公司。

[84]阿米尔卡里・庞契埃利(1834－1886)，意大利作曲家。《时间之舞》即出自他的著名歌剧《歌女》(又名《吉康达》，1876)第3幕的剧中剧。

[85]意思是，玛莉恩和博伊兰是自从那个晚上一道跳舞后开始接近的。