ng her face against
the pane in a halo of hurried breath.
     Her wet lips tittered:
     -- He's killed looking back.
     She laughed:
     -- O wept! Aren't men frightful idiots?
     With sadness.
     Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from  bright  light, twining  a loose hair
behind an  ear. Sauntering  sadly, gold  no more, she twisted twined a hair.
Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.
     -- It's them has the fine times, sadly then she said.
     A man.
     Bloowho went by by Moulang's pipes, bearing in his breast the sweets of
sin, by  Wine's antiques in  memory bearing sweet sinful words, by Carroll's
dusky battered plate, for Raoul.
     The  boots  to  them,  them  in  the bar, them barmaids  came. For them
unheeding him he banged on the counter his tray of chattering china. And
     -- There's your teas, he said.
     Miss  Kennedy with manners transposed the  teatray down to  an upturned
lithia crate, safe from eyes, low.
     -- What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.
     -- Find out, Miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.
     -- Your <i>beau</i>, is it?
     A haughty bronze replied:
     -- I'll  complain to Mrs de Massey on you  if  I hear any more of  your
impertinent insolence.
     -- I mperthnthn thnthnthn, bootsnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated as
she threatened as he had come.
     Bloom.
     On her flower frowning Miss Douce said:
     -- Most aggravating  that young brat is. If he doesn't  conduct himself
I'll wring his ear for him a yard long.
     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 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 shout
in quest.
     --  O! shrieking, Miss Kennedy cried.  Will you ever  forget bis 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  Lorš'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
giggle-giggled. Miss Douce, bending again 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 bronze in gold, they urged each other
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 greaseaseabloom.
     -- 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 about Keyes's 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 not said nothing. Yes.
     Gaily Miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling:
     -- <i>O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas</i>!
     -- 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 fighter, laid by his dry filled pipe.
     -- I see, he said. I didn't recognize 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 <i>en ville</i> and in Mooney's <i>sur mer</i>. He had received the rhino for the
labour of his muse.
     He smiled at bronze's teabathed lips, at listening lips and eyes.
     -- The  <i>šlite</i> 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 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  jingle
jaunty 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 on 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. Tanks 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 jauntingcar. It is. 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.
     -- Two pence, 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. Acall 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.
     -- <i>The bright stars fade</i>...
     A voiceless song sang from within, singing:
     -- ... <i>the morn is breaking</i>.
     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.
     -- <i>The dewdrops pearl</i>...
     Lenehan's lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy.
     -- But look this way, he said, rose of Castille.
     Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.
     She  rose  and  closed her reading, rose  of Castille. Fretted forlorn,
dreamily rose.
     -- Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her.
     She answered, slighting:
     -- Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.
     Like lady, ladylike.
     Blazes Boylan's  smart  tan shoes  creaked  on the  barfloor  where  he
strode. Yes, gold from anear by bronze from afar. Lenehan heard and knew and
hailed him:
     -- See the conquering hero comes.
     Between the  car  and window, warily walking,  went  Bloom, unconquered
hero. See me he might. The  seat he  sat on: warm. Black  wary  hecat walked
towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft saluting.
     -- <i>And I from thee</i>...
     -- I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.
     He  touched to fair Miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw. She smiled
on him. But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her richer hair, a
bosom and a rose.
     Boylan bespoke potions.
     -- What's your  cry? Glass  of bitter? Glass of  bitter, please,  and a
sloegin for me. Wire in yet?
     Not yet. At four he. All said four.
     Cowley's red lugs and Adam's apple in the door of the sheriff's office.
Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting. Wait.
     Hello. Where off to? Something to eat? I too was  just. In here.  What,
Ormond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom. Sit tight there.  See,
not be seen.  I think I'll  join you. Come on. Richie led on. Bloom followed
bag. Dinner fit for a prince.
     Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm, her
bust, that all but burst, so high.
     -- O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. O!
     But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.
     -- Why don't you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.
     Shebronze,  dealing from her  jar  thick syrupy  liquor for  his  lips,
looked as  it flowed (flower in his coat: who gave  him?), and syrupped with
her voice:
     -- Fine goods in small parcels.
     That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.
     -- Here's fortune, Blazes said.
     He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.
     -- Hold on, said Lenehan, till I...
     -- Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.
     -- Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.
     -- I plunged a bit,  said Boylan winking and drinking. Not  on my  own,
you know. Fancy of a friend of mine.
     Lenehan still drank and grinned  at his tilted  ale and at Miss Douce's
lips that all  but  hummed, not  shut,  the oceansong her lips  had trilled.
Idolores. The eastern seas.
     Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way (flower, wonder who gave),
bearing away teatray. Clock clacked.
     Miss Douce took Boylan's  coin,  struck  boldly  the  cashregister.  It
clanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in  the till and
hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack. For me.
     -- What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four?
     O'clock.
     Lenehan,  small  eyes  ahunger on her humming,  bust  ahumming,  tugged
Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve.
     -- Let's hear the time, he said.
     The  bag of  Goulding,  Collis,  Ward  led Bloom  by ryebloom  flowered
tables. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table near
the  door. Be near. At four.  Has he forgotten? Perhaps a  trick.  Not come:
whet appetite. I couldn't do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited.
     Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes.
     -- Go on, pressed Lenehan. There's no-one. He never heard.
     -- ... <i>to Flora's lips did hie</i>.
     High, a high note, pealed in the treble, clear.
     Bronzedouce, communing  with her rose that sank and rose, sought Blazes
Boylan's flower and eyes.
     -- Please, please.
     He pleaded over returning phrases of avowal.
     -- <i>I could not leave thee</i>...
     -- Afterwits, Miss Douce promised coyly.
     -- No, now, urged Lenehan. <i>Sonnezlacloche!</i> O do! There's no-one.
     She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn  out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two kindling
faces watched her bend.
     Quavering the chords strayed from the air,  found it again, lost chord,
and lost and found it faltering.
     -- Go on! Do! <i>Sonnez</i>!
     Bending,  she  nipped a peak of  skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted
them still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.
     -- <i>Sonnez</i>!
     Smack.  She  let free  sudden  in  rebound  her  nipped elastic  garter
smackwarm against her smackable woman's warmhosed thigh.
     -- <i>La cloche!</i> cried gleeful  Lenehan.  Trained  by  owner.  No  sawdust
there.
     She  smilesmirked  supercilious  (wept!  aren't  men?), but,  lightward
gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.
     -- You're the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said.
     Boyland, eyed, eyed. Tossed  to fat lips his chalice, drankoff his tiny
chalice, sucking  the last fat violet syrupy drops.  He spellbound eyes went
after her gliding head as it went down the bar by  mirrors,  gilded arch for
ginger  ale, hock  and  claret glasses  shimmering, a spiky shell,  where it
concerted, mirrored, bronze with sunnier bronze.
     Yes, bronze from anearby.
     -- ... <i>Sweetheart, goodbye!</i>
     -- I'm off, said Boylan with impatience.
     He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.
     --  Wait  a shake, begged Lenehan,  drinking quickly. I  wanted to tell
you. Tom Rochford...
     -- Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going.
     Lenehan gulped to go.
     -- Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I'm coming.
     He  followed  the  hasty  creaking shoes  but stood by  nimbly  by  the
threshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender.
     -- How do you do Mr Dollard?
     -- Eh? How  do? How do? Ben  Dollard's vague bass answered,  turning an
instant  from Father Cowley's  woe. He won't  give you any trouble, Bob. All
Bergan  will speak to the long fellow. We'll put a barleystraw in that Judas
Iscariot's ear this time.
     Sighing,  Mr  Dedalus  came through the saloon,  a finger  soothing  an
eyelid.
     -- Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Come on, Simon, give us a
ditty. We heard the piano.
     Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for  drink orders,  Power for Richie.
And  Bloom? Let me see.  Not  make him walk twice.  His corns. Four now. How
warm this black is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?) heat. Let me see.
Cider. Yes, bottle of cider.
     -- What's that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only vamping, man.
     -- Come on, come on, Ben Dollar called. Begone, dull care. Come, Bob.
     He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them (hold that fellow with the:
hold  him  now) into  the saloon. He  plumped him Dollard on  the stool. His
gouty paws plumped chords. Plumped stopped abrupt.
     Bald Pat in the  doorway met tealess gold returning. Bothered he wanted
Power and cider. Bronze by the window watched, bronze from afar.
     Jingle a tinkle jaunted.
     Bloom heard a jing, a little sound. He's off. Light sob of breath Bloom
sighed on the silent bluehued flowers. Jingling. He's gone. Jingle. Hear.
     -- Love and war, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God be with old times.
     Miss  Douce's  brave  eyes,  unregarded,  turned  from  the crossblind,
smitten  by  sunlight.  Gone.  Pensive  (who knows?), smitten  (the  smiting
light), she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She drew down pensive
(why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze over the  bar  where  bald
stood   by   sister   gold,  inexquisite  contrast,   contrast   inexquisite
nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of shadow, <i>eau de Nil</i>.
     -- Poor old Goodwin was  the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded
them.  There  was  a slight difference  of  opinion  between himself and the
Collard grand.
     There was.
     -- A symposium all  his own, Mr  Dedalus said. The devil wouldn't  stop
him. He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of drink.
     --  God, do  you  remember? Ben bulky  Dollard said,  turning from  the
punished keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment.
     They laughed all three.  He had no  wed. All trio  laughed.  No wedding
garment.
     --  Our  friend  Bloom turned in  handy that  night,  Mr  Dedalus said.
Where's my pipe by the way?
     He  wandered back  to the bar to  the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried
two diners' drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowley laughed again.
     -- I saved the situation, Ben, I think.
     --  You did, averred  Ben Dollard. I remember those tight trousers too.
That was a brilliant idea, Bob.
     Father Cowley  blushed  to  his  brilliant  purply  lobes. He saved the
situa. Tight trou. Brilliant ide.
     -- I knew he was on the rocks, he said.  The wife was playing the piano
in the coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration  and who
was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other business? Do you remember?
We had  to  search all Holles street to find them  till  the chap in Keogh's
gave us the number. Remember?
     Ben remembered, his broad visage wondering.
     -- By God she had some luxurious opera cloaks and things there.
     Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.
     --  Merrion  square  style. Balldresses, by God, and court  dresses. He
wouldn't take any money either. What? Any God's quantity of  cocked hats and
boleros and trunkhose. What?
     -- Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion Bloom has left  off clothes of
all descriptions.
     Jingle haunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres.
     Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right, sir. Right, Pat.
     Mrs Marion met him pike hoses. Smell of burn of Paul de Kock. Nice name
he.
     -- What's this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion.
     -- Tweedy.
     -- Yes. Is she alive?
     -- And kicking.
     -- She was a daughter of...
     -- Daughter of the regiment.
     -- Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.
     Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after.
     -- Irish? I don't know, faith. Is she, Simon?
     Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.
     -- Buccinator muscle is... What?... Bit rusty... O, she is... My  Irish
Molly, O.
     He puffed a pungent plumy blast.
     -- From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.
     They pined  in  depth of ocean shadow,  gold by the beerpull, bronze by
maraschino, thoughtful all two, Mina  Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace, Drumcondra
with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent.
     Pat served uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he
ate with  relish the inner organs,  nutty gizzards,  fried cods'  roes while
Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and  kidney, steak then kidney, bite
by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.
     Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners fit for princes.
     By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty  jingled Blazes  Boylan, bachelor, in sun,
in  heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with  flick  of whip, on bounding tyres:
sprawled,  warmseated,  Boylan impatience,  ardentbold. Horn. Have you  the?
Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn.
     Over  their voices Dollard bassooned  attack,  booming  over bombarding
chords:
     -- <i>When love absorbs my ardent soul</i>...
     Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roof-panes.
     -- War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior.
     -- So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking  of your landlord. Love
or money.
     He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge.
     --  Sure,  you'd burst the tympanum of her  ear, man,  Mr  Dedalus said
through smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.
     In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He would.
     --  Not  to mention  another  membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time,
Ben. <i>Amoroso ma non troppo</i>. Let me there.
     Miss  Kennedy served two  gentlemen  with tankards of  cool  stout. She
passed  a  remark. It was  indeed, first gentleman  said, beautiful weather.
They drank cool stout. Did she know where the lord lieutenant was going? And
heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldn't say. But it would be in the
paper. O,  she needn't trouble. No  trouble.  She waved  about her outspread
<i>Independent</i>,  searching,  the   lord  lieutenant,   her  pinnacles  of  hair
slowmoving, lord lieuten. Too  much trouble, first gentleman said. O, not in
the least. Way he looked that.  Lord  lieutenant. Gold by  bronze heard iron
steel.
     -- ... <i>my ardent soul</i>
     <i>I care not foror the morrow.</i>
     In liver  gravy  Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and war someone is.
Ben Dollard's famous. Night he ran round to us  to borrow a  dress suit  for
that concert. Trousers  tight as  a drum on him. Musical porkers. Molly  did
laugh when  he  went  out. Threw  herself  back  across the bed,  screaming,
kicking.  With all his belongings on show. O, saints above, I'm drenched! O,
the women in the front  row! O, I never laughed  so  many!  Well, of course,
that's  what  gives him  the base barreltone. For  instance  eunuchs. Wonder
who's playing. Nice touch.  Must be Cowley. Musical. Knows whatever note you
play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.
     Miss  Douce, engaging, Lydia  Douce,  bowed to  suave solicitor, George
Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist,  a lady's,
hand  to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back.  To the  old dingdong
again.
     -- Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.
     George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.
     Bloom  ate liv  as said before. Clean here  at least. That chap  in the
Burton,  gummy with gristle.  No-one  here: Goulding  and  I. Clean  tables,
flowers, mitres of  napkins. Pat to  and fro, bald Pat. Nothing  to do. Best
value in Dub.
     Piano again. Cowley  it  is. Way  he  sits in to it, like one together,
mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the  bowend,
sawing  the 'cello, remind you  of toothache. Her high long snore.  Night we
were in the box. Trombone  under  blowing like a grampus,  between the acts,
other  brass  chap  unscrewing,  emptying  spittle.  Conductor's  legs  too,
bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide them.
     Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
     Only the  harp. Lovely gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of a
lovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that once
or  twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their  harps. I.
He. Old. Young.
     -- Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.
     Strongly.
     -- Go on, blast you, Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits
     -- <i>M'appari</i>, Simon, Father Cowley said.
     Down stage he strode some  paces,  grave,  tall in affliction, his long
arms  outheld. Hoarsely  the  apple of his throat hoarsed  softly. Softly he
sang to  a dusty seascape there: <i>A Last Farewell</i>. A headland, a ship, a sail
upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon
the headland, wind around her.
     Cowley sang:
     -- <i>M'appari tutt amor</i>;
     <i>Il mio sguardo l'incontr</i>...
     She waved,  unhearing Cowley,  her veil to one departing,  dear one, to
wind, love, speeding sail, return.
     -- Go on, Simon.
     -- Ah, sure my dancing days are done, Ben... Well...
     Mr  Dedalus laid his pipe  to rest beside  the tuningfork and, sitting,
touched the obedient keys.
     -- No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original One flat.
     The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.
     Up stage strode Father Cowley.
     -- Here, Simon. I'll accompany you, he said. Get up.
     By Graham  Lemon's pineapple  rock, by Elvery's elephant jingle jogged.
Steak,  kidney, liver, mashed at meat fit for princes sat  princes Bloom and
Goulding. Princes at meat they raised and drank Power and cider.
     Most  beautiful tenor air  ever  written,  Richie said: <i>Sonnambula</i>.  He
heard  Joe Maas  sing that one night. Ah,  that  M'Guckin! Yes. In  his way.
Choirboy style. Maas was  the  boy. Massboy.  A lyrical tenor  if you  like.
Never forget it. Never.
     Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the  tightened features strain.
Backache he. Bright's bright  eye.  Next item on  the  programme. Paying the
piper. Pills,  pounded bread,  worth a guinea  a  box.  Stave it off awhile.
Sings too: <i>Down  among the dead men</i>. Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to the.
Not-making much hand  of it. Best  value in.  Characteristic of him.  Power.
Particular about his drink. Flaw in  the glass,  fresh Vartry water. Fecking
matches from counters to save. Then squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs.
And  when he's wanted not a farthing.  Screwed  refusing to  pay  his  fare.
Curious types.
     Never would Richie forget that  night. As long  as he lived,  never. In
the gods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the first note.
     Speech paused on Richie's lips.
     Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies  about damn all. Believes his
own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But want a good memory.
     -- Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.
     -- <i>All is lost now</i>...
     Richie  cocked his  lips  apout. A  low incipient  note  sweet  banshee
murmured all. A  thrush. A throstle.  His breath, birdsweet, good teeth he's
proud of, fluted with  plaintive woe. Is lost.  Rich sound. Two notes in one
there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he twined
and turned them. All most too  new call is lost  in all. Echo. How sweet the
answer. How  is  that  done?  All  lost  now. Mournful  he  whistled.  Fall,
surrender, lost.
     Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the vase.
Order. Yes, I  remember. Lovely air.  In sleep she went to him. Innocence in
the  moon. Still hold her  back. Brave,  don't know their danger. Call name.
Touch water.  Jingle  jaunty. Too late. She longed to go. That's why. Woman.
As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost.
     -- A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.
     Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.
     He knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his  daughter. Wise
child that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?
     Bloom askance over  liverless saw. Face of the  all is lost. Rollicking
Richie  once. Jokes old  stale now.  Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his eye.
Now begging  letters he sends his son  with. Crosseyed Walter sir I did sir.
Wouldn't trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise.
     Piano again.  Sounds better  than  last time  I heard. Tuned  probably.
Stopped again.
     Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it.
     -- With it, Simon.
     -- It, Simon.
     --  Ladies  and  gentlemen, I  am  most  deeply  obliged by  your  kind
solicitations.
     -- It, Simon.
     --  I have  no  money  but  if you will lend  me your attention I shall
endeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down.
     By the sandwichbell in  screening shadow, Lydia her bronze  and rose, a
lady's  grace, gave  and  withheld:  as in  cool glaucous <i>eau de Nil</i> Mina to
tankards two her pinnacles of gold.
     The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord longdrawn, expectant drew
a voice away.
     -- When first I saw that form endearing.
     Richie turned.
     -- Si Dedalus' voice, he said.
     Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that  flow
endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. Bloom signed  to Pat,
bald Pat is a waiter hard  of hearing, to set ajar the  door of the bar. The
door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited, waiting to hear, for
he was hard of hear by the door.
     -- <i>Sorrow from me seemed to depart</i>.
     Through the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves
in  murmur,  like no  voice  of  strings  of  reeds  or  what  doyoucallthem
dulcimers, touching  their still ears with words, still hearts of their each
his  remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow  from them each seemed  to
from both depart when  first they heard.  When first they saw,  lost Richie,
Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the least,
her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word.
     Love that  is  singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the
elastic band of his packet. Love's old sweet <i>sonnez  la</i> gold. Bloom wound  a
skein round four forkfingers, stretched it,  relaxed, and wound it round his
troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast.
     -- <i>Full of hope and all delighted</i>...
     Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at his
feet when will  we meet? My head it simply.  Jingle all delighted.  He can't
sing  for tall hats.  Your head  it  simply swurls.  Perfumed  for him. What
perfume does your wife? I  want  to know. Jing.  Stop.  Knock.  Last look at
mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? How do you? I do
well. There?  What? Or? Phila of  cachous, kissing comfits,  in her satchel.
Yes? Hands felt for the opulent.
     Alas! The voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud.
     -- <i>But alas, 'twas idle dreaming</i>...
     Glorious  tone he  has still. Cork air softer also their  brogue. Silly
man!  Could  have  made oceans of money. Singing  wrong  words. Wore out his
wife:  now sings.  But hard to tell. Only the two  themselves. If he doesn't
break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His  hands and feet sing too. Drink.
Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. Jenny Lind soup: stock, sage,
raw eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy.
     Tenderness  it welled: slow,  swelling.  Full  it throbbed.  That's the
chat. Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect.
     Words? Music? No: it's what's behind.
     Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.
     Bloom. Flood of warm jimjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music
out, in desire, dark to lick flow, invading. Tipping her tepping her tapping
her topping her. Tup.  Pores to  dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the  feel the
warm  the.  Tup. To pour o'er  sluices pouring  gushes.  Flood,  gush, flow,
joygush, tupthrop. Now! Language of love.
     -- ... <i>ray of hope</i>...
     Beaming. Lydia for  Lidwell squeak scarcely  hear  so ladylike the muse
unsqueaked a ray of hope.
     <i>Martha</i> it is.  Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song.  Lovely
name you have. Can't write. Accept my little pres.  Play on her heartstrings
pursestrings too. She's a. I called you naughty boy. Still the name: Martha.
How strange! Today.
     The voice of Lionel  returned,  weaker but  unwearied. It sang again to
Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting, to wait.
How first  he saw that form endearing,  how sorrow seemed to part, how look,
form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart.
     Wish I  could see his face, though. Explain  better. Why the  barber in
Drago's always looked my face when I spoke his face in the glass. Still hear
it better here than in the bar though farther.
     -- <i>Each graceful look</i>...
     First night when first I saw her at  Mat  Dillon's in Terenure. Yellow,
black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her. Fate.
Round and  round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt.  Down she sat.
All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.
     -- <i>Charmed my eye</i>...
     Singing. <i>Waiting</i> she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume of
what perfume does your lilactrees.  Bosom I saw, both full, throat warbling.
First I saw. She thanked  me. Why did  she me?  Fate. Spanishy eyes. Under a
peartree  alone patio this hour  in  old  Madrid one side in  shadow Dolores
shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.
     -- <i>Martha! Ah, Martha!</i>
     Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion  dominant
to love to return with deepening yet  with rising chords of harmony.  In cry
of lionel loneliness that she should know, must Martha feel. For only her he
waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where. Somewhere.
     -- <i>Co-me, thou lost one!</i>
     <i>Co-me thou dear one!</i>
     Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chest note, return.
     -- <i>Come!</i>
     It  soared, a  bird, it held  its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver
orb it leaped serene, speeding,  sustained,  to come, don't spin it out  too
long  long  breath  he breath long  life,  soaring high,  high  resplendent,
aflame, crowned, high in the  effulgence  symbolistic, high, of the ethereal
bosom, high,  of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around
about the all, the endlessnessnessness...
     -- <i>To me!</i>
     Siopold!
     Consumed.
     Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to.  Come.  To  me,  to him, to
her, you too, me, us.
     --   Bravo!   Clapclap.   Goodman,   Simon.   Clappyclapclap.   Encore!
Clapclipclap. Sound  as  a bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap,
said, cried, clapped  all, Ben Dollard, Lydia  Douce,  George Lidwell,  Pat,
Mina, two gentlemen with  two  tankards, Cowley,  first  gent with  tank and
bronze Miss Douce and gold Miss Mina.
     Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the  barfloor, said  before.
Jingle by  monuments of  sir  John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson, reverend
father Theobald  Matthew,  jaunted  as said before just now. Atrot, in heat,
heatseated. <i>Cloche. Sonnez la.  Cloche. Sonnez la</i>. Slower  the  mare went up
the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too slow for Boylan, blazes Boylan,
impatience Boylan, joggled the mare.
     An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the air made richer.
     And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his  cider drank,
Lidwell  his Guinness,  second  gentleman said they  would  partake  of  two
tankards if she did  not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips,
at first, at second. She did not mind.
     -- Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you'd
sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.
     Lionel Simon,  singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played.  Mina Kennedy
served. Second  gentleman  paid. Tom  Kernan  strutted in;  Lydia,  admired,
admired. But Bloom sang dumb.
     Admiring.
     Richie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He remembered
one night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang '<i>Twas rank and fame</i>: in
Ned  Lambert's  'twas. Good God  he never heard in all  his life a note like
that he never did <i>then false one we had better part</i> so clear so God he never
heard <i>since love lives not</i> a clinking voice ask Lambert he can tell you too.
     Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told  Mr  Bloom, face  of the
night, Si in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus' house, sang '<i>Twas rank and fame</i>...
     He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie Goulding, told him,