Al Raschid.
     BELLO  (<i>Gaily</i>.)  Right.  Let them all come.  The scanty, daringly short
skirt, riding up at the knee to show a peep of white pantalette, is a potent
weapon  and  transparent stockings, emeraldgartered, with  the long straight
seam trailing  up  beyond  the  knee, appeal to the  better instincts of the
<i>blasÉ</i> man about town.  Learn the smooth mincing walk  on  four inch Louis XV
heels, the Grecian bend  with provoking croup,  the thighs  fluescent, knees
modestly kissing.  Bring all  your  power of  fascination to  bear  on them.
Pander to their Gomorrahan vices.
     BLOOM  (<i>Bends  his  blushing  face  into  his armpit  and  simpers with
forefinger in mouth</i>.) O, I know what you're hinting at now.
     BELLO What else are  you good  for,  an  impotent  thing like  you? (<i>He
stoops  and, peering, pokes with his fan  rudely  under the fat suetfolds of
Bloom's haunches</i>.) Up! Up! Manx  cat! What have we here? Where's your  curly
teapot gone to or who docked it on you,  cockyolly? Sing, birdy, sing.  It's
as limp as a boy of  six's doing his pooly  behind  a cart. Buy  a bucket or
sell your pump. (<i>Loudly</i>.) Can you do a man's job?
     BLOOM Eccles Street.
     BELLO (<i>Sarcastically</i>.) I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the  world but
there's a man  of  brawn  in possession there. The tables are turned, my gay
young fellow! He is something like  a fullgrown  outdoor man.  Well for you,
you muff, if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts all over it.
He shot his  bolt, I  can  tell  you! Foot to foot, knee to knee,  belly  to
belly, bubs  to breast! He's no eunuch. A shock of red hair  he has sticking
out  of him behind  like  a furzebush!  Wait for nine  months,  my lad! Holy
ginger, it's  kicking and  coughing up and down  in  her guts  already! That
makes  you  wild,  don't  it?  Touches the  spot?  (<i>He spits  in  contempt</i>.)
Spittoon!
     BLOOM I was indecently treated, I... inform the police. Hundred pounds.
Unmentionable. I.
     BELLO Would  if  you could, lame  duck. A downpour  we  want,  not your
drizzle.
     BLOOM To drive me mad! Moll! I forgot! Forgive! Moll!... We... Still...
     BELLO (<i>Ruthlessly</i>.)  No, Leopold Bloom, all is  changed by woman's will
since you  slept  horizontal  in Sleepy Hollow your  night of twenty  years.
Return and see.
     (<i>Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the wold</i>.)
     <I>SLEEPY HOLLOW</I> Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!
     BLOOM  (<i>In tattered  moccasins with a rusty  fowlingpiece,  tip toeing,
fingertipping, his haggard  bony  bearded face peering  through  the diamond
panes, cries out</i>.) I see her! It's she! The first night at Mat Dillon's! But
that dress, the green! And her hair is dyed gold and he.
     BELLO  (<i>Laughs  mockingly</i>.)  That's  your  daughter,  you owl,  with  a
Mullingar student.
     (<i>Milly Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested,  slimsandalled, her bluescab  in
the  seawind  simply swirling, breaks from the arms of  her lover and calls,
her young eyes wonderwide</i>.)
     MILLY My! It's Papli! But. O Papli, how old you've grown!
     BELLO Changed, eh? Our whatnot, our writing table where we never wrote,
Aunt Hegarty's armchair, our classic reprints of old masters. A man  and his
men friends are living there in clover. <i>The Cuckoos' Rest!</i> Why not? How many
women had you, say? Following them up dark streets,  flatfoot, exciting them
by your  smothered grunts.  What,  you male prostitute? Blameless dames with
parcels of groceries. Turn about. Sauce for the goose, my gander, O.
     BLOOM They... I
     BELLO (<i>Cuttingly</i>.) Their  heelmarks  will  stamp the Brusselette carpet
you bought at  Wren's auction. In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find
the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue you carried
home  in the rain for  art for art's  sake. They will violate the secrets of
your bottom drawer. Pages will be torn from  your  handbook  of astronomy to
make them pipespills. And they  will spit in your ten shilling brass  fender
from Hampton Leedom's.
     BLOOM Ten and six. The act of low scoundrels. Let me go. I will return.
I will prove...
     A VOICE Swear!
     (<i>Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, a bowie knife between his
teeth</i>.)
     BELLO  As a paying guest or  a  kept man? Too late.  You have made your
secondbest bed and others  must lie in it. Your epitaph is  written. You are
down and out and don't you forget it, old bean.
     BLOOM Justice! All Ireland versus one! Has nobody... ?
     (<i>He bites his thumb</i>.)
     BELLO Die and be damned  to you  if you  have  any  sense of decency or
grace about you. I can give you a rare old wine that'll send you skipping to
hell and back. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have. If  you have none
see you damn well get it, steal it, rob it! We'll  bury you in our shrubbery
jakes where you'll be dead  and dirty with old Cuck Cohen,  my stepnephew  I
married, the bloody old gouty  procurator  and sodomite with a crick in  his
neck, and my other ten  or eleven  husbands,  what ever the  buggers'  names
were, suffocated in  the one  cess  pool. (<i>He  explodes  in a  loud  phlegmy
laugh</i>.)  We'll  manure  you, Mr Flower! (<i>He pipes  scoffingly</i>.) Byby, Poldy!
Byby, Papli!
     BLOOM  (<i>Clasps his head</i>.) My will power! Memory! I  have sinned! I have
suff... (<i>He weeps tearlessly</i>.)
     BELLO (<i>Sneers</i>.) Crybabby! Crocodile tears!
     (<i>Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the sacrifice, sobs, his face to the
earth. The passing bell is heard. Darkshawled figures of the circumcised, in
sackcloth  and  ashes,  stand by the wailing  wall.  M.  Shulomowitz, Joseph
Goldwater  Moses  Herzog,  Harris  Rosenberg, M.  Moisel, J. Citron,  Minnie
Watchman,  0.  Mastiansky,  the Reverend Leopold  Abramovitz,  Chazen.  With
swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the recreant Bloom</i>.)
     THE CIRCUMCISED (<i>In  a dark  guttural chant as they cast dead sea fruit
upon him, no flowers.) Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad</i>.
     VOICES  (<i>Sighing</i>.)  So he's  gone.  Ah, yes. Yes, indeed.  Bloom? Never
heard of him. No? Queer kind of chap. There's the widow. That so? Ah, yes.
     (<i>From the suttee pyre the  flame of gum camphire  ascends.  The pall of
incense smoke screens and disperses. Out of her oak  frame a nymph with hair
unbound, lightly clad  in teabrown art colours, descends from her grotto and
passing under interlacing yews, stands over Bloom</i>.)
     THE YEWS (<i>Their leaves whispering</i>.) Sister. Our sister. Ssh.
     THE NYMPH (<i>Softly</i>.) Mortal! (<i>Kindly</i>.) Nay, dost not weepest!
     BLOOM (<i>Crawls jellily forward  under the  boughs, streaked by sunlight,
with dignity</i>.) This position. I felt it was expected of me. Force of habit.
     THE NYMPH  Mortal!  You found me  in evil company, high kickers, coster
picnic makers, pugilists, popular  generals,  immoral  panto  boys in  flesh
tights and the nifty shimmy  dancers, La Aurora and Karini, musical act, the
hit of the century. I was hidden in cheap pink paper that smelt of rock oil.
I was surrounded  by the stale smut of clubmen,  stories  to  disturb callow
youth,  ads  for  transparencies,  truedup dice  and  bustpads,  proprietary
articles  and  why  wear a truss  with  testimonial from ruptured gentleman.
Useful hints to the married.
     BLOOM  (<i>Lifts a turtle  head  towards her  lap</i>.) We have met before. On
another star.
     THE NYMPH (<i>Sadly</i>.) Rubber goods.  Neverrip. Brand  as  sup plied to the
aristocracy. Corsets for men.  I cure  fits or  money  refunded. Unsolicited
testimonials  for  Professor  Waldmann's wonderful  chest  exuber.  My  bust
developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo.
     BLOOM You mean <i>Photo Bits?</i>
     THE NYMPH I do. You bore me away,  framed me in oak and  tinsel, set me
above your marriage couch. Unseen,  one  summer eve, you  kissed me  in four
places. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosom and my shame.
     BLOOM  (<i>Humbly kisses her  long hair</i>.)  Your classic  curves, beautiful
immortal.  I was glad  to look  on you, to  praise you,  a  thing of beauty,
almost to pray.
     THE NYMPH During dark nights I heard your praise.
     BLOOM  (<i>Quickly</i>.)  Yes, yes. You mean that I... Sleep reveals the worst
side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. I know  I fell out of my bed or
rather was pushed. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. For the rest there is
that  English  invention,  pamphlet  of  which  I received  some  days  ago,
incorrectly addressed. It claims to afford a noiseless inoffensive vent. (<i>He
sighs</i>.) 'Twas ever thus. Frailty, thy name is marriage.
     THE NYMPH  (<i>Her fingers  in her  ears</i>.)  And words. They are  not in my
dictionary.
     BLOOM You understood them?
     THE YEWS Ssh.
     THE NYMPH (<i>Covers her face with her hand</i>.) What have I not seen in that
chamber? What must my eyes look down on?
     BLOOM (<i>Apologetically</i>.)  I know. Soiled personal  linen, wrong side  up
with care. The quoits are loose. From Gibraltar by long sea, long ago.
     THE NYMPH (<i>Bends her head</i>.) Worse! Worse!
     BLOOM  (<i>Reflects precautiously</i>.) That antiquated commode. It wasn't her
weight. She scaled  just eleven stone nine. She put  on  nine  pounds  after
weaning. It  was a crack and want of glue.  Eh? And that  absurd orangekeyed
utensil which has only one handle.
     (<i>The sound of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade</i>.)
     THE WATERFALL
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.
     THE  YEWS  (<i>Mingling their boughs</i>.) Listen. Whisper. She is  right, our
sister. We grew by Poulaphouca waterfall. We gave shade on languorous summer
days.
     JOHN  WYSE  NOLAN  (<i>In  the  background, in Irish National For  ester's
uniform,  doffs  his plumed hat</i>.)  Prosper! Give shade on  languorous  days,
trees of Ireland!
     THE YEWS  (<i>Murmuring</i>.)  Who  came to Poulaphouca  with the  high school
excursion? Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade?
     BLOOM   (<i>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 school cap with badge</i>.)  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, instincts 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.
     (<i>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</i>.)
     THE HALCYON DAYS Mackerel! Live us again. Hurray!
     (<i>They cheer</i>.)
     BLOOM  (<i>Hobbledehoy,  warmgloved,  mammamufflered,  stunned  with spent
snowballs,  struggles to  rise</i>.) Again! I feel  sixteen! What a lark!  Let's
ring all the bells in  Montague Street. (<i>He cheers feebly</i>.) Hurray  for  the
High School!
     THE ECHO Fool!
     THE  YEWS (<i>Rustling</i>.) She  is  right, our  sister.  Whisper. (<i>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</i>.) Who profaned
our silent shade?
     THE NYMPH (<i>Coyly through parting fingers</i>.) There! In the open air?
     THE YEWS (<i>Sweeping downward</i>.) Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward.
     THE WATERFALL
     Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
     Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.
     THE NYMPH (<i>With wide fingers</i>.) O! Infamy!
     BLOOM I  was precocious.  Youth. The fauns. 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  ill-closed  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?
     (<i>Staggering  Bob, a  whitepolled calf  thrusts  a ruminating head  with
humid nostrils through the foliage</i>.)
     STAGGERING BOB Me. Me see.
     BLOOM Simply satisfying a need. (<i>With pathos</i>.)  No girl  would  when  I
went girling. Too ugly. They wouldn't play.
     (<i>High   on   Ben  Howth  through  rhododendrons  a  nannygoat   passes,
plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping curvants</i>.)
     THE NANNYGOAT (<i>Bleats</i>.) Megegaggegg! Nannannanny!
     BLOOM  (<i>Hatless,  flushed,  covered   with  burn   of  thistledown  and
gotrepine</i>.) Regularly engaged. Circumstances alter cases. (<i>He gazes intently
downwards  on  the  water</i>.)  Thirtytwo head  over  heels  per second.  Press
nightmare. Giddy  Elijah. Fall from cliff.  Sad end  of government printer's
clerk.  (<i>Through  silversilent summer  air the dummy  of Bloom, rolled  in a
mummy, rolls rotatingly from the Lion's  Head  cliff into the purple Waiting
waters</i>.)
     THE DUMMYMUMMY Bbbbblllllbbblblodschbg?
     (<i>Far out in  the  bay  between Bailey and Kish  lights the</i> Erin's  King
<i>sails,  sending a broadening plume of  coalsmoke from her funnel towards the
land</i>.)
     COUNCILLOR  NANNETI (<i>Alone  on deck, in dark alpaca,  yellow kitefaced,
his hand in his  waistcoat  opening,  declaims</i>.) 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 (<i>Loftily</i>.) 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. (<i>She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger
in her mouth</i>.) Spoke to me. Heard from behind. How then could you... ?
     BLOOM  (<i>Pacing the heather abjectly</i>.) 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.  (<i>She  blushes  and makes  a
knee</i>.) And the rest.
     BLOOM (<i>Dejected</i>.) Yes. <i>Peccavi!</i> I have paid homage on that living altar
where  the back  changes name.  (<i>With sudden  fervour</i>.) For  why  should the
dainty scented jewelled hand, the hand that rules... ?
     (<i>Figures wind serpenting in slow woodland pattern around the treestems,
cooeeing</i>.)
     THE VOICE OF KITTY (<i>In the thicket</i>.) Show us one of them cushions.
     THE VOICE OF FLORRY Here.
     (<i>A grouse wings clumsily through the underwood</i>.)
     THE VOICE OF LYNCH (<i>In the thicket.)</i> Whew! Piping hot!
     THE VOICE OF ZOE (<i>From the thicket</i>.) Came from a hot place.
     THE VOICE OF VIRAG  (<i>A  birdchief  bluestreaked and  feathered  in  war
panoply  with  his  assegai,  striding  through a  crackling  canebrake over
beechmast and acorns</i>.) 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 (<i>Eyeless, in nun's white habit, coif  and huge winged wimple,
softly, with remote eyes</i>.) Tranquilia  convent. Sister Agatha. Mount Carmel,
the apparitions of  Knock and Lourdes.  No  more  desire.  (<i>She reclines her
head, sighing</i>.) Only the ethereal.  Where dreamy creamy gull  waves o'er the
waters dull.
     (<i>Bloom half rises. His back trousers button snaps</i>.)
     THE BUTTON Bip!
     (<i>Two sluts of the Coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly</i>.)
     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 (<i>Their silverfoil of leaves  precipitating,  their skinny arms
ageing and swaying</i>.) Deciduously!
     THE NYMPH Sacrilege! To attempt my virtue! (<i>A large moist stain appears
on her robe</i>.) Sully my innocence! You are not fit to touch the garment of  a
pure  woman. (<i>She clutches in her  robe</i>.) Wait, Satan. You'll  sing  no more
lovesongs.  Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. (<i>She draws a poniard and,  clad  in  the
sheathmail of an elected knight of nine, strikes at his loins</i>.) Nekum!
     BLOOM (<i>Starts up, seizes her hand</i>.) Hoy! Nebrakada! Cat of  nine lives!
Fair play, madam. No pruning knife. The fox  and the grapes, is it? What  do
we lack  with your barbed wire? Crucifix not thick  enough? (<i>He clutches her
veil</i>.) 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  (<i>With  a  cry, flees from  him  unveiled,  her plaster  cast
cracking, a cloud of stench escaping from the cracks</i>.) Poli... !
     BLOOM  (<i>Calls after  her</i>.)  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  stud fee? What will  you pay on the nail?
You fee  men  dancers on the Riviera, I read.  (<i>The  fleeing nymph  raises a
keen</i>.) 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.
(<i>He sniffs</i>.) But. Onions. Stale. Sulphur. Grease.
     (<i>The figure of Bella Cohen stands before him</i>.)
     BELLA You'll know me the next time.
     BLOOM (<i>Composed, regards  her.) PassÉe</i>. Mutton dressed as lamb. Lone in
the  tooth and superfluous hairs. 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 glass eyes of your stuffed fox.  They have  the dimensions of
your other features, that's all. I'm not a triple screw propeller.
     BELLA (<i>Contemptuously</i>.)  You're not game, in fact. (<i>Her sowcunt barks</i>.)
Fohracht!
     BLOOM (<i>Contemptuously</i>.) Clean  your nailless middle  finger  first, the
cold spunk of your bully 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 (<i>Turns  to  the piano</i>.) Which of  you was playing the  dead march
from <i>Saul?</i>
     ZOE Me. Mind your cornflowers. (<i>She darts to the piano and bangs chords
on it  with crossed arms</i>.) The cat's ramble  through the slag.  (<i>She glances
back</i>.) Eh? Who's making love to my sweeties? (<i>She darts back  to the table</i>.)
What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own.
     (<i>Kitty  disconcerted  coats her  teeth with  the  silver  paper.  Bloom
approaches Zoe</i>.)
     BLOOM  (<i>Gently</i>.)  Give  me  back that potato, will you? Zoe Forfeits, a
fine thing and a superfine thing.
     BLOOM (<i>With feeling</i>.) 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.  (<i>She hauls up a reef  of her slip, revealing her bare thigh
and unrolls the potato from the top of her stocking</i>.) Those that hides knows
where to find.
     BELLA  (<i>Frowns</i>.)  Here.  This  isn't a musical peepshow. And  don't you
smash that piano. Who's paying here?
     (<i>She goes to the pianola. Stephen fumbles in his pocket and, taking out
a banknote by its corner, hands it to her</i>.)
     STEPHEN (With <i>exaggerated politeness</i>.) This silken purse I made  out of
the  sow's  ear of  the public.  Madam,  excuse  me.  If  you allow  me. (<i>He
indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom</i>.) We are all in the same sweepstake, Kinch
and Lynch. <i>Dans ce bordel oÙ tenons nostre État</i>.
     LYNCH (<i>Calls from the hearth</i>.) Dedalus! Give her your blessing for me.
     STEPHEN (<i>Hands Bella a coin</i>.) Gold. She has it.
     BELLA (<i>Looks at the money,  then at Zoe, Florry and Kitty</i>.) Do you want
three girls? It's ten shillings here.
     STEPHEN (<i>Delightedly</i>.) A hundred  thousand apologies. (<i>He fumbles again
and takes out  and hands her two  crowns</i>.)  Permit, <i>brevi manu</i>,  my sight is
somewhat troubled.
     (<i>Bella  goes to the table  to count the  money  while Stephen talks  to
himself  in monosyllables. Zoe bounds  over  to 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</i>.)
     FLORRY (<i>Strives heavily to rise</i>.) Ow! My foot's asleep. (<i>She limps over
to the table. Bloom approaches</i>.)
     <I>BELLA,  ZOE. KITTY,  LYNCH,  BLOOM</I>  (<i>Chattering  and  squabbling</i>.)  The
gentleman... ten shillings... paying for the three allow me a moment... this
gentleman  pays  separate  who's  touching  it?...  ow...  mind  who  you're
pinching... are you staying the night  or a short time? who did?... you're a
liar,  excuse me... the  gentle man paid  down like a gentleman...  drink...
it's long after eleven.
     STEPHEN (<i>At the  pianola, making a gesture  of abhorrence</i>.) No bottles!
What, eleven? A riddle.
     ZOE (<i>Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the top
of her stocking</i>.) Hard earned on the flat of my back.
     LYNCH (<i>Lifting Kitty from the table</i>.) Come!
     KITTY Wait. (<i>She clutches the two crowns</i>.)
     FLORRY And me?
     LYNCH Hoopla!  (<i>He lifts  her  carries  her  and bumps her  down on the
sofa</i>.)
     STEPHEN The fox crew, the cocks flew, The bells in heaven Were striking
eleven. 'Tis time for her poor soul To get out of heaven.
     BLOOM  (<i>Quietly lays a half  sovereign on the table  between Bella  and
Florry</i>.) So. Allow me. (<i>He takes up  the pound note</i>.) Three times ten. We're
square.
     BELLA (<i>Admiringly</i>.) You're such  a slyboots, old  cocky. I  could  kiss
you.
     ZOE (<i>Points</i>.) Hum? Deep as a drawwell. (<i>Lynch bends Kitty back over the
sofa and kisses her. Bloom goes with the poundnote to Stephen</i>.)
     BLOOM This is yours.
     STEPHEN  How  is that? <i>Le distrait</i>  or absentminded beggar. (<i>He fumbles
again in his pocket and draws out a handful of coins. An object falls</i>.) That
fell.
     BLOOM (<i>Stooping, picks up and hands a box of matches</i>.) This.
     STEPHEN Lucifer. Thanks.
     BLOOM (<i>Quietly</i>.) You had better hand over that cash to me to take  care
of. Why pay more?
     STEPHEN (<i>Hands him all his coins</i>.) Be just before you are generous.
     BLOOM I will but is it wise? (<i>He counts</i>.) One, seven, eleven, and five.
Six. Eleven. I don't answer for what you may have lost.
     STEPHEN  Why  striking eleven?  Proparoxyton. Moment  before  the  next
Lessing  says. Thirsty fox. (<i>He  laughs  loudly</i>.)  Burying  his grandmother.
Probably he killed her.
     BLOOM That is one pound six and eleven. One pound seven, say.
     STEPHEN Doesn't matter a rambling damn.
     BLOOM No, but...
     STEPHEN (<i>Comes  to  the  table</i>.)  Cigarette,  please. (<i>Lynch  tosses  a
cigarette  from the sofa to the table</i>.) And so Georgina Johnson is  dead and
married. (<i>A  cigarette appears on  the table. Stephen looks at  it</i>.) Wonder.
Parlour  magic. Married. Hm. (<i>He strikes a  match  and proceeds to light the
cigarette with enigmatic melancholy</i>.)
     LYNCH (Watching him.) You would have a  better chance of lighting it if
you held the match nearer.
     STEPHEN (<i>Brings the  match nearer his eye</i>.) Lynx eye. Must get glasses.
Broke them yesterday.  Sixteen years ago. Distance.  The  eye sees all flat.
(<i>He draws the match away. It goes out</i>.) Brain thinks. Near: far. Ineluctable
modality of the visible.  (<i>He  frowns  mysteriously</i>.) Hm. Sphinx.  The beast
that has two backs at midnight. Married.
     ZOE It was  a commercial  traveller married her and  took her away with
him.
     FLORRY (<i>Nods</i>.) Mr Lambe from London.
     STEPHEN Lamb of London, who takest away the sins of our world.
     LYNCH (<i>Embracing Kitty on  the sofa, chants deeply.) Dona  nobis pacem</i>.
(<i>The cigarette slips from Stephens fingers. Bloom picks it up  and throws it
into the grate</i>.)
     BLOOM Don't  smoke. You ought to eat. Cursed dog  I  met. (<i>To Zoe</i>.) You
have nothing?
     ZOE Is he hungry?
     STEPHEN (<i>Extends his  hand to her smiling and chants to  the air of the
bloodoath in the</i> Dusk of the Gods.)
     Hangende Hunger,
     Fragende Frau,
     Macht uns alle kaput.
     ZOE (<i>Tragically</i>.) Hamlet, I am thy  father's  gimlet!  (<i>She  takes  his
hand</i>.) Blue eyed beauty, I'll read your hand. (<i>She  points to his forehead</i>.)
No  wit,  no wrinkles. (<i>She  counts</i>.)  Two,  three,  Mars,  that's  courage.
(<i>Stephen shakes his head</i>.) No kid.
     LYNCH  Sheet  lightning courage.  The  youth who  could  not shiver and
shake. (<i>To Zoe</i>.) Who taught you palmistry?
     ZOE (<i>Turns</i>.) Ask my ballocks that I haven't got. (<i>To Stephen</i>.) I see it
in your face. The eye, like that. (<i>She frowns with lowered head</i>.)
     LYNCH (<i>Laughing, slaps Kitty behind twice</i>.) Like that. Pandy bat.
     (<i>Twice loudly a  pandybat cracks, the coffin of the pianola flies open,
the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of Father Dolan springs up</i>.)
     FATHER DOLAN Any boy want flogging? Broke his glasses? Lazy idle little
schemer. See it in your eye.
     (<i>Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the head of Don John  Conmee rises
from the pianola coffin</i>.)
     DON JOHN CONMEE Now, Father Dolan! Now. I'm sure that Stephen is a very
good little boy.
     ZOE (<i>Examining Stephen's palm</i>.) Woman's hand.
     STEPHEN (<i>Murmurs</i>.) Continue. Lie.  Hold me. Caress. I never could  read
His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on the haddock.
     ZOE What day were you born?
     STEPHEN Thursday. Today.
     ZOE  Thursday's  child  has far to go. (<i>She traces lines  on his hand</i>.)
Line of fate. Influential friends.
     FLORRY (<i>Pointing</i>.) Imagination.
     ZOE  Mount of the  moon. You'll meet with a... (<i>She peers at his  hands
abruptly</i>.) I won't tell you what's not good for you. Or do you want to know?
     BLOOM  (<i>Detaches her fingers and offers his palm</i>.) More harm than good.
Here. Read mine.
     BELLA Show. (<i>She turns up Bloom's hand</i>.) I thought so. Knobby knuckles,
for the women.
     ZOE (<i>Peering  at Bloom's  palm</i>.)  Gridiron. Travels beyond  the sea and
marry money.
     BLOOM Wrong.
     ZOE  (<i>Quickly</i>.) O, I see. Short little finger.  Henpecked husband. That
wrong?
     (<i>Black  Liz,  a  huge rooster  hatching  in a  chalked  circle,  rises,
stretches her wings and clucks</i>.)
     BLACK LIZ Gara. Klook. Klook. Klook.
     (<i>She sidles from her newlaid egg and waddles off</i>.)
     BLOOM (<i>Points  to his  hand</i>.) That weal there is  an accident. Fell and
cut it twenty-two years ago. I was sixteen.
     ZOE I see, says the blind man. Tell us news.
     STEPHEN See?  Moves to  one great  goal. I  am twenty two too.  Sixteen
years ago I twentytwo tumbled, twentytwo  years ago  he sixteen fell off his
hobbyhorse. (<i>He winces</i>.) Hurt my hand somewhere. Must see a dentist. Money?
     (<i>Zoe  whispers  to  Florry.  They  giggle. Bloom releases  his hand and
writes idly on the table in backhand, pencilling slow curves</i>.)
     FLORRY What?
     (<i>A   hackneycar  number   three  hundred   and   twentyfour,   with   a
gallantbuttocked mare,  driven by James  Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook,
trots past.  Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the  sideseats. The
Ormond  boots  crouches behind on the axle. Sadly over  the crossblind Lydia
Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze</i>.)
     THE BOOTS (<i>Jogging, mocks them with  thumb and wriggling  wormfingers.</i>)
Haw, haw, have you the horn?
     (<i>Bronze by gold they whisper</i>.)
     ZOE (<i>To Florry</i>.) Whisper.
     (<i>They whisper again.)
     (Over  the well  of the car Blazes Boylan  leans, his  boater straw set
sideways, a red flower in his mouth. Lenehan, in a yachtsman's cap and white
shoes, officiously detaches a long hair from Blazes Boylan s shoulder</i>.)
     LENEHAN  Ho! What do I here behold? Were you brushing the cobwebs off a
few quims?
     BOYLAN (<i>Seated, smiles</i>.) Plucking a turkey.
     LENEHAN A good night's work.
     BOYLAN (<i>Holding up four thick bluntungulated  fingers,  winks</i>.)  Blazes
Kate!  Up to sample or  your  money back. (<i>He holds out a forefinger</i>.) Smell
that.
     LENEHAN (<i>Smells gleefully</i>.) Ah! Lobster and mayonnaise. Ah!
     ZOE AND FLORRY (<i>Laugh together</i>.) Ha ha ha ha.
     BOYLAN  <i>bumps surely from the car and calls  loudly  for all to hear</i>. )
Hello, Bloom! Mrs Bloom up yet?
     BLOOM (<i>In a flunkey's plum plush  coat and kneebreeches, buff stockings
and powdered wig</i>.) I'm afraid not, sir, the last articles...
     BOYLAN (<i>Tosses him  sixpence</i>.) Here, to buy yourself a gin  and splash.
(<i>He hangs his hat smartly on a peg of Bloom's antlered head</i>.) Show me in.  I
have a little private business with your wife. You understand?
     BLOOM Thank you, sir. Yes, sir, Madam Tweedy is in her bath, sir.
     MARION He ought  to  feel himself highly honoured. (<i>She plops splashing
out of  the water</i>.) Raoul, darling, come and dry me. I'm in my pelt. Only my
new hat and a carriage sponge.
     BOYLAN (<i>A merry twinkle in his eye</i>.) Topping!
     BELLA What? What is it?
     (<i>Zoe whispers to her</i>.)
     MARION Let  him look,  the  pishogue! Pimp!  And scourge himself!  I'll
write to a  powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the bearded woman, to raise
weals out  on  him an inch thick and  make  him  bring me back a  signed and
stamped receipt.
     BELLA (<i>Laughing</i>.) Ho ho ho ho.
     BOYLAN (<i>To Bloom,  over  his shoulder</i>.)  You can apply  your eye to the
keyhole and play with yourself while I just go through her a few times.
     BLOOM Thank you, sir, I will, sir. May I bring two men chums to witness
the deed  and  take a snapshot? (<i>He holds an ointment  jar</i>.) Vaseline,  sir?
Orangeflower?... Lukewarm water?...
     KITTY (From the sofa.) Tell us, Florry. Tell us. What.
     (<i>Florry  whispers  to  her.  Whispering  lovewords  murmur  lip-lapping
loudly, poppysmic plopslop</i>.)
     MINA KENNEDY (<i>Her  eyes upturned</i>.)  O, it must  be like  the  scent  of
geraniums and lovely peaches! O, he simply idolises  every bit of her! Stuck
together! Covered with kisses!
     LYDIA DOUCE (<i>Her mouth opening</i>.) Yumyum. O, he's carrying her round the
room doing it! Ride a cock horse. You could hear them in Paris and New York.
Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream.
     KITTY (<i>Laughing</i>.) Hee hee hee.
     BOYLAN'S  VOICE (<i>Sweetly,  hoarsely, in the  pit of  his stomach</i>.)  Ah!
Gooblazqruk brukarchkrasht!
     MARION'S   VOICE   (<i>Hoarsely,   sweetly  rising  to  her  throat</i>.)   O!
Weeshwashtkissima, pooisthnapoohuck!
     BLOOM  (<i>His  eyes wildly  dilated,  clasps  himself</i>) Show! Hide!  Show!
Plough her! More! Shoot!
     BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY. KITTY Ho ho! Ha ha! Hee hee!
     LYNCH (<i>Points</i>.) The mirror up to  nature.  (<i>He laughs</i>.) Hu hu  hu hu hu
hu.
     (<i>Stephen and Bloom gaze in the mirror. The face of William Shakespeare,
beardless,  appears  there,  rigid  in  facial  paralysis,  crowned  by  the
reflection of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the hall</i>.)
     SHAKESPEARE  (<i>In dignified ventriloquy</i>.) 'Tis  the loud  laugh bespeaks
the vacant  mind. (<i>To Bloom</i>.) Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible.
Gaze. (<i>He crows with a black capon's laugh</i>.) Iagogo! How my Oldfellow chokit
his Thursdaymomun. Iagogogo!
     BLOOM (<i>Smiles yellowly at the whores</i>.) When will I hear the joke?
     ZOE Before you're twice married and once a widower.
     BLOOM Lapses are condoned. Even the  great Napoleon, when  measurements
were taken near the skin after his death...
     (<i>Mrs  Dignam,  widow  woman,  her  snubnose  and  cheeks  flushed  with
deathtalk, tears  and  Tunny's  tawny sherry,  hurries  by in her weeds, her
bonnet  awry,  rouging  and powdering her  cheeks,  lips  and  nose,  a  pen
chivvying her brood of cygnets. Beneath her skirt appear  her late husband's
everyday trousers and turnedup  boots,  lace eights.  She  holds  a Scottish
widow's insurance policy and lace marqueeumbrella under which her brood runs
with  her,  Patsy hopping on one  short foot, his collar  loose,  a  hank of
porksteaks dangling, Freddy whimpering, Susy with a crying cods mouth, Alice
struggling with the baby. She cuffs them on, her streamers flaunting aloft</i>.)
     FREDDY Ah, ma, you're dragging me along!
     SUSY Mamma, the beeftea is fizzing over!
     SHAKESPEARE (<i>With paralytic rage</i>.) Weda seca whokilla farst.
     (<i>The  face  of  Martin  Cunningham,  bearded,  refeatures  Shakespeares
beardless face. The marqueeumbrella sways drunkenly, the children run aside.
Under the  umbrella appears  Mrs  Cunningham  in  Merry Widow hat and kimono
gown. She glides sidling and bowing, twisting japanesily</i>.)
     MRS CUNNINGHAM (<i>Sings</i>.) And they call me the jewel of Asia.
     MARTIN CUNNINGHAM
     (<i>Gazes on her impassive</i>.) Immense! Most bloody awful demirep!
     STEPHEN <i>Et  exaltabuntur  cornua  iusti</i>.  Queens lay  with prize bulls.
Remember  Pasiphae  for whose  lust my grandoldgross  father  made the first
confessionbox. Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the
house of Lambert. And Noah was drunk with wine. And his ark was open.
     BELLA None of that here. Come to the wrong shop.
     LYNCH Let him alone. He's back from Paris.
     ZOE (<i>Runs to Stephen and links him</i>.) O go on! Give us some parleyvoo.
     (<i>Stephen  claps  hat  on head and leaps over to the fireplace, where he
stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands  outspread,  a  painted smile on
his face</i>.)
     LYNCH (<i>Pommelling on the sofa</i>.) Rmm Rmm Rmm Rrr rrrmmmmm.
     STEPHEN  (<i>Gobbles,  with  marionette  jerks</i>.  )  Thousand   places   of
entertainment to expenses your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and
other things perhaps  her  heart  beerchops  perfect fashionable house  very
eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about  princesses  like
are dancing cancan  and walking there parisian clowneries extra  foolish for
bachelors foreigns the  same  if talking a poor english how much  smart they
are on things love  and sensations  voluptuous.  Misters very selects for is
pleasure must to visit  heaven and hell show with mortuary  candles and they
tears  silver  which  occur  every  night.  Perfectly  shocking terrific  of
religion's things mockery  seen  in  universal  world. All chic womans which
arrive full  of modesty  then  disrobe and  squeal  loud to see  vampire man
debauch nun very fresh young with <i>dessous  troublants. (He clocks his tongue
loudly.) Ho, la la! Ce pif qu'il a!</i>
     LYNCH <i>Vive le vampire!</i>
     THE WHORES Bravo! Parleyvoo!
     STEPHEN (<i>Grimacing  with  head  back, laughs loudly, clapping  himself</i>)
Great success  of laughing. Angels much prostitutes like  and holy  apostles
big damn ruffians. <i>Demimondaines</i> nicely handsome  sparkling of diamonds very
amiable  cos  turned. Or do you are fond  better what  belongs  they moderns
pleasure turpitude of old mans? (<i>He points about him with grotesque gestures
which Lynch and the whores reply to</i>.) Caoutchouc  statue woman reversible or
lifesize tompeeptoms virgins  nudities very lesbic the kiss five  ten times.
Enter gentlemen to see in  mirrors every positions trapezes all that machine
there besides also if  desire  act awfully bestial butcher's boy pollutes in
warm veal liver or omelette on the belly <i>piÈce de Shakespeare.</i>
     BELLA  (<i>Clapping her belly, sinks  back  on  the sofa  with a shout  of
laughter</i>.) An omelette on the... Ho! ho! ho! ho!... Omelette on the...
     STEPHEN  (<i>Mincingly</i>.)  I love  you, Sir darling.  Speak  you englishman
tongue  for  <i>double  entente  cordiale</i>.  O yes,  <i>mon loup</i>.  How  much  cost?
Waterloo. Watercloset. (<i>He ceases suddenly and holds up a forefinger</i>.)
     BELLA (<i>Laughing</i>.) Omelette...
     THE WHORES (<i>Laughing</i>.) Encore! Encore!
     STEPHEN Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon.
     ZOE Go abroad and love a foreign lady.
     LYNCH Across the world for a wife.
     FLORRY Dreams go by contraries.
     STEPHEN  (<i>Extending  his  arms</i>.)  It was here.  Street of  harlots.  In
Serpentine Avenue  Beelzebub showed me her,  a fubsy widow.  Where's the red
carpet spread?
     BLOOM (<i>Approaching Stephen</i>.) Look.
     STEPHEN No, I  flew.  My foes  beneath  me. And ever  shall  be.  World
without end. (<i>He cries.) Pater!</i> Free!
     BLOOM I say, look...
     STEPHEN Break my spirit, will he? <i>O merde alors! (He cries, his vulture
talons sharpened</i>.) Hola! Hillyho!
     (<i>Simon Dedalus' voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready</i>.)
     SIMON  That's  all  right.  (<i>He  swoops  uncertainly  through  the air,
wheeling, uttering cries of  heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard wings</i>.)
Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with  those halfcastes.
Wouldn't let them within  the bawl of an ass. Head up! Keep our flag flying!
An eagle gules volant  in a field argent displayed. Ulster king at arms! hai
hoop!  (<i>He makes the  beagle's call giving tongue</i>.) Bulbul! Burblblbrurblbl!
Hai, boy!
     (<i>The fronds and spaces of the wallpaper  file rapidly across country. A
stout  fox drawn from covert, brush  pointed, having buried his grandmother,
runs  swift  for the  open,  bright-eyed,  seeking badger  earth,  under the
leaves. The  pack of staghounds follows, nose  to the ground, sniffing their
quarry, beaglebaying,  burblbrblng to be blooded.  Ward  Union huntsmen  and
huntswomen live with them, hot for  a  kill. From Six Mile Point, Flathouse,
Nine  Mile  Stone  follow the  footpeople  with knotty  sticks, salmongaffs,
lassos, flockmasters  with stockwhips, bearbaiters with  tomtoms,  toreadors
with bullswords,  grey negroes  waving  torches. The crowd bowls of  dicers,
crown and anchor players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse
bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly</i>.)
     THE CROWD
     Card of the races. Racing card!
     Ten to one the field!
     Tommy on the clay here!
     Tommy on the clay!
     Ten to one bar one.
     Ten to one bar one.
     Try your luck on spinning Jenny!
     Ten to one bar one!
     Sell the monkey, boys!
     Sell the monkey!
     I'll give ten to one!
     Ten to one bar one!
     (<i>A dark horse,  riderless, bolts  like  a phantom past the winningpost,
his  mane  moonfoaming,  his eyeballs stars. The field follows, a  bunch  of
bucking mounts. Skeleton horses: Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the
Duke of Westminsters Shotover, Repulse, the Duke of Beauforts'  Ceylon, prix
de Paris.  Dwarfs  ride  them, rusty  armoured, leaping,  leaping  in  their
saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain, on a broken-winded isabelle nag, Cock of
the  North, the favourite, honey cap, green  jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett
Deasy  up,  gripping  the  reins,  a hockey  stick at  the  ready.  His nag,
stumbling on whitegaitered feet, jogs along the rocky road</i>.)
     THE  ORANGE LODGES (<i>Jeering</i>.)  Get down and  push,  mister.  Last  lap!
You'll be home the night!
     GARRETT  DEASY  (<i>Bolt  upright,