Lotus Eaters

BY LORRIES ALONG SIR JOHN ROGERSON'S QUAY MR BLOOM WALKED
soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher's, the postal telegraph office. Could
have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises
of the quayside and walked through Lime street. By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins
lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of
eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if he
smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses! Waiting outside pubs to
bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed
Townsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And
past Nichols' the undertaker's. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher
bagged that job for O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut. Corney. Met her once in the park.
In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom
tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my
tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.

In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and
read the legends of lead-papered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Rather
warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While
his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand
with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning. Under their dropped lids his
eyes found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His
right hand came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the
headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.

So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over again: choice blend, made of the
finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy
leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it
like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing around in the sun, in dolce far niente. Not doing a
hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of the
climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic
gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk
on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that
picture somewhere? Ah, in the dead sea, floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol
open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the
weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of the. Or is it the volume is equal of
the weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints,
teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say
the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second, per second. Law of falling bodies: per second, per
second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the
weight.

He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like
that something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it,
rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg.
Careless air: just drop in to see. Per second, per second. Per second for every second it
means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too
late box. Post here. No-one. In.

He handed the card through the brass grill.

-- Are there any letters for me? he asked.

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers
of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted
rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far last time.

The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked and
glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.

Henry Flower, Esq.
c/o P. O. Westland Row,
City.

Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the
soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap
and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers.
Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to
enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace
to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal
disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front.
Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or
a bobby. A mason, yes.

He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend matters.
His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope,
ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth
the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo perhaps.
Hair? No.

M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when you.

-- Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?

-- Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.

-- How's the body?

-- Fine. How are you?

-- Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.

His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:

-- Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you're...

-- O no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.

-- To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?

A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.

-- E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.

-- I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night. Who was
telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?

-- I know.

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the Grosvenor.
The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stood still, waiting, while the man, husband,
brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar,
warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands in
those patch pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo match. Women all for caste till
you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The
honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out of
her.

-- I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do you call him
Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.

Doran, Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came Hoppy. Having a
wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his veiled eyelids he saw the bright
fawn skin shine in the glare, the braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about
gives long sight perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will she
get up?

-- And he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy? I said. Poor little
Paddy Dignam, he said.

Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces dangling. Well turned
foot. What is he fostering over that change for? Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow
always. Good fallback. Two strings to her bow.

-- Why? I said. What's wrong with him? I said.

Proud: rich: silk stockings.

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a minute.

-- What's wrong with him? he said. He's dead, he said. And, faith, he filled up. Is it Paddy
Dignam? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. I was with him no later than Friday last
or Thursday was it in the Arch. Yes, he said. He's gone. He died on Monday, poor
fellow.

Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and the peri. Always
happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace street hallway. Monday was it settling
her garter. Her friend covering the display of. Esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping
at?

-- Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.

-- One of the best, M'Coy said.

The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich gloved hand on the
steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in the sun: flicker, flick.

-- Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said.

-- O yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:

What is home without
Plumtree's Potted Meat?
Incomplete.
With it an abode of bliss.

-- My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.

Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I'm off that, thanks.

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

-- My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the Ulster hall, Belfast, on
the twentyfifth.

-- That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?

Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and. No book.
Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady and fair man. Cat furry
black ball. Torn strip of envelope.

Love's
Old
Sweet
Song
Comes lo-ve's old...

-- It's a kind of a tour, don't you see? Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Sweet song. There's a
committee formed. Part shares and part profits.

M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.

-- O well, he said. That's good news.

He moved to go.

-- Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

-- Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral, will you? I'd like
to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and
then the coroner and myself would have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in
my name if I'm not there, will you?

-- I'll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That'll be all right.

-- Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could. Well, tolloll. Just C.
P. M'Coy will do.

-- That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.

Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd like my job. Valise I
have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, riveted edges, double action lever
lock. Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard
tidings of it from that good day to this.

Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just got an. Reedy
freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way: for a little ballad. No guts in it.
You and me, don't you know? In the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that
would. Can't he hear the difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain
somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get
worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife.

Wonder is he pimping after me?

Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell
and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's summer sale. No, he's going on straight.
Hello. Leah tonight: Mrs Bandman Palmer. Like to see her in that again. Hamlet she played
last night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide?
Poor papa! How he used to talk about Kate Bateman in that! Outside the Adelphi in London
waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in
Vienna. What is this the right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he
was always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his
fingers on his face.

-- Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his father to die of
grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his father and left the God of his father.

Every word is so deep, Leopold.

Poor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his face. That day! O
dear! O dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was the best for him.

Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the hazard. No use
thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow.

He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing teeth. Their full
buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their
Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses
stuck in nosebags. Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss. Gelded
too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Might be happy all
the same that way. Good poor brutes they look. Still their neigh can be very irritating.

He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Might just
walk into her here. The lane is safer.

He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies, all weathers, all places,
time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non. Like to give them an odd cigarette.
Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. He hummed:

La ci darem la mano
La la lala la la.

He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station
wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he
passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the
timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise
tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed cut a
piece out of his mantel not to wake her. Open it. And once I played marbles when I went to
that old dame's school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the letter
within the newspaper.

A flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed then? What does
she say?

Dear Henry,

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did
not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am awfully angry
with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you naughty boy
because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the real meaning
of that word. Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? I do
wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me. I
often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I
think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much
drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and
tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know
what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not write. O how I long to
meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are
exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling. I have such
a bad headache today and write by return to your longing

MARTHA.

P.S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know.

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in his heart
pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to
strike him down. Then, walking slowly forward, he read the letter again, murmuring here and
there a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't please
poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty
nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it
back in his sidepocket.

Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she write it herself.
Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could meet one
Sunday after the rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running
round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further
next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of-words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow.
A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh? He threw it
on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. Queer the number of pins they
always have. No roses without thorns.

Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked
together in the rain.

O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers.
She didn't know what to do
To keep it up
To keep it up.

It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus
bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife use? Now could you make out a
thing like that?

To keep it up.

Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money.
He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two sluts in the Coombe would
listen.

To keep it up.

Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let
everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one, jar
on her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of the well stonecold
like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the
trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a
sigh: silence. Long long long rest.

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered
them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter then
all sank.

Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple
bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of
Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun
has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million
pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter,
no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes,
exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.

What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.

An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his
head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull
flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy
pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat,
took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband. Damn it. I
might have tried to work M'Coy for a pass to Mullingar.

Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S. J. on saint Peter
Claver and the African mission. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the
heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them. Prayers for
the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The protestants
the same. Convert Dr. William J. Walsh D. D. to the true religion. Buddha their god lying on
his side in the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not
like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock.
Chopsticks? Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguished looking. Sorry I didn't
work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool
but wasn't. They're taught that. He's not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off
him to baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them
sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I
suppose.

The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor
and entered softly by the rere.

Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next some girl.
Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass.
Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads
bowed. A batch knelt at the altar rails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding
the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are
they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next
one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the
time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus. Body.
Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to
chew it; only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse why the cannibals cotton to
it.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek their
places. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and
newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought to have hats modelled on our heads.
They were about him here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting
for it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread:
unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Lollipop. It
does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is
within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family
party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. In
our confraternity. Then come out a big spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe
in it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Old fellow
asleep near that confession box. Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the arms of
Kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next year.

He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an instant before it,
showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin
of his. He wouldn't know what to do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back I. N. R. I.?
No: I. H. S. Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered, it is.
And the other one? Iron nails ran in.

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with a veil and black
bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here with a ribbon round her neck and do
the other thing all the same on the sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's
evidence on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion
every morning. This very church. Peter Carey. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of. Denis
Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home. And plotting that murder all the
time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for them, there's always something
shiftylooking about them. They're not straight men of business either. O no she's not here:
the flower: no, no. By the way did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.

The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly. Wine. Makes it
more aristocratic than for example if he drank what they are used to Guinness's porter or
some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger
ale (aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine: only the other. Cold comfort. Pious
fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along,
cadging for a drink. Queer the whole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.

Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Pity. Who has the
organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make that instrument talk, the vibrato:
fifty pounds a year they say he had in Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the
Stabat Mater of Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ,
but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin
drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I could feel the thrill in the air, the full,
the people looking up:

Quis est homo!

Some of that old sacred music is splendid. Mercadante: seven last words. Mozart's twelfth
mass: the Gloria in that. Those old popes were keen on music, on art and statues and
pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example too. They had a gay old time while it lasted.
Healthy too chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still,
having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is it? Must be
curious to hear after their own strong basses. Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel
anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh don't they? Gluttons, tall, long legs.
Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it.

He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and bless all the people.
All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glanced about him and then stood up,
looking over the risen hats. Stand up at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their
knees again and he sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar,
holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered each other in Latin. Then
the priest knelt down and began to read off a card:

-- O God, our refuge and our strength.

Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them the bone. I
remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Gloria and immaculate virgin. Joseph her
spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful
organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants to. Then I will tell
you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon In their hands. More than doctor or
solicitor. Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And
why did you? Look down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears.
Husband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep.
Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers, incense, candles
melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address
the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they work
the whole show. And don't they rake in the money too? Bequests also: to the P. P. for the
time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly
with open doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in the Fermanagh will case in the
witness box. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything. Liberty and
exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the church: they mapped out the
whole theology of it.

The priest prayed:

-- Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our safeguard against
the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain him, we humbly pray): and do
thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with
him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.

The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women remained behind:
thanksgiving.

Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate perhaps. Pay your
Easter duty.

He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the time. Women
enjoy it. Annoyed if you don't. Why-didn't you tell me before. Never tell you. But we.
Excuse, miss, there's a (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked.
Glimpses of the moon. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south. He
passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door into the light. He
stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl while before him and behind two
worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of Prescott's
dyeworks: a widow in her weeds. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. He covered
himself. How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up.
Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move. Their
green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton Long's, founded in the year of the
flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.

He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I
forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When
was it I got it made up last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it
must have been or the second. O he can look it up in the prescriptions book.

The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have.
Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher's stone. The alchemists. Drugs age you
after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually
changes your character. Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his
alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure you
like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor whack. He ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or
emulsion. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples.
Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus paper red.
Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup
bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you
least expect it. Clever of nature.

-- About a fortnight ago, sir?

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He waited by the counter, inhaling the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges
and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains.

-- Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water...

It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.

-- And white wax also, he said.

Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to her eyes, Spanish,
smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the
best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in
buttermilk. Skinfood. One of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin.
Leopold yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you want a
perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau d'Espagne. That orangeflower. Pure curd
soap. Water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Time to get a bath round the corner.
Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it.
Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine business
with pleasure. Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all day. Funeral be rather glum.

-- Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a bottle?

-- No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and I'll take one of those
soaps. How much are they?

-- Fourpence, sir.

Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.

-- I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.

-- Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you come back.

-- Good, Mr Bloom said.

He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in
his left hand.

At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:

-- Hello, Bloom, what's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute.

Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look younger. He does
look balmy. Younger than I am.

Bantam Lyons' yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a wash too. Take off
the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears' soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp
wants oiling.

-- I want to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons said. Where the
bugger is it?

He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber's itch. Tight collar
he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.

-- You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.

-- Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the second.

-- I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

-- What's that? his sharp voice said.

-- I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away that moment.

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr
Bloom's arms.

-- I'Il risk it, he said. Here, thanks.

He sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut.

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips
of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on
sixpence. Raffle for large tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack
Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They
never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.

He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a mosque, redbaked
bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate
of college park: cyclist doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it
round like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college.
Something to catch the eye.

There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on hands: might take a turn in
there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, sir?

Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around under
sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain
Buller broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair
more in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor.
Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we
trace is dearer than them all.

Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream. This is my
body.

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented
melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed
lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his
bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid
floating flower.