Ulysses
her pulses tingling. She looked at him a moment, meeting his glance,
and a light broke in upon her. Whitehot passion was in that face,
passion silent as the grave, and it had made her his. At last they were
left alone without the others to pry and pass remarks and she knew he
could be trusted to the death, steadfast, a sterling man, a man of
inflexible honour to his fingertips. His hands and face were working
and a tremour went over her. She leaned back far to look up where the
fireworks were and she caught her knee in her hands so as not to fall
back looking up and there was no-one to see only him and her when she
revealed all her graceful beautifully shaped legs like that, supply
soft and delicately rounded, and she seemed to hear the panting of his
heart, his hoarse breathing, because she knew too about the passion of
men like that, hotblooded, because Bertha Supple told her once in dead
secret and made her swear she’d never about the gentleman lodger that
was staying with them out of the Congested Districts Board that had
pictures cut out of papers of those skirtdancers and highkickers and
she said he used to do something not very nice that you could imagine
sometimes in the bed. But this was altogether different from a thing
like that because there was all the difference because she could almost
feel him draw her face to his and the first quick hot touch of his
handsome lips. Besides there was absolution so long as you didn’t do
the other thing before being married and there ought to be women
priests that would understand without your telling out and Cissy
Caffrey too sometimes had that dreamy kind of dreamy look in her eyes
so that she too, my dear, and Winny Rippingham so mad about actors’
photographs and besides it was on account of that other thing coming on
the way it did.
And Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there was another and she leaned
back and the garters were blue to match on account of the transparent
and they all saw it and they all shouted to look, look, there it was
and she leaned back ever so far to see the fireworks and something
queer was flying through the air, a soft thing, to and fro, dark. And
she saw a long Roman candle going up over the trees, up, up, and, in
the tense hush, they were all breathless with excitement as it went
higher and higher and she had to lean back more and more to look up
after it, high, high, almost out of sight, and her face was suffused
with a divine, an entrancing blush from straining back and he could see
her other things too, nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses the
skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven,
on account of being white and she let him and she saw that he saw and
then it went so high it went out of sight a moment and she was
trembling in every limb from being bent so far back that he had a full
view high up above her knee where no-one ever not even on the swing or
wading and she wasn’t ashamed and he wasn’t either to look in that
immodest way like that because he couldn’t resist the sight of the
wondrous revealment half offered like those skirtdancers behaving so
immodest before gentlemen looking and he kept on looking, looking. She
would fain have cried to him chokingly, held out her snowy slender arms
to him to come, to feel his lips laid on her white brow, the cry of a
young girl’s love, a little strangled cry, wrung from her, that cry
that has rung through the ages. And then a rocket sprang and bang shot
blind blank and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh
of O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a
stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all
greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lovely, O, soft, sweet,
soft!
Then all melted away dewily in the grey air: all was silent. Ah! She
glanced at him as she bent forward quickly, a pathetic little glance of
piteous protest, of shy reproach under which he coloured like a girl.
He was leaning back against the rock behind. Leopold Bloom (for it is
he) stands silent, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes.
What a brute he had been! At it again? A fair unsullied soul had called
to him and, wretch that he was, how had he answered? An utter cad he
had been! He of all men! But there was an infinite store of mercy in
those eyes, for him too a word of pardon even though he had erred and
sinned and wandered. Should a girl tell? No, a thousand times no. That
was their secret, only theirs, alone in the hiding twilight and there
was none to know or tell save the little bat that flew so softly
through the evening to and fro and little bats don’t tell.
Cissy Caffrey whistled, imitating the boys in the football field to
show what a great person she was: and then she cried:
—Gerty! Gerty! We’re going. Come on. We can see from farther up.
Gerty had an idea, one of love’s little ruses. She slipped a hand into
her kerchief pocket and took out the wadding and waved in reply of
course without letting him and then slipped it back. Wonder if he’s too
far to. She rose. Was it goodbye? No. She had to go but they would meet
again, there, and she would dream of that till then, tomorrow, of her
dream of yester eve. She drew herself up to her full height. Their
souls met in a last lingering glance and the eyes that reached her
heart, full of a strange shining, hung enraptured on her sweet
flowerlike face. She half smiled at him wanly, a sweet forgiving smile,
a smile that verged on tears, and then they parted.
Slowly, without looking back she went down the uneven strand to Cissy,
to Edy to Jacky and Tommy Caffrey, to little baby Boardman. It was
darker now and there were stones and bits of wood on the strand and
slippy seaweed. She walked with a certain quiet dignity characteristic
of her but with care and very slowly because—because Gerty MacDowell
was...
Tight boots? No. She’s lame! O!
Mr Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poor girl! That’s why she’s
left on the shelf and the others did a sprint. Thought something was
wrong by the cut of her jib. Jilted beauty. A defect is ten times worse
in a woman. But makes them polite. Glad I didn’t know it when she was
on show. Hot little devil all the same. I wouldn’t mind. Curiosity like
a nun or a negress or a girl with glasses. That squinty one is
delicate. Near her monthlies, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. I
have such a bad headache today. Where did I put the letter? Yes, all
right. All kinds of crazy longings. Licking pennies. Girl in Tranquilla
convent that nun told me liked to smell rock oil. Virgins go mad in the
end I suppose. Sister? How many women in Dublin have it today? Martha,
she. Something in the air. That’s the moon. But then why don’t all
women menstruate at the same time with the same moon, I mean? Depends
on the time they were born I suppose. Or all start scratch then get out
of step. Sometimes Molly and Milly together. Anyhow I got the best of
that. Damned glad I didn’t do it in the bath this morning over her
silly I will punish you letter. Made up for that tramdriver this
morning. That gouger M’Coy stopping me to say nothing. And his wife
engagement in the country valise, voice like a pickaxe. Thankful for
small mercies. Cheap too. Yours for the asking. Because they want it
themselves. Their natural craving. Shoals of them every evening poured
out of offices. Reserve better. Don’t want it they throw it at you.
Catch em alive, O. Pity they can’t see themselves. A dream of
wellfilled hose. Where was that? Ah, yes. Mutoscope pictures in Capel
street: for men only. Peeping Tom. Willy’s hat and what the girls did
with it. Do they snapshot those girls or is it all a fake? _Lingerie_
does it. Felt for the curves inside her _déshabillé._ Excites them also
when they’re. I’m all clean come and dirty me. And they like dressing
one another for the sacrifice. Milly delighted with Molly’s new blouse.
At first. Put them all on to take them all off. Molly. Why I bought her
the violet garters. Us too: the tie he wore, his lovely socks and
turnedup trousers. He wore a pair of gaiters the night that first we
met. His lovely shirt was shining beneath his what? of jet. Say a woman
loses a charm with every pin she takes out. Pinned together. O, Mairy
lost the pin of her. Dressed up to the nines for somebody. Fashion part
of their charm. Just changes when you’re on the track of the secret.
Except the east: Mary, Martha: now as then. No reasonable offer
refused. She wasn’t in a hurry either. Always off to a fellow when they
are. They never forget an appointment. Out on spec probably. They
believe in chance because like themselves. And the others inclined to
give her an odd dig. Girl friends at school, arms round each other’s
necks or with ten fingers locked, kissing and whispering secrets about
nothing in the convent garden. Nuns with whitewashed faces, cool coifs
and their rosaries going up and down, vindictive too for what they
can’t get. Barbed wire. Be sure now and write to me. And I’ll write to
you. Now won’t you? Molly and Josie Powell. Till Mr Right comes along,
then meet once in a blue moon. _Tableau!_ O, look who it is for the
love of God! How are you at all? What have you been doing with
yourself? Kiss and delighted to, kiss, to see you. Picking holes in
each other’s appearance. You’re looking splendid. Sister souls. Showing
their teeth at one another. How many have you left? Wouldn’t lend each
other a pinch of salt.
Ah!
Devils they are when that’s coming on them. Dark devilish appearance.
Molly often told me feel things a ton weight. Scratch the sole of my
foot. O that way! O, that’s exquisite! Feel it myself too. Good to rest
once in a way. Wonder if it’s bad to go with them then. Safe in one
way. Turns milk, makes fiddlestrings snap. Something about withering
plants I read in a garden. Besides they say if the flower withers she
wears she’s a flirt. All are. Daresay she felt I. When you feel like
that you often meet what you feel. Liked me or what? Dress they look
at. Always know a fellow courting: collars and cuffs. Well cocks and
lions do the same and stags. Same time might prefer a tie undone or
something. Trousers? Suppose I when I was? No. Gently does it. Dislike
rough and tumble. Kiss in the dark and never tell. Saw something in me.
Wonder what. Sooner have me as I am than some poet chap with
bearsgrease plastery hair, lovelock over his dexter optic. To aid
gentleman in literary. Ought to attend to my appearance my age. Didn’t
let her see me in profile. Still, you never know. Pretty girls and ugly
men marrying. Beauty and the beast. Besides I can’t be so if Molly.
Took off her hat to show her hair. Wide brim. Bought to hide her face,
meeting someone might know her, bend down or carry a bunch of flowers
to smell. Hair strong in rut. Ten bob I got for Molly’s combings when
we were on the rocks in Holles street. Why not? Suppose he gave her
money. Why not? All a prejudice. She’s worth ten, fifteen, more, a
pound. What? I think so. All that for nothing. Bold hand: Mrs Marion.
Did I forget to write address on that letter like the postcard I sent
to Flynn? And the day I went to Drimmie’s without a necktie. Wrangle
with Molly it was put me off. No, I remember. Richie Goulding: he’s
another. Weighs on his mind. Funny my watch stopped at half past four.
Dust. Shark liver oil they use to clean. Could do it myself. Save. Was
that just when he, she?
O, he did. Into her. She did. Done.
Ah!
Mr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wet shirt. O Lord, that
little limping devil. Begins to feel cold and clammy. Aftereffect not
pleasant. Still you have to get rid of it someway. They don’t care.
Complimented perhaps. Go home to nicey bread and milky and say night