Chapter5

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

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

So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over again: choice blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing around in the sun, in dolce far niente. Not doing a hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah, in the dead sea, floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of the. Or is it the volume is equal of the weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second, per second. Law of falling bodies: per second, per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.

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

He handed the card through the brass grill.

-- Are there any letters for me? he asked.

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

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

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

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

He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.

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

-- Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?

-- Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.

-- How's the body?

-- Fine. How are you?

-- Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.

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

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

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

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

A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.

-- E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.

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

-- I know.

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

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

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

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

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

-- Why? I said. What's wrong with him? I said.

Proud: rich: silk stockings.

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

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

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

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

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

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

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

-- One of the best, M'Coy said.

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

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

-- O yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:

What is home without

Plumtree's Potted Meat?

Incomplete.

With it an abode of bliss.

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

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

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

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

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

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

-- It's a kind of a tour, don't you see? Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Sweet song. There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.

M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.

-- O well, he said. That's good news.

He moved to go.

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

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

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

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

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

-- That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.

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

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

Wonder is he pimping after me?

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

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

Every word is so deep, Leopold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Henry,

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word. Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not write. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling. I have such a bad headache today and write by return to your longing

MARTHA.

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

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

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

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

Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together in the rain.

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

Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.

Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of the well stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter then all sank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning. This very church. Peter Carey. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. They're not straight men of business either. O no she's not here: the flower: no, no. By the way did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.

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

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

Quis est homo!

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

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

-- O God, our refuge and our strength.

Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Gloria and immaculate virgin. Joseph her spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants to. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon In their hands. More than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears. Husband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they work the whole show. And don't they rake in the money too? Bequests also: to the P. P. for the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in the Fermanagh will case in the witness box. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.

The priest prayed:

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

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

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

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

He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been or the second. O he can look it up in the prescriptions book.

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

-- About a fortnight ago, sir?

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

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

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

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

-- And white wax also, he said.

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

-- Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a bottle?

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

-- Fourpence, sir.

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

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

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

-- Good, Mr Bloom said.

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

At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:

-- Hello, Bloom, what's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute.

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

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

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

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

-- You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.

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

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

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

-- What's that? his sharp voice said.

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

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

-- I'Il risk it, he said. Here, thanks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[1]布雷迪公寓是与利穆街交叉的一条巷子，两侧排列着简陋公寓房，故名。

[2]伯特厄尔、(Bethel)是希伯来语“上帝之家”(参看《创世记》 第28章第19节)的译音，系救世军总部。伯特是房子，厄尔是上帝。希伯来文字母表的第一个字母是aleph(阿列夫)，第二个字母是beth(伯特)。

[3]科尼・凯莱赫是奥尼尔殡仪馆的经理，负责为迪格纳穆料理葬事。

[4]汤姆・克南是个茶叶等商品的推销员，曾出现在《都柏林人・圣恩》中。

[5]锡兰是斯里兰卡的旧称。下文中的“什么也不干是美妙的”，原文为意大利语。

[6]据第十七章，万斯为布卢姆的母校拉兹马斯・史密斯高中的教师 。这里的大学指大学预科。自一八七八年起，都柏林市教育局要求高中学生参加这种年度考试，成绩好的，可领到助学金。“打榧子”和“紧张的”，原文均为“cracking”。这种双关语，中译文无法表达，只好各取一种含意。

[7]原文作:Table：able. Bed: ed. Table和Bed均为英语，意思是“桌子”、“床”。able和ed则是去掉首字的尾音。这种操练号令相当于左、右，左、右。

[8]“他”指爱德华七世。他于一八七四年成为共济会领导人，直到一九 0一年即位才辞去此职。共济会是起源于中世纪的石匠和教堂建筑工匠的行会。十七世纪初开始允许非石匠的名誉会员参加。一般说来，在使用拉丁语系语言的各国中，共济会吸引着自由思想家及反对教权者；在操盎格鲁－撒克逊语的诸国，会员则多是白人新教徒。

[9]这是天主教在俗信徒组织(如公教进行会等)的会员所佩带的会徽， 有的将它当成护身符。

[10]“独脚”霍罗翰是《都柏林人・母亲》中的一个人物。他是爱尔兰共和国胜利会副干事，因跛了一条腿，遂有此外号。

[11]高傲仕女，指默雯・塔尔博伊，参看第十五章。布卢姆一时记不起她的名字了，但“可敬的”一词令他联想起莎士比亚的历史剧《尤利乌斯・恺撒》第3 幕第2场中安东尼所说的“布鲁图是个可敬的人”一语。

[12]班塔姆・莱昂斯曾出现在《都柏林人》中的《寄寓》一篇里。

[13]布罗德斯通是铁路终点站。布卢姆猜测那位夫人将在那里换乘火车。

[14]“天堂与妖精”是爱尔兰诗人托马斯・穆尔(1779－1852)的叙事诗《拉拉・鲁克，一首东方传奇》(1817)中的一个故事，被关在天堂门外的妖精，为了赎罪，把神最喜欢的礼物送上去，遂得以进门。

[15]尤斯塔斯街是都柏林市南部的一条通向河岸的大街，在都柏林城址附近。

[16]原文为法语。

[17]环道桥在都柏林市东部;横跨利菲河上的环行铁道。

[18]这条广告虽是虚构的，但当时都柏林确实有个名叫 乔冶・W・普勒姆垂(Plumtree)的老板开了一家罐头肉厂。此姓与英语的“李树”拼音相同。“把肉装入罐头”是都柏林粗俗俚语，指性交。第十七章中，布卢姆看到一只肉罐头空罐，暗指摩莉曾与博伊兰偷情。

[19]《都柏林人・圣恩》中提到麦科伊常以太太下乡办事为由，借去旅行包不还。

[20]这里把摇篮曲的一句作了改动，省去“蜂蜜”二字。参看第四章注[70]。

[21]宫廷纸牌，原文作courtcards，是coatcards的传讹。纸牌上的国王(金发先生)、王后(黑发夫人)等人像皆着外套，故名。

[22]威克洛是位于都柏林以南二十六英里的海滨市镇，每年八月举行一次艇赛。

[23]克勒利是都柏林市中心的一家大百货公司。

[24]班德曼・帕默夫人(1865－1905)。美国名演员，《自由人报》(1904年6月16日)载有她在都柏林的欢乐剧场扮演《被遗弃的丽亚》(1862)一剧中女主角丽亚的广告。该剧以十八世纪初叶的奥地利农村为背景，对反犹太主义进行了抨击，是美国剧作家约翰・奥古斯丁・戴利(1838－1899)根据德、奥地利剧作家所罗门・赫尔曼・莫森索尔(1821－1877)的剧本《底波拉》(1850)编译而成。

[25]一九0四年六月十六日的《自由人报》曾指出，帕默夫人十五日晚上在欢乐剧场扮演哈姆莱特这个角色时，演得“维妙维肖”。

[26]凯特・贝特曼(1843－1917)，美国女演员，以扮演麦可白夫人著称。她在阿德尔菲剧场扮演丽亚获得巨大成功。但这是一八六三年的事，而不是文中所说的一八六五年。

[27]阿德莱德・里斯托里(1822－1906)，颇有国际声望的意大利悲剧女演员，生于奥匈帝国，曾在维也纳扮演过丽亚这个角色。

[28]莫森索尔所写的戏应作《底波拉》(见本章注[24])。剧中人名均借自《创世记》，所以布卢姆搞混了。丽亚是以色列人的祖先雅各的第一个妻子。雅各原来想娶丽亚的妹妹蕾洁。但根据当地风俗，小女儿不能先嫁，所以做父亲的拉班便让大女儿顶替嫁了过去(见《创世记》第25、27、29节)。底波拉是丽百加(雅各之母)的奶妈(见《创世记》第35章第8节)。

[29]在《创世记》中，亚伯拉罕是希伯来人的祖先。在《被遗弃的丽亚》中，他是个双目失明的犹太老人，曾为拿单之父送葬。

[30]拿单是个变节的犹太人。他遗弃了丽亚(一个犹太姑娘)，并隐瞒自己的身份，冒充基督教徒。亚伯拉罕识破了拿单的真实面目，因而被拿单扼死。

[31]原文为意大利语。此句不完整，参看第四章注[51]。

[32]原文为意大利语。参看第四章注[49]。

[33]玩“跳房子”游戏时，如果踩着了线，孩子们便喊“犯规了，犯规了”。这里是说明布卢姆走过场地时没踩着线。

[34]斯芬克斯是常见于古埃及和希腊的艺术作品和神话中的狮身人面怪物。

[35]据第十七章，布卢姆小时曾进过埃利斯太太创办的幼儿学校。

[36]原文中，玛莎把word(字)误写成了world(世界)。

[37]欧洲一向有给花赋以某种象征意义的传统。伦敦出版过一本无名氏所编的辞典《花的语言》，献辞写于一九一三年。其中对七百多种花的含意作了诠释。下面，布卢姆一面读玛莎的信，一面联想到一些花，例如玫瑰就象征着爱与美。

[38]夜茎是一种茄属有毒植物。

[39]库姆是圣柏特里克大教堂西边的一条街,现为贫民窟。

[40]玫瑰期间暗指经期。

[41]“他”指耶稣。据《路加福音》第10章第38至42节，耶稣曾在玛莎和玛丽亚两姐妹家中做客。玛莎忙于接待，玛丽亚则“坐在主的脚前，听他讲道”。玛莎要妹妹也来帮帮忙，耶稣却说，“玛莎!玛莎!你为许多事操心忙乱，但是不可缺少的只有一件。玛丽亚已经选择了最好的，没有人能从她手中夺走。”这里，打字员玛莎刚好与玛莎同名，玛丽亚又与歌中的女主角同名。

[42]阿什汤是凤凰公园的一座大门，旁边墙壁上有个洞。选民从洞里伸进手去，就可以拿到一把硬币。这样，他就可以发誓否认见过行贿者，或发生过此等事。

[43]每年一度的巴尔斯市里奇马匹展示会(参看苇七章注[32])期间，在凤凰公园的阿什汤大门外面曾经举行过小马驾车赛，后来取消。

[44]艾弗勋爵即爱德华・塞西尔・吉尼斯(1847－1927)，为曾任都柏林市长的酿酒商本杰明・李・吉尼斯(1798－1868)之第三子，与其兄亚瑟同为吉尼斯公司股东。酿制烈性黑啤酒的吉尼斯公司是他们的祖父一七五九年在都柏林创立的。

[45]阿迪劳恩勋爵即亚瑟・吉尼斯(1840－1915)，政治家，曾任皇家都柏林学会会长。

[46]圣彼得・克莱佛尔(1581－1654)，西班牙天主教耶稣会传教士。一六一O年曾赴当时南美洲的主要奴隶市场卡塔赫纳(今哥伦比亚境内)传教。前文中的康米神父，见第十章注[1]。

[47]威廉・尤尔特・格莱斯顿(1809－1898)，英国政治家，自由党领袖，历任四届首相。他一直赞同爱尔兰自治并曾于一八八六年提出爱尔兰自治法案;尽管在议会中遭到否决，却赢得了爱尔兰天主教徒的好感。

[48]威廉・詹・沃尔什(1841－1921)，一八八五年任都柏林罗马天主教会的大主教。

[49]原文是拉丁文，指耶稣。据《约翰福音》第19章，兵士给耶稣戴上荆冠后，罗马总督彼拉多指着耶稣，对众人说了此话。后来便转义为头戴荆冠的耶稣。

[50]圣帕特里克(活动时期约在5 世纪后半叶)是在爱尔兰建立天主教会的传教士，罗马教廷谥为圣徒。他用柄上长着三叶的苜蓿来象征天主的三位一体，此花遂成为爱尔兰的国花，每年二月十七日的圣帕特里克节，爱尔兰人均在襟上佩带之。

[51]“筷子”可能是由前文所提的中国人而联想到的，也可能是指下文提到的康米瘦得像筷子。

[52]马丁・坎宁翰是以都柏林堡的一个官员马修・凯恩为原型而塑造的，出现在《都柏林人・圣恩》中。

[53]这原是《路加福音》第10章第29节中法律教师问耶稣的话。这里， 则变成一位少女对坐到自己身旁的人感到的好奇。 等于在问：“坐在我旁边这个人是谁呀?”

[54]圣巾是天主教在俗组织聚会时系的肩巾。

[55]神父把圣体送进教友口中时，一般总先甩一两下，看上去像是把圣体上的水甩掉一般，因而引起这样的联想。

[56]Corpus，拉丁文，意思是身体、物体，也作尸体解。英文中，此词也指身体、躯体，并作为谐谑语，指尸体。

[57]body，英文，意思是身体、物体，也作尸体解。Corpse,英文,意思是尸体。

[58]指天主教慈善会修女所创办的圣母救济院。

[59]无酵饼，见《旧约・出埃及记》第23章第15节，天主要求摩西在率领以色列人离开埃及的那一个月，守无酵节;在节期的七天里，吃无酵饼。

[60]凡出生后就受洗者，通常在七岁时初领圣体。

[61]卢尔德是法国西南部比利牛斯省一城镇。一八五八年、一个女孩在该镇附近河流左岸洞穴中幻见到圣母玛利亚。从此，洞穴中的地下水被奉为神水，每年必有众多残疾人赴该地朝圣求治。

[62]诺克是爱尔兰康诺特省梅奥郡的戈尔韦湾附近一荒村。传说一八七九至一八八O年，圣母玛利亚数次显圣给孩村的天主教徒，使其疾病奇迹般地得以治愈。

[63]钉在十字架上的耶稣圣像淌血的传说，见克拉拉・厄斯金・克莱门特所著《传说中的神话艺术手册》(波士顿，1891年版)。

[64]“安……里”一语、系套用范妮・克罗斯比作词、W・H・多恩配曲的《虔诚之歌》(1869)中的首句：“安然地呆在耶稣怀抱里”。只是将“耶稣”改为祷词“即将降临的天国”。

[65]这是拉丁文lesus Nazarenus Rex ludaeorum的首字，意思是，“拿撒勒人耶稣，犹太人之王。”

[66]这是拉丁文lesus Hominum Salvalor的首字,意思是:“万人的救主耶稣。”

[67]以上三句话均为英文，意思分别为：“我犯了罪”；“我受了苦”;“把铁钉扎了进去”。摩莉把拉丁字母当作英文，这么乱猜。

[68]“背着光，出现在暮色苍茫中”，引自英国剧作家威廉・施文克・吉尔伯特(1836－1911)与沙利文编写的喜剧《陪审团的审判》(1875)。原话是指借此能遮掩那位阔小姐的年衰貌丑等缺陷。

[69]此人实名詹姆斯・凯里(1845－1883)，是“常胜军”的指导成员之一，曾参加凤凰公园的暗杀事件。被捕后，出卖同伙，致使其被绞死。由于害怕“常胜军”报复，他曾化名鲍尔，欲逃往南非，被帕特里克・奥唐奈击毙。他有个兄弟叫彼得，也与“常胜军”有关连。

[70]“轻微颤音”，原文为意大利语。

[71]指坐落于该街的圣方济各・沙勿略教堂。

[72]乔亚其诺・罗西尼(1792－1868)，意大利歌剧作曲家。

[73]原文为拉丁文。指耶稣被钉上十字架后，悲恸的圣母站立在十字架脚下。

[74]原文为拉丁文。这是《站立的圣母》第3段的开头。全句是:“什么人看见基督的母亲如此悲痛，能够不落泪呢?”

[75]萨弗里奥・梅尔卡丹特(1795－1870)，生在那不勒斯的意大利作曲家，编写过六十来个歌剧。《最后的七句话》是他根据《福音书》上所载耶稣被钉十字架后弥留之际说的七句话所谱的曲子。

[76]原文为拉丁文。

[77]帕莱斯特里纳(参看第一章注[110])创作了大量优美的宗教与世俗音乐，一五七八年被教皇格列高利十三世授予音乐大师称号。

[78]本笃酒是天主教本笃会教士所酿的一种甜酒，产于法国费康，亦名本尼迪克酒。

[79]这是天主教修会加尔都西会教士在法国境内加尔都西山谷所酿造的荨麻酒。

[80]过去梵蒂冈教廷唱诗班为了使男童歌手保持女高音或女低音声调，将其阉割。直到一八七八年教皇利奥十三世(1810－1908)登位，才明令禁止。

[81]见《诗篇》，第46篇第1节。

[82]彼得是早期基督教会所称耶稣十二门徒之首。

[83]保罗(活动时期1世纪)，耶稣的使徒之一，基督教传教士。

[84]救世军的创办者是循道会牧师W・布斯。自一八六五年起， 他开始在伦敦东区的贫民窟中传教，一八七八年他将自己创立的组织易名为“救世军”。其宗教活动的特点之一，是皈依者当众忏悔。

[85]圣厅献金是一八七0年起实行的一种由教徒捐款作为教皇生活费的制度，一九三九年废止。

[86]弗马纳是北爱尔兰一郡。

[87]原文作Buzz，可作“忙来忙去”或“扒手”解。前文中的“圣米……地狱”为弥撒后所诵经文。

[88]“露出一弯月牙形”一语套用《哈姆莱特》第1幕第4场中哈姆莱特对霍拉旭所说的话。下文中的“更靠下面的”，原文作“更靠南面的”，即指更靠下面的裤钮。

[89]胡格诺派是十六世纪欧洲宗教改革运动中兴起于法国的新教教派，长期惨遭迫害。十七世纪末，被迫大批逃亡到英格兰、爱尔兰、美洲等地。

[90]Aq.Dist(蒸馏水)、FolLaur(月桂叶)、TeVirid(绿茶)均为拉丁文。

[91]原文作doctor Whack. doctor是医生。whacker含有弥天大谎意,即指庸医。

[92]利奥波德・奥尔巴尼公爵(1853－1884)、维多利亚女王的幼子。他患的实际上是血友病，世人则以为他是由于皮肤比一般人薄，才动辄出血不止。

[93]原文为法语。

[94]布卢姆看到莱昂斯的手脏，便联想起这句风靡一时的肥皂广告用语。

[95]阿斯科特是英格兰地名。在伯克郡温莎－梅登黑德区，距伦敦二十六英里。每年六月举行为期四天的皇家阿斯科特赛马会，胜者获金杯奖。布卢姆拿给莱昂斯看的六月十六日的《自由人报》上刊有参赛马匹的全部名单，马克西穆姆二世便是其中的一匹。

[96]英语中，throw away是“丢掉”的意思。莱昂斯满脑子都是赛马的事。这里他误以为希卢姆在劝他把赌注压在一匹名叫“丢掉”(Throwaway)的马身上。

[97]康威角指康威酒吧间。角(原文作corner)为伦敦的塔特索尔马市场和赛马场的俗称。以后那些兼售马券的私营酒吧间也在店名后面加上corner一词。

[98]据《出埃及记》第16章，以色列人离开埃及后，曾在旷野里挨饿，于是说：“在埃及，我们至少可以围着肉锅吃肉……”作者用这个典故暗指新到一个地方去的人们不免怀念故土。

[99]指在三一学院(也叫都柏林大学，建于一五九一年，是爱尔兰最古老的学府)举行的赛车会。下文中的霍恩布洛尔是该校司阍。

[100]这里套用《约翰尼，我几乎认不出你来了》一歌中佩吉对伤兵约翰尼说的话。原词是，“你像条鳕鱼那样头尾都蜷缩在一起。”

[101]板球是英国夏季的国球，使用船桨式木板击球。

[102]顿尼溪是都柏林市以南一小镇。自十三世纪起，每年举行一次以酒色、赌斗著称的集市，一八五五年被禁止。顿尼溪集市后来遂成为扰嚷吵闹的代名词。

[103]“麦……壳”一语出自罗伯特・马丁所作的歌曲《恩尼斯卡锡》。恩尼斯卡锡是韦克斯福德郡的一个小镇。

[104]“生……贵”一语出自爱德华・菲茨勃尔(1792－1873)编写、爱尔兰作曲家威廉・文森特・华莱士(1813－1865)配乐的歌剧《玛丽塔娜》(1845)第2幕第1场。

[105]“这……体”，套用耶稣对门徒所说的话，见《路加福音》第22章第19节。