Ulysses
Ladylike in exquisite contrast.
—Take no notice, miss Kennedy rejoined.
She poured in a teacup tea, then back in the teapot tea. They cowered
under their reef of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned,
waiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, both of black
satin, two and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and
seven.
Yes, bronze from anear, by gold from afar, heard steel from anear,
hoofs ring from afar, and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel.
—Am I awfully sunburnt?
Miss bronze unbloused her neck.
—No, said miss Kennedy. It gets brown after. Did you try the borax with
the cherry laurel water?
Miss Douce halfstood to see her skin askance in the barmirror
gildedlettered where hock and claret glasses shimmered and in their
midst a shell.
—And leave it to my hands, she said.
—Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedy advised.
Bidding her neck and hands adieu miss Douce
—Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. I asked that
old fogey in Boyd’s for something for my skin.
Miss Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, grimaced and prayed:
—O, don’t remind me of him for mercy’ sake!
—But wait till I tell you, miss Douce entreated.
Sweet tea miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears
with little fingers.
—No, don’t, she cried.
—I won’t listen, she cried.
But Bloom?
Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey’s tone:
—For your what? says he.
Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak: but said, but prayed
again:
—Don’t let me think of him or I’ll expire. The hideous old wretch! That
night in the Antient Concert Rooms.
She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip, sipped, sweet tea.
—Here he was, miss Douce said, cocking her bronze head three quarters,
ruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa!
Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy’s throat. Miss Douce
huffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like a
snout in quest.
—O! shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever forget his goggle eye?
Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, shouting:
—And your other eye!
Bloowhose dark eye read Aaron Figatner’s name. Why do I always think
Figather? Gathering figs, I think. And Prosper Loré’s huguenot name. By
Bassi’s blessed virgins Bloom’s dark eyes went by. Bluerobed, white
under, come to me. God they believe she is: or goddess. Those today. I
could not see. That fellow spoke. A student. After with Dedalus’ son.
He might be Mulligan. All comely virgins. That brings those rakes of
fellows in: her white.
By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the sweets.
Of sin.
In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy
your other eye. They threw young heads back, bronze gigglegold, to let
freefly their laughter, screaming, your other, signals to each other,
high piercing notes.
Ah, panting, sighing, sighing, ah, fordone, their mirth died down.
Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, raised, drank a sip and
gigglegiggled. Miss Douce, bending over the teatray, ruffled again her
nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles, stooping, her
fair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed,
spluttered out of her mouth her tea, choking in tea and laughter,
coughing with choking, crying:
—O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to a man like that! she cried.
With his bit of beard!
Douce gave full vent to a splendid yell, a full yell of full woman,
delight, joy, indignation.
—Married to the greasy nose! she yelled.
Shrill, with deep laughter, after, gold after bronze, they urged each
each to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze,
shrilldeep, to laughter after laughter. And then laughed more. Greasy I
knows. Exhausted, breathless, their shaken heads they laid, braided and
pinnacled by glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!),
panting, sweating (O!), all breathless.
Married to Bloom, to greaseabloom.
—O saints above! miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. I
wished I hadn’t laughed so much. I feel all wet.
—O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing!
And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly.
By Cantwell’s offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi’s virgins, bright of
their oils. Nannetti’s father hawked those things about, wheedling at
doors as I. Religion pays. Must see him for that par. Eat first. I
want. Not yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing. Clockhands
turning. On. Where eat? The Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I
net five guineas with those ads. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet.
The sweets of sin.
Flushed less, still less, goldenly paled.
Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips off one of his
rocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled.
—O, welcome back, miss Douce.
He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays?
—Tiptop.
He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor.
—Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am. Lying out on the
strand all day.
Bronze whiteness.
—That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed
her hand indulgently. Tempting poor simple males.
Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.
—O go away! she said. You’re very simple, I don’t think.
He was.
—Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they
christened me simple Simon.
—You must have been a doaty, miss Douce made answer. And what did the
doctor order today?
—Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I’ll trouble
you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.
Jingle.
—With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed.
With grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane’s
she turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold whisky from
her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalus brought
pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky
fifenotes.
—By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must be
a great tonic in the air down there. But a long threatening comes at
last, they say. Yes. Yes.
Yes. He fingered shreds of hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid’s, into
the bowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute.
None nought said nothing. Yes.
Gaily miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling:
—_O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas!_
—Was Mr Lidwell in today?
In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. Mr Bloom reached Essex
bridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write.
Buy paper. Daly’s. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue bloom is on
the rye.
—He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce said.
Lenehan came forward.
—Was Mr Boylan looking for me?
He asked. She answered:
—Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs?
She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised, her
gaze upon a page:
—No. He was not.
Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the
sandwichbell wound his round body round.
—Peep! Who’s in the corner?
No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made overtures. To mind her
stops. To read only the black ones: round o and crooked ess.
Jingle jaunty jingle.
Girlgold she read and did not glance. Take no notice. She took no
notice while he read by rote a solfa fable for her, plappering flatly:
—Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your
bill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone?
He droned in vain. Miss Douce turned to her tea aside.
He sighed aside:
—Ah me! O my!
He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod.
—Greetings from the famous son of a famous father.
—Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked.
Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who?
—Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask? Stephen, the youthful bard.
Dry.
Mr Dedalus, famous father, laid by his dry filled pipe.
—I see, he said. I didn’t recognise him for the moment. I hear he is
keeping very select company. Have you seen him lately?
He had.
—I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this very day, said Lenehan. In
Mooney’s _en ville_ and in Mooney’s _sur mer._ He had received the
rhino for the labour of his muse.
He smiled at bronze’s teabathed lips, at listening lips and eyes:
—The _élite_ of Erin hung upon his lips. The ponderous pundit, Hugh
MacHugh, Dublin’s most brilliant scribe and editor and that minstrel
boy of the wild wet west who is known by the euphonious appellation of
the O’Madden Burke.
After an interval Mr Dedalus raised his grog and
—That must have been highly diverting, said he. I see.
He see. He drank. With faraway mourning mountain eye. Set down his
glass.
He looked towards the saloon door.
—I see you have moved the piano.
—The tuner was in today, miss Douce replied, tuning it for the smoking
concert and I never heard such an exquisite player.
—Is that a fact?
—Didn’t he, miss Kennedy? The real classical, you know. And blind too,
poor fellow. Not twenty I’m sure he was.
—Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said.
He drank and strayed away.
—So sad to look at his face, miss Douce condoled.
God’s curse on bitch’s bastard.
Tink to her pity cried a diner’s bell. To the door of the bar and
diningroom came bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter of
Ormond. Lager for diner. Lager without alacrity she served.
With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan with impatience, for
jinglejaunty blazes boy.
Upholding the lid he (who?) gazed in the coffin (coffin?) at the
oblique triple (piano!) wires. He pressed (the same who pressed
indulgently her hand), soft pedalling, a triple of keys to see the
thicknesses of felt advancing, to hear the muffled hammerfall in
action.
Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I was in
Wisdom Hely’s wise Bloom in Daly’s Henry Flower bought. Are you not
happy in your home? Flower to console me and a pin cuts lo. Means
something, language of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is.
Respectable girl meet after mass. Thanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloom
eyed on the door a poster, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves.
Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all. Hair streaming: lovelorn. For
some man. For Raoul. He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat
riding on a jaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence.
Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond quay.
Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now. Out.
—Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say.
—Aha... I was forgetting... Excuse...
—And four.
At four she. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhom smiled. Bloo smi qui go.
Ternoon. Think you’re the only pebble on the beach? Does that to all.
For men.
In drowsy silence gold bent on her page.
From the saloon a call came, long in dying. That was a tuningfork the
tuner had that he forgot that he now struck. A call again. That he now
poised that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure, purer, softly
and softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.
Pat paid for diner’s popcorked bottle: and over tumbler, tray and
popcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald and bothered, with miss
Douce.
—_The bright stars fade_...
A voiceless song sang from within, singing:
—... _the morn is breaking._
A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive
hands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording,
called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love’s
leavetaking, life’s, love’s morn.
—_The dewdrops pearl_...
Lenehan’s lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy.
—But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.
Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.
She rose and closed her reading, rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn,
dreamily rose.