He held his
handkerchief
ready for the coming.
James Joyce - Ulysses
It's for an invalid.
--Yes, sir. I will, sir.
Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket.
--What's the damage? he asked.
The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits.
Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet. He took
a red carnation from the tall stemglass.
--This for me? he asked gallantly.
The blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie
a bit crooked, blushing.
--Yes, sir, she said.
Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.
Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the
red flower between his smiling teeth.
--May I say a word to your telephone, missy? he asked roguishly.
* * * * *
_--Ma! _ Almidano Artifoni said.
He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.
Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore,
gripping the handrests. Palefaces. Men's arms frankly round their
stunted forms. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of
the bank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed.
--_Anch'io ho avuto di queste idee, ALMIDANO ARTIFONI SAID, quand' ero
giovine come Lei. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo e una bestia.
E peccato. Perche la sua voce. . . sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via.
Invece, Lei si sacrifica. _
--_Sacrifizio incruento,_ Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in
slow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.
_--Speriamo,_ the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. _Ma, dia retta
a me. Ci rifletta_.
By the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram
unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.
--_Ci riflettero,_ Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg.
--_Ma, sul serio, eh? _ Almidano Artifoni said.
His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Human eyes. They gazed curiously
an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.
_--Eccolo,_ Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. _Venga a trovarmi
e ci pensi. Addio, caro. _
--_Arrivederla, maestro,_ Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand
was freed. _E grazie. _
--_Di che? _ Almidano Artifoni said. _Scusi, eh? Tante belle cose! _
Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal,
trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. In vain he trotted,
signalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling
implements of music through Trinity gates.
* * * * *
Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of _The Woman in White_
far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her
typewriter.
Too much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion?
Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.
The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them:
six.
Miss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:
--16 June 1904.
Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's corner and the slab
where Wolfe Tone's statue was not, eeled themselves turning H. E. L.
Y. 'S and plodded back as they had come.
Then she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming
soubrette, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jotter sixteens and
capital esses. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She's not nicelooking,
is she? The way she's holding up her bit of a skirt. Wonder will that
fellow be at the band tonight. If I could get that dressmaker to make a
concertina skirt like Susy Nagle's. They kick out grand. Shannon and
all the boatclub swells never took his eyes off her. Hope to goodness he
won't keep me here till seven.
The telephone rang rudely by her ear.
--Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring them up after five. Only
those two, sir, for Belfast and Liverpool. All right, sir. Then I can go
after six if you're not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir. Twentyseven and
six. I'll tell him. Yes: one, seven, six.
She scribbled three figures on an envelope.
--Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from SPORT was in looking for you. Mr
Lenehan, yes. He said he'll be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes, sir.
I'll ring them up after five.
* * * * *
Two pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch.
--Who's that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty?
--Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold.
--Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his
pliant lath among the flickering arches. Come on. Mind your steps there.
The vesta in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a long
soft flame and was let fall. At their feet its red speck died: and
mouldy air closed round them.
--How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom.
--Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic
council chamber of saint Mary's abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed
himself a rebel in 1534. This is the most historic spot in all Dublin.
O'Madden Burke is going to write something about it one of these days.
The old bank of Ireland was over the way till the time of the union and
the original jews' temple was here too before they built their synagogue
over in Adelaide road. You were never here before, Jack, were you?
--No, Ned.
--He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, if my memory
serves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court.
--That's right, Ned Lambert said. That's quite right, sir.
--If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to
allow me perhaps. . .
--Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring the camera whenever you like. I'll
get those bags cleared away from the windows. You can take it from here
or from here.
In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the piled
seedbags and points of vantage on the floor.
From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.
--I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won't trespass
on your valuable time. . .
--You're welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next
week, say. Can you see?
--Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met you.
--Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.
He followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away among
the pillars. With J. J. O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's abbey
where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal,
O'Connor, Wexford.
He stood to read the card in his hand.
--The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Present address: Saint
Michael's, Sallins. Nice young chap he is. He's writing a book about the
Fitzgeralds he told me. He's well up in history, faith.
The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging
twig.
--I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O'Molloy said.
Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.
--God! he cried. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare
after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? _I'm bloody
sorry I did it,_ says he, _but I declare to God I thought the archbishop
was inside. _ He mightn't like it, though. What? God, I'll tell him
anyhow. That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they
were all of them, the Geraldines.
The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He
slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:
--Woa, sonny!
He turned to J. J. O'Molloy and asked:
--Well, Jack. What is it? What's the trouble? Wait awhile. Hold hard.
With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an
instant, sneezed loudly.
--Chow! he said. Blast you!
--The dust from those sacks, J. J. O'Molloy said politely.
--No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a. . . cold night before. . . blast
your soul. . . night before last. . . and there was a hell of a lot of
draught. . .
He held his handkerchief ready for the coming. . .
--I was. . . Glasnevin this morning. . . poor little. . . what do you call
him. . . Chow! . . . Mother of Moses!
* * * * *
Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his
claret waistcoat.
--See? he said. Say it's turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.
He slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove, wobbled
a while, ceased, ogling them: six.
Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the
consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying
the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the
admiralty division of king's bench to the court of appeal an elderly
female with false teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirt of
great amplitude.
--See? he said. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over.
The impact. Leverage, see?
He showed them the rising column of disks on the right.
--Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in late
can see what turn is on and what turns are over.
--See? Tom Rochford said.
He slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop:
four. Turn Now On.
--I'll see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and sound him. One good
turn deserves another.
--Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience.
--Goodnight, M'Coy said abruptly. When you two begin
Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.
--But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked.
--Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later.
He followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.
--He's a hero, he said simply.
--I know, M'Coy said. The drain, you mean.
--Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole.
They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming
soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.
Going down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall
Lenehan showed M'Coy how the whole thing was. One of those manholes like
a bloody gaspipe and there was the poor devil stuck down in it, half
choked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest and
all, with the rope round him. And be damned but he got the rope round
the poor devil and the two were hauled up.
--The act of a hero, he said.
At the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past
them for Jervis street.
--This way, he said, walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam's
to see Sceptre's starting price. What's the time by your gold watch and
chain?
M'Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses' sombre office, then at O'Neill's
clock.
--After three, he said. Who's riding her?
--O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is.
While he waited in Temple bar M'Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle
pushes of his toe from the path to the gutter. Fellow might damn easy
get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.
The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal
cavalcade.
--Even money, Lenehan said returning. I knocked against Bantam Lyons
in there going to back a bloody horse someone gave him that hasn't an
earthly. Through here.
They went up the steps and under Merchants' arch. A darkbacked figure
scanned books on the hawker's cart.
--There he is, Lenehan said.
--Wonder what he's buying, M'Coy said, glancing behind.
--_Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye,_ Lenehan said.
--He's dead nuts on sales, M'Coy said. I was with him one day and he
bought a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob. There were
fine plates in it worth double the money, the stars and the moon and
comets with long tails. Astronomy it was about.
Lenehan laughed.
--I'll tell you a damn good one about comets' tails, he said. Come over
in the sun.
They crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the
riverwall.
Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's,
carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.
--There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said
eagerly. The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord
mayor was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan
Dawson spoke and there was music. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin
Dollard. . .
--I know, M'Coy broke in. My missus sang there once.
--Did she? Lenehan said.
A card _Unfurnished Apartments_ reappeared on the windowsash of number 7
Eccles street.
He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.
--But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the
catering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were
there. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to
which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came
solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies. . .
--I know, M'Coy said. The year the missus was there. . .
Lenehan linked his arm warmly.
--But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after
all the jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o'clock the
morning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter's
night on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one
side of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We started singing
glees and duets: _Lo, the early beam of morning_. She was well primed
with a good load of Delahunt's port under her bellyband. Every jolt the
bloody car gave I had her bumping up against me. Hell's delights! She
has a fine pair, God bless her. Like that.
He held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning:
--I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the time.
Know what I mean?
His hands moulded ample curves of air. He shut his eyes tight in
delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips.
--The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She's a gamey
mare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets
in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the great bear and
Hercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was
lost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At last
she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. _And what star is that,
Poldy? _ says she. By God, she had Bloom cornered. _That one, is it? _
says Chris Callinan, _sure that's only what you might call a pinprick. _
By God, he wasn't far wide of the mark.
Lenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft laughter.
--I'm weak, he gasped.
M'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave. Lenehan
walked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead
rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy.
--He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He's not one
of your common or garden. . . you know. . . There's a touch of the artist
about old Bloom.
* * * * *
Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of _The Awful Disclosures of Maria
Monk,_ then of Aristotle's _Masterpiece. _ Crooked botched print. Plates:
infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered
cows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world. All
butting with their skulls to get out of it. Child born every minute
somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.
He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: _Tales of the Ghetto_
by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.
--That I had, he said, pushing it by.
The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.
--Them are two good ones, he said.
Onions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined mouth.
He bent to make a bundle of the other books, hugged them against his
unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain.
On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay
apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c.
Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. _Fair Tyrants_ by James
Lovebirch. Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.
He opened it. Thought so.
A woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: the man.
No: she wouldn't like that much. Got her it once.
He read the other title: _Sweets of Sin_. More in her line. Let us see.
He read where his finger opened.
_--All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on
wondrous gowns and costliest frillies. For him! For raoul! _
Yes. This. Here. Try.
--_Her mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands
felt for the opulent curves inside her deshabille. _
Yes. Take this. The end.
--Yes, sir. I will, sir.
Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket.
--What's the damage? he asked.
The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits.
Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet. He took
a red carnation from the tall stemglass.
--This for me? he asked gallantly.
The blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie
a bit crooked, blushing.
--Yes, sir, she said.
Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.
Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the
red flower between his smiling teeth.
--May I say a word to your telephone, missy? he asked roguishly.
* * * * *
_--Ma! _ Almidano Artifoni said.
He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.
Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore,
gripping the handrests. Palefaces. Men's arms frankly round their
stunted forms. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of
the bank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed.
--_Anch'io ho avuto di queste idee, ALMIDANO ARTIFONI SAID, quand' ero
giovine come Lei. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo e una bestia.
E peccato. Perche la sua voce. . . sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via.
Invece, Lei si sacrifica. _
--_Sacrifizio incruento,_ Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in
slow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.
_--Speriamo,_ the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. _Ma, dia retta
a me. Ci rifletta_.
By the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram
unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.
--_Ci riflettero,_ Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg.
--_Ma, sul serio, eh? _ Almidano Artifoni said.
His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Human eyes. They gazed curiously
an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.
_--Eccolo,_ Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. _Venga a trovarmi
e ci pensi. Addio, caro. _
--_Arrivederla, maestro,_ Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand
was freed. _E grazie. _
--_Di che? _ Almidano Artifoni said. _Scusi, eh? Tante belle cose! _
Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal,
trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. In vain he trotted,
signalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling
implements of music through Trinity gates.
* * * * *
Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of _The Woman in White_
far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her
typewriter.
Too much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion?
Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.
The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them:
six.
Miss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:
--16 June 1904.
Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's corner and the slab
where Wolfe Tone's statue was not, eeled themselves turning H. E. L.
Y. 'S and plodded back as they had come.
Then she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming
soubrette, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jotter sixteens and
capital esses. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She's not nicelooking,
is she? The way she's holding up her bit of a skirt. Wonder will that
fellow be at the band tonight. If I could get that dressmaker to make a
concertina skirt like Susy Nagle's. They kick out grand. Shannon and
all the boatclub swells never took his eyes off her. Hope to goodness he
won't keep me here till seven.
The telephone rang rudely by her ear.
--Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring them up after five. Only
those two, sir, for Belfast and Liverpool. All right, sir. Then I can go
after six if you're not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir. Twentyseven and
six. I'll tell him. Yes: one, seven, six.
She scribbled three figures on an envelope.
--Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from SPORT was in looking for you. Mr
Lenehan, yes. He said he'll be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes, sir.
I'll ring them up after five.
* * * * *
Two pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch.
--Who's that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty?
--Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold.
--Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his
pliant lath among the flickering arches. Come on. Mind your steps there.
The vesta in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a long
soft flame and was let fall. At their feet its red speck died: and
mouldy air closed round them.
--How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom.
--Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic
council chamber of saint Mary's abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed
himself a rebel in 1534. This is the most historic spot in all Dublin.
O'Madden Burke is going to write something about it one of these days.
The old bank of Ireland was over the way till the time of the union and
the original jews' temple was here too before they built their synagogue
over in Adelaide road. You were never here before, Jack, were you?
--No, Ned.
--He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, if my memory
serves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court.
--That's right, Ned Lambert said. That's quite right, sir.
--If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to
allow me perhaps. . .
--Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring the camera whenever you like. I'll
get those bags cleared away from the windows. You can take it from here
or from here.
In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the piled
seedbags and points of vantage on the floor.
From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.
--I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won't trespass
on your valuable time. . .
--You're welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next
week, say. Can you see?
--Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met you.
--Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.
He followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away among
the pillars. With J. J. O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's abbey
where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal,
O'Connor, Wexford.
He stood to read the card in his hand.
--The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Present address: Saint
Michael's, Sallins. Nice young chap he is. He's writing a book about the
Fitzgeralds he told me. He's well up in history, faith.
The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging
twig.
--I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O'Molloy said.
Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.
--God! he cried. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare
after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? _I'm bloody
sorry I did it,_ says he, _but I declare to God I thought the archbishop
was inside. _ He mightn't like it, though. What? God, I'll tell him
anyhow. That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they
were all of them, the Geraldines.
The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He
slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:
--Woa, sonny!
He turned to J. J. O'Molloy and asked:
--Well, Jack. What is it? What's the trouble? Wait awhile. Hold hard.
With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an
instant, sneezed loudly.
--Chow! he said. Blast you!
--The dust from those sacks, J. J. O'Molloy said politely.
--No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a. . . cold night before. . . blast
your soul. . . night before last. . . and there was a hell of a lot of
draught. . .
He held his handkerchief ready for the coming. . .
--I was. . . Glasnevin this morning. . . poor little. . . what do you call
him. . . Chow! . . . Mother of Moses!
* * * * *
Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his
claret waistcoat.
--See? he said. Say it's turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.
He slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove, wobbled
a while, ceased, ogling them: six.
Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the
consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying
the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the
admiralty division of king's bench to the court of appeal an elderly
female with false teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirt of
great amplitude.
--See? he said. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over.
The impact. Leverage, see?
He showed them the rising column of disks on the right.
--Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in late
can see what turn is on and what turns are over.
--See? Tom Rochford said.
He slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop:
four. Turn Now On.
--I'll see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and sound him. One good
turn deserves another.
--Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience.
--Goodnight, M'Coy said abruptly. When you two begin
Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.
--But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked.
--Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later.
He followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.
--He's a hero, he said simply.
--I know, M'Coy said. The drain, you mean.
--Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole.
They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming
soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.
Going down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall
Lenehan showed M'Coy how the whole thing was. One of those manholes like
a bloody gaspipe and there was the poor devil stuck down in it, half
choked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest and
all, with the rope round him. And be damned but he got the rope round
the poor devil and the two were hauled up.
--The act of a hero, he said.
At the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past
them for Jervis street.
--This way, he said, walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam's
to see Sceptre's starting price. What's the time by your gold watch and
chain?
M'Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses' sombre office, then at O'Neill's
clock.
--After three, he said. Who's riding her?
--O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is.
While he waited in Temple bar M'Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle
pushes of his toe from the path to the gutter. Fellow might damn easy
get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.
The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal
cavalcade.
--Even money, Lenehan said returning. I knocked against Bantam Lyons
in there going to back a bloody horse someone gave him that hasn't an
earthly. Through here.
They went up the steps and under Merchants' arch. A darkbacked figure
scanned books on the hawker's cart.
--There he is, Lenehan said.
--Wonder what he's buying, M'Coy said, glancing behind.
--_Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye,_ Lenehan said.
--He's dead nuts on sales, M'Coy said. I was with him one day and he
bought a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob. There were
fine plates in it worth double the money, the stars and the moon and
comets with long tails. Astronomy it was about.
Lenehan laughed.
--I'll tell you a damn good one about comets' tails, he said. Come over
in the sun.
They crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the
riverwall.
Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's,
carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.
--There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said
eagerly. The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord
mayor was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan
Dawson spoke and there was music. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin
Dollard. . .
--I know, M'Coy broke in. My missus sang there once.
--Did she? Lenehan said.
A card _Unfurnished Apartments_ reappeared on the windowsash of number 7
Eccles street.
He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.
--But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the
catering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were
there. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to
which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came
solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies. . .
--I know, M'Coy said. The year the missus was there. . .
Lenehan linked his arm warmly.
--But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after
all the jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o'clock the
morning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter's
night on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one
side of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We started singing
glees and duets: _Lo, the early beam of morning_. She was well primed
with a good load of Delahunt's port under her bellyband. Every jolt the
bloody car gave I had her bumping up against me. Hell's delights! She
has a fine pair, God bless her. Like that.
He held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning:
--I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the time.
Know what I mean?
His hands moulded ample curves of air. He shut his eyes tight in
delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips.
--The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She's a gamey
mare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets
in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the great bear and
Hercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was
lost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At last
she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. _And what star is that,
Poldy? _ says she. By God, she had Bloom cornered. _That one, is it? _
says Chris Callinan, _sure that's only what you might call a pinprick. _
By God, he wasn't far wide of the mark.
Lenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft laughter.
--I'm weak, he gasped.
M'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave. Lenehan
walked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead
rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy.
--He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He's not one
of your common or garden. . . you know. . . There's a touch of the artist
about old Bloom.
* * * * *
Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of _The Awful Disclosures of Maria
Monk,_ then of Aristotle's _Masterpiece. _ Crooked botched print. Plates:
infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered
cows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world. All
butting with their skulls to get out of it. Child born every minute
somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.
He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: _Tales of the Ghetto_
by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.
--That I had, he said, pushing it by.
The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.
--Them are two good ones, he said.
Onions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined mouth.
He bent to make a bundle of the other books, hugged them against his
unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain.
On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay
apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c.
Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. _Fair Tyrants_ by James
Lovebirch. Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.
He opened it. Thought so.
A woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: the man.
No: she wouldn't like that much. Got her it once.
He read the other title: _Sweets of Sin_. More in her line. Let us see.
He read where his finger opened.
_--All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on
wondrous gowns and costliest frillies. For him! For raoul! _
Yes. This. Here. Try.
--_Her mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands
felt for the opulent curves inside her deshabille. _
Yes. Take this. The end.
