Ulysses
orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle.
_(The sound of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade.)_
THE WATERFALL:
Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.
THE YEWS: _(Mingling their boughs.)_ Listen. Whisper. She is right, our
sister. We grew by Poulaphouca waterfall. We gave shade on languorous
summer days.
JOHN WYSE NOLAN: _(In the background, in Irish National Forester’s
uniform, doffs his plumed hat.)_ Prosper! Give shade on languorous
days, trees of Ireland!
THE YEWS: _(Murmuring.)_ Who came to Poulaphouca with the High School
excursion? Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade?
BLOOM: _(Scared.)_ High School of Poula? Mnemo? Not in full possession
of faculties. Concussion. Run over by tram.
THE ECHO: Sham!
BLOOM: _(Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in nondescript
juvenile grey and black striped suit, too small for him, white tennis
shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a red schoolcap with
badge.)_ I was in my teens, a growing boy. A little then sufficed, a
jolting car, the mingling odours of the ladies’ cloakroom and lavatory,
the throng penned tight on the old Royal stairs (for they love crushes,
instinct of the herd, and the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice),
even a pricelist of their hosiery. And then the heat. There were
sunspots that summer. End of school. And tipsycake. Halcyon days.
_(Halcyon days, high school boys in blue and white football jerseys and
shorts, Master Donald Turnbull, Master Abraham Chatterton, Master Owen
Goldberg, Master Jack Meredith, Master Percy Apjohn, stand in a
clearing of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)_
THE HALCYON DAYS: Mackerel! Live us again. Hurray! _(They cheer.)_
BLOOM: _(Hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered, starred with spent
snowballs, struggles to rise.)_ Again! I feel sixteen! What a lark!
Let’s ring all the bells in Montague street. _(He cheers feebly.)_
Hurray for the High School!
THE ECHO: Fool!
THE YEWS: _(Rustling.)_ She is right, our sister. Whisper. _(Whispered
kisses are heard in all the wood. Faces of hamadryads peep out from the
boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.)_ Who
profaned our silent shade?
THE NYMPH: _(Coyly, through parting fingers.)_ There? In the open air?
THE YEWS: _(Sweeping downward.)_ Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward.
THE WATERFALL:
Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.
THE NYMPH: _(With wide fingers.)_ O, infamy!
BLOOM: I was precocious. Youth. The fauna. I sacrificed to the god of
the forest. The flowers that bloom in the spring. It was pairing time.
Capillary attraction is a natural phenomenon. Lotty Clarke,
flaxenhaired, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains
with poor papa’s operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. She rolled
downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits.
She climbed their crooked tree and I... A saint couldn’t resist it. The
demon possessed me. Besides, who saw?
_(Staggering Bob, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with
humid nostrils through the foliage.)_
STAGGERING BOB: (_Large teardrops rolling from his prominent eyes,
snivels._) Me. Me see.
BLOOM: Simply satisfying a need I... _(With pathos.)_ No girl would
when I went girling. Too ugly. They wouldn’t play...
_(High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes,
plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants.)_
THE NANNYGOAT: _(Bleats.)_ Megeggaggegg! Nannannanny!
BLOOM: _(Hatless, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and
gorsespine.)_ Regularly engaged. Circumstances alter cases. _(He gazes
intently downwards on the water.)_ Thirtytwo head over heels per
second. Press nightmare. Giddy Elijah. Fall from cliff. Sad end of
government printer’s clerk. _(Through silversilent summer air the dummy
of Bloom, rolled in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the Lion’s Head
cliff into the purple waiting waters.)_
THE DUMMYMUMMY: Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg!
_(Far out in the bay between Bailey and Kish lights the_ Erin’s King
_sails, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her funnel towards
the land.)_
COUNCILLOR NANNETTI: _(Alone on deck, in dark alpaca, yellowkitefaced,
his hand in his waistcoat opening, declaims.)_ When my country takes
her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let
my epitaph be written. I have...
BLOOM: Done. Prff!
THE NYMPH: _(Loftily.)_ We immortals, as you saw today, have not such a
place and no hair there either. We are stonecold and pure. We eat
electric light. _(She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing
her forefinger in her mouth.)_ Spoke to me. Heard from behind. How then
could you...?
BLOOM: _(Pawing the heather abjectly.)_ O, I have been a perfect pig.
Enemas too I have administered. One third of a pint of quassia to which
add a tablespoonful of rocksalt. Up the fundament. With Hamilton Long’s
syringe, the ladies’ friend.
THE NYMPH: In my presence. The powderpuff. _(She blushes and makes a
knee.)_ And the rest!
BLOOM: _(Dejected.)_ Yes. _Peccavi!_ I have paid homage on that living
altar where the back changes name. _(With sudden fervour.)_ For why
should the dainty scented jewelled hand, the hand that rules...?
_(Figures wind serpenting in slow woodland pattern around the
treestems, cooeeing.)_
THE VOICE OF KITTY: _(In the thicket.)_ Show us one of them cushions.
THE VOICE OF FLORRY: Here.
_(A grouse wings clumsily through the underwood.)_
THE VOICE OF LYNCH: _(In the thicket.)_ Whew! Piping hot!
THE VOICE OF ZOE: _(From the thicket.)_ Came from a hot place.
THE VOICE OF VIRAG: _(A birdchief, bluestreaked and feathered in war
panoply with his assegai, striding through a crackling canebrake over
beechmast and acorns.)_ Hot! Hot! Ware Sitting Bull!
BLOOM: It overpowers me. The warm impress of her warm form. Even to sit
where a woman has sat, especially with divaricated thighs, as though to
grant the last favours, most especially with previously well uplifted
white sateen coatpans. So womanly, full. It fills me full.
THE WATERFALL:
Phillaphulla Poulaphouca
Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.
THE YEWS: Ssh! Sister, speak!
THE NYMPH: _(Eyeless, in nun’s white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple,
softly, with remote eyes.)_ Tranquilla convent. Sister Agatha. Mount
Carmel. The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. No more desire. _(She
reclines her head, sighing.)_ Only the ethereal. Where dreamy creamy
gull waves o’er the waters dull.
_(Bloom half rises. His back trouserbutton snaps.)_
THE BUTTON: Bip!
_(Two sluts of the Coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly.)_
THE SLUTS:
O, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers
He didn’t know what to do,
To keep it up,
To keep it up.
BLOOM: _(Coldly.)_ You have broken the spell. The last straw. If there
were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? Shy
but willing like an ass pissing.
THE YEWS: _(Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their skinny arms
aging and swaying.)_ Deciduously!
THE NYMPH: _(Her features hardening, gropes in the folds of her
habit.)_ Sacrilege! To attempt my virtue! _(A large moist stain appears
on her robe.)_ Sully my innocence! You are not fit to touch the garment
of a pure woman. _(She clutches again in her robe.)_ Wait. Satan,
you’ll sing no more lovesongs. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. _(She draws a
poniard and, clad in the sheathmail of an elected knight of nine,
strikes at his loins.)_ Nekum!
BLOOM: _(Starts up, seizes her hand.)_ Hoy! Nebrakada! Cat o’ nine
lives! Fair play, madam. No pruningknife. The fox and the grapes, is
it? What do you lack with your barbed wire? Crucifix not thick enough?
_(He clutches her veil.)_ A holy abbot you want or Brophy, the lame
gardener, or the spoutless statue of the watercarrier, or good mother
Alphonsus, eh Reynard?
THE NYMPH: _(With a cry flees from him unveiled, her plaster cast
cracking, a cloud of stench escaping from the cracks.)_ Poli...!
BLOOM: _(Calls after her.)_ As if you didn’t get it on the double
yourselves. No jerks and multiple mucosities all over you. I tried it.
Your strength our weakness. What’s our studfee? What will you pay on
the nail? You fee mendancers on the Riviera, I read. _(The fleeing
nymph raises a keen.)_ Eh? I have sixteen years of black slave labour
behind me. And would a jury give me five shillings alimony tomorrow,
eh? Fool someone else, not me. _(He sniffs.)_ Rut. Onions. Stale.
Sulphur. Grease.
_(The figure of Bella Cohen stands before him.)_
BELLA: You’ll know me the next time.
BLOOM: _(Composed, regards her.) Passée._ Mutton dressed as lamb. Long
in the tooth and superfluous hair. A raw onion the last thing at night
would benefit your complexion. And take some double chin drill. Your
eyes are as vapid as the glasseyes of your stuffed fox. They have the
dimensions of your other features, that’s all. I’m not a triple screw
propeller.
BELLA: _(Contemptuously.)_ You’re not game, in fact. _(Her sowcunt
barks.)_ Fbhracht!
BLOOM: _(Contemptuously.)_ Clean your nailless middle finger first,
your bully’s cold spunk is dripping from your cockscomb. Take a handful
of hay and wipe yourself.
BELLA: I know you, canvasser! Dead cod!
BLOOM: I saw him, kipkeeper! Pox and gleet vendor!
BELLA: _(Turns to the piano.)_ Which of you was playing the dead march
from _Saul?_
ZOE: Me. Mind your cornflowers. _(She darts to the piano and bangs
chords on it with crossed arms.)_ The cat’s ramble through the slag.
_(She glances back.)_ Eh? Who’s making love to my sweeties? _(She darts
back to the table.)_ What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is my own.
_(Kitty, disconcerted, coats her teeth with the silver paper. Bloom
approaches Zoe.)_
BLOOM: _(Gently.)_ Give me back that potato, will you?
ZOE: Forfeits, a fine thing and a superfine thing.
BLOOM: _(With feeling.)_ It is nothing, but still, a relic of poor
mamma.
ZOE:
Give a thing and take it back
God’ll ask you where is that
You’ll say you don’t know
God’ll send you down below.
BLOOM: There is a memory attached to it. I should like to have it.
STEPHEN: To have or not to have that is the question.
ZOE: Here. _(She hauls up a reef of her slip, revealing her bare thigh,
and unrolls the potato from the top of her stocking.)_ Those that hides
knows where to find.
BELLA: _(Frowns.)_ Here. This isn’t a musical peepshow. And don’t you
smash that piano. Who’s paying here?
_(She goes to the pianola. Stephen fumbles in his pocket and, taking
out a banknote by its corner, hands it to her.)_
STEPHEN: _(With exaggerated politeness.)_ This silken purse I made out
of the sow’s ear of the public. Madam, excuse me. If you allow me. _(He
indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom.)_ We are all in the same sweepstake,
Kinch and Lynch. _Dans ce bordel où tenons nostre état_.
LYNCH: _(Calls from the hearth.)_ Dedalus! Give her your blessing for
me.
STEPHEN: _(Hands Bella a coin.)_ Gold. She has it.
BELLA: _(Looks at the money, then at Stephen, then at Zoe, Florry and
Kitty.)_ Do you want three girls? It’s ten shillings here.
STEPHEN: _(Delightedly.)_ A hundred thousand apologies. _(He fumbles
again and takes out and hands her two crowns.)_ Permit, _brevi manu_,
my sight is somewhat troubled.
_(Bella goes to the table to count the money while Stephen talks to
himself in monosyllables. Zoe bends over the table. Kitty leans over
Zoe’s neck. Lynch gets up, rights his cap and, clasping Kitty’s waist,
adds his head to the group.)_
FLORRY: _(Strives heavily to rise.)_ Ow! My foot’s asleep. _(She limps
over to the table. Bloom approaches.)_
BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: _(Chattering and squabbling.)_ The