u04_calypso.xml

<div type="episode" n="04">
<p rend="inset"><lb n="040000"/>II</p>
<p><lb n="040001"/>Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and
<lb n="040002"/>fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart,
<lb n="040003"/>liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked
<lb n="040004"/>grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented
<lb n="040005"/>urine.</p>
<p><lb n="040006"/>Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly,
<lb n="040007"/>righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in
<lb n="040008"/>the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him
<lb n="040009"/>feel a bit peckish.</p>
<p><lb n="040010"/>The coals were reddening.</p>
<p><lb n="040011"/>Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didn't like
<lb n="040012"/>her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob
<lb n="040013"/>and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck
<lb n="040014"/>out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry.</p>
<p><lb n="040015"/>The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.
<lb n="040016"/><said who="cat">―Mkgnao!</said>
<lb n="040017"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―O, there you are,</said> Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.</p>
<p><lb n="040018"/>The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the
<lb n="040019"/>table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my
<lb n="040020"/>head. Prr.</p>
<p><lb n="040021"/>Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to
<lb n="040022"/>see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail,
<lb n="040023"/>the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.
<lb n="040024"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Milk for the pussens,</said> he said.
<lb n="040025"/><said who="cat">―Mrkgnao!</said> the cat cried.</p>
<p><lb n="040026"/>They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we
<lb n="040027"/>understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel.
<lb n="040028"/>Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what I look
<lb n="040029"/>like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.
<lb n="040030"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Afraid of the chickens she is,</said> he said mockingly. <said who="Leopold Bloom">Afraid of the
<lb n="040031"/>chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.</said>
<lb n="040032"/><said who="cat">―Mrkrgnao!</said> the cat said loudly.</p>
<p><lb n="040033"/>She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively
<lb n="040034"/>and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits
<lb n="040035"/>narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the
<lb n="040036"/>dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured
<lb n="040037"/>warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.
<lb n="040038"/><said who="cat">―Gurrhr!</said> she cried, running to lap.</p>
<p><lb n="040039"/>He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped
<lb n="040040"/>three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can't
<lb n="040041"/>mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of
<lb n="040042"/>feelers in the dark, perhaps.</p>
<p><lb n="040043"/>He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with
<lb n="040044"/>this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for a
<lb n="040045"/>mutton kidney at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a
<lb n="040046"/>pork kidney at Dlugacz's. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped slower,
<lb n="040047"/>then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough? To lap
<lb n="040048"/>better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round him. No.</p>
<p><lb n="040049"/>On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused
<lb n="040050"/>by the bedroom door. She might like something tasty. Thin bread and
<lb n="040051"/>butter she likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way.</p>
<p><lb n="040052"/>He said softly in the bare hall:
<lb n="040053"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―I'm going round the corner. Be back in a minute.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040054"/>And when he had heard his voice say it he added:
<lb n="040055"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―You don't want anything for breakfast?</said></p>
<p><lb n="040056"/>A sleepy soft grunt answered:
<lb n="040057"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Mn.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040058"/>No. She didn't want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh,
<lb n="040059"/>softer, as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled.
<lb n="040060"/>Must get those settled really. Pity. All the way from Gibraltar. Forgotten
<lb n="040061"/>any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for it. Old style.
<lb n="040062"/>Ah yes! of course. Bought it at the governor's auction. Got a short knock.
<lb n="040063"/>Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. At Plevna that was. I rose
<lb n="040064"/>from the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it. Still he had brains enough to make
<lb n="040065"/>that corner in stamps. Now that was farseeing.</p>
<p><lb n="040066"/>His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat
<lb n="040067"/>and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback
<lb n="040068"/>pictures. Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too. Course they do. The
<lb n="040069"/>sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade
<lb n="040070"/>ha. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. White slip of paper.
<lb n="040071"/>Quite safe.</p>
<p><lb n="040072"/>On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there.
<lb n="040073"/>In the trousers I left off. Must get it. Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe. No
<lb n="040074"/>use disturbing her. She turned over sleepily that time. He pulled the
<lb n="040075"/>halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over
<lb n="040076"/>the threshold, a limp lid. Looked shut. All right till I come back anyhow.</p>
<p><lb n="040077"/>He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number
<lb n="040078"/>seventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Be a warm
<lb n="040079"/>day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Black conducts,
<lb n="040080"/>reflects, (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldn't go in that light suit. Make a
<lb n="040081"/>picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as he walked in happy warmth.
<lb n="040082"/>Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers
<lb n="040083"/>yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Makes you feel young.
<lb n="040084"/>Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at dawn. Travel round in
<lb n="040085"/>front of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep it up for ever never grow
<lb n="040086"/>a day older technically. Walk along a strand, strange land, come to a city
<lb n="040087"/>gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning on
<lb n="040088"/>a long kind of a spear. Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces
<lb n="040089"/>going by. Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated
<lb n="040090"/>crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink
<lb n="040091"/>water scented with fennel, sherbet. Dander along all day. Might meet a
<lb n="040092"/>robber or two. Well, meet him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the
<lb n="040093"/>mosques among the pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the
<lb n="040094"/>trees, signal, the evening wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A mother
<lb n="040095"/>watches me from her doorway. She calls her children home in their dark
<lb n="040096"/>language. High wall: beyond strings twanged. Night sky, moon, violet,
<lb n="040097"/>colour of Molly's new garters. Strings. Listen. A girl playing one of those
<lb n="040098"/>instruments what do you call them: dulcimers. I pass.</p>
<p><lb n="040099"/>Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read: in the track of
<lb n="040100"/>the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He smiled, pleasing himself. What
<lb n="040101"/>Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the <title type="newspaper">Freeman</title> leader: a
<lb n="040102"/>homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank
<lb n="040103"/>of Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that: homerule sun
<lb n="040104"/>rising up in the northwest.</p>
<p><lb n="040105"/>He approached Larry O'Rourke's. From the cellar grating floated up
<lb n="040106"/>the flabby gush of porter. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out
<lb n="040107"/>whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however: just the end
<lb n="040108"/>of the city traffic. For instance M'Auley's down there: n. g. as position. Of
<lb n="040109"/>course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the
<lb n="040110"/>cattlemarket to the quays value would go up like a shot.</p>
<p><lb n="040111"/>Baldhead over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for
<lb n="040112"/>an ad. Still he knows his own business best. There he is, sure enough, my
<lb n="040113"/>bold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the
<lb n="040114"/>aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. Simon Dedalus takes him
<lb n="040115"/>off to a tee with his eyes screwed up. Do you know what I'm going to tell
<lb n="040116"/>you? What's that, Mr O'Rourke? Do you know what? The Russians,
<lb n="040117"/>they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese.</p>
<p><lb n="040118"/>Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about
<lb n="040119"/>poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke.</p>
<p><lb n="040120"/>Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the
<lb n="040121"/>doorway:
<lb n="040122"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Good day, Mr O'Rourke.</said>
<lb n="040123"/><said who="Larry O'Rourke">―Good day to you.</said>
<lb n="040124"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Lovely weather, sir.</said>
<lb n="040125"/><said who="Larry O'Rourke">―'Tis all that.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040126"/>Where do they get the money? Coming up redheaded curates from
<lb n="040127"/>the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo and
<lb n="040128"/>behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then think of
<lb n="040129"/>the competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin
<lb n="040130"/>without passing a pub. Save it they can't. Off the drunks perhaps. Put down
<lb n="040131"/>three and carry five. What is that, a bob here and there, dribs and drabs.
<lb n="040132"/>On the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with the town
<lb n="040133"/>travellers. Square it you with the boss and we'll split the job, see?</p>
<p><lb n="040134"/>How much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten
<lb n="040135"/>barrels of stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more. Fifteen. He passed
<lb n="040136"/>Saint Joseph's National school. Brats' clamour. Windows open. Fresh air
<lb n="040137"/>helps memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee
<lb n="040138"/>doubleyou. Boys are they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At their
<lb n="040139"/>joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom.</p>
<p><lb n="040140"/>He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the hanks of sausages,
<lb n="040141"/>polonies, black and white. Fifteen multiplied by. The figures whitened in his
<lb n="040142"/>mind, unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links, packed with
<lb n="040143"/>forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath
<lb n="040144"/>of cooked spicy pigs' blood.</p>
<p><lb n="040145"/>A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last. He
<lb n="040146"/>stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it too, calling the
<lb n="040147"/>items from a slip in her hand? Chapped: washingsoda. And a pound and a
<lb n="040148"/>half of Denny's sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips. Woods his
<lb n="040149"/>name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. New blood. No followers
<lb n="040150"/>allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the clothesline. She
<lb n="040151"/>does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack.</p>
<p><lb n="040152"/>The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off
<lb n="040153"/>with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Sound meat there: like a stallfed heifer.</p>
<p><lb n="040154"/>He took a page up from the pile of cut sheets: the model farm at
<lb n="040155"/>Kinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Can become ideal winter
<lb n="040156"/>sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall round it,
<lb n="040157"/>blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting: read it
<lb n="040158"/>nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle, the page rustling. A young
<lb n="040159"/>white heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket, the beasts lowing in their
<lb n="040160"/>pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the breeders in hobnailed boots
<lb n="040161"/>trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter,
<lb n="040162"/>there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their hands. He held the page
<lb n="040163"/>aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his soft subject gaze at rest.
<lb n="040164"/>The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack.</p>
<p><lb n="040165"/>The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her
<lb n="040166"/>prime sausages and made a red grimace.
<lb n="040167"/><said who="porkbutcher">―Now, my miss,</said> he said.</p>
<p><lb n="040168"/>She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.
<lb n="040169"/><said who="porkbutcher">―Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you,
<lb n="040170"/>please?</said></p>
<p><lb n="040171"/>Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and walk behind her if she
<lb n="040172"/>went slowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the
<lb n="040173"/>morning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines. She stood
<lb n="040174"/>outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He sighed
<lb n="040175"/>down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted
<lb n="040176"/>toenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. The sting
<lb n="040177"/>of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For another: a
<lb n="040178"/>constable off duty cuddling her in Eccles lane. They like them sizeable.
<lb n="040179"/>Prime sausage. O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the wood.
<lb n="040180"/><said who="porkbutcher">―Threepence, please.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040181"/>His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket.
<lb n="040182"/>Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on
<lb n="040183"/>the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by
<lb n="040184"/>disc, into the till.
<lb n="040185"/><said who="porkbutcher">―Thank you, sir. Another time.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040186"/>A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his
<lb n="040187"/>gaze after an instant. No: better not: another time.
<lb n="040188"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Good morning,</said> he said, moving away.
<lb n="040189"/><said who="porkbutcher">―Good morning, sir.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040190"/>No sign. Gone. What matter?</p>
<p><lb n="040191"/>He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely. Agendath
<lb n="040192"/>Netaim: planters' company. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish
<lb n="040193"/>government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for shade, fuel and
<lb n="040194"/>construction. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. You
<lb n="040195"/>pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives,
<lb n="040196"/>oranges, almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial
<lb n="040197"/>irrigation. Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered for
<lb n="040198"/>life as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten down and the balance in
<lb n="040199"/>yearly instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15.</p>
<p><lb n="040200"/>Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it.</p>
<p><lb n="040201"/>He looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silverpowdered
<lb n="040202"/>olivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Olives are packed in jars,
<lb n="040203"/>eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows the
<lb n="040204"/>taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too.
<lb n="040205"/>Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky with
<lb n="040206"/>the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in Citron's
<lb n="040207"/>basketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it to the
<lb n="040208"/>nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume.
<lb n="040209"/>Always the same, year after year. They fetched high prices too, Moisel told
<lb n="040210"/>me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. Must be without a
<lb n="040211"/>flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the
<lb n="040212"/>Levant. Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a
<lb n="040213"/>book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. There's
<lb n="040214"/>whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you? Doesn't see. Chap you know just
<lb n="040215"/>to salute bit of a bore. His back is like that Norwegian captain's. Wonder if
<lb n="040216"/>I'll meet him today. Watering cart. To provoke the rain. On earth as it is in
<lb n="040217"/>heaven.</p>
<p><lb n="040218"/>A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far.</p>
<p><lb n="040219"/>No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead
<lb n="040220"/>sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind could lift those
<lb n="040221"/>waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it raining
<lb n="040222"/>down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names. A
<lb n="040223"/>dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the oldest, the first
<lb n="040224"/>race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the
<lb n="040225"/>neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to
<lb n="040226"/>captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. It lay there now. Now
<lb n="040227"/>it could bear no more. Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the
<lb n="040228"/>world.</p>
<p><lb n="040229"/>Desolation.</p>
<p><lb n="040230"/>Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he
<lb n="040231"/>turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his veins,
<lb n="040232"/>chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now.
<lb n="040233"/>Yes, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of the
<lb n="040234"/>bed. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down.
<lb n="040235"/>Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that?
<lb n="040236"/>Valuation is only twentyeight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur:
<lb n="040237"/>parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye. To smell the
<lb n="040238"/>gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample
<lb n="040239"/>bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes.</p>
<p><lb n="040240"/>Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in
<lb n="040241"/>slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a
<lb n="040242"/>girl with gold hair on the wind.</p>
<p><lb n="040243"/>Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stooped and gathered
<lb n="040244"/>them. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened heart slowed at once. Bold hand.
<lb n="040245"/>Mrs Marion.
<lb n="040246"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Poldy!</said></p>
<p><lb n="040247"/>Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through
<lb n="040248"/>warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head.
<lb n="040249"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Who are the letters for?</said></p>
<p><lb n="040250"/>He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly.
<lb n="040251"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―A letter for me from Milly,</said> he said carefully, <said who="Leopold Bloom">and a card to you. And a
<lb n="040252"/>letter for you.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040253"/>He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of
<lb n="040254"/>her knees.
<lb n="040255"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Do you want the blind up?</said></p>
<p><lb n="040256"/>Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her
<lb n="040257"/>glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow.
<lb n="040258"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―That do?</said> he asked, turning.</p>
<p><lb n="040259"/>She was reading the card, propped on her elbow.
<lb n="040260"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―She got the things,</said> she said.</p>
<p><lb n="040261"/>He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back
<lb n="040262"/>slowly with a snug sigh.
<lb n="040263"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Hurry up with that tea,</said> she said. <said who="Molly Bloom">I'm parched.</said>
<lb n="040264"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―The kettle is boiling,</said> he said.</p>
<p><lb n="040265"/>But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled
<lb n="040266"/>linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed.</p>
<p><lb n="040267"/>As he went down the kitchen stairs she called:
<lb n="040268"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Poldy!</said>
<lb n="040269"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―What?</said>
<lb n="040270"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Scald the teapot.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040271"/>On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the spout. He
<lb n="040272"/>scalded and rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting
<lb n="040273"/>the kettle then to let the water flow in. Having set it to draw he took off the
<lb n="040274"/>kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the lump of butter
<lb n="040275"/>slide and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed hungrily
<lb n="040276"/>against him. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Say they won't eat
<lb n="040277"/>pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her and dropped
<lb n="040278"/>the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He sprinkled it through
<lb n="040279"/>his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup.</p>
<p><lb n="040280"/>Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over.
<lb n="040281"/>Thanks: new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: young student: Blazes
<lb n="040282"/>Boylan's seaside girls.</p>
<p><lb n="040283"/>The tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown
<lb n="040284"/>Derby, smiling. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Only five she was then. No, wait:
<lb n="040285"/>four. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Putting pieces of folded
<lb n="040286"/>brown paper in the letterbox for her. He smiled, pouring.</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="040287"/><emph>O, Milly Bloom, you are my darling.
<lb n="040288"/>You are my lookingglass from night to morning.
<lb n="040289"/>I'd rather have you without a farthing
<lb n="040290"/>Than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden.</emph></p>
<p><lb n="040291"/>Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still he was a
<lb n="040292"/>courteous old chap. Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the
<lb n="040293"/>platform. And the little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought it
<lb n="040294"/>into the parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! All we
<lb n="040295"/>laughed. Sex breaking out even then. Pert little piece she was.</p>
<p><lb n="040296"/>He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the
<lb n="040297"/>teapot on the tray. Its hump bumped as he took it up. Everything on it?
<lb n="040298"/>Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes. He carried it upstairs,
<lb n="040299"/>his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.</p>
<p><lb n="040300"/>Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it
<lb n="040301"/>on the chair by the bedhead.
<lb n="040302"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―What a time you were!</said> she said.</p>
<p><lb n="040303"/>She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on
<lb n="040304"/>the pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft
<lb n="040305"/>bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. The warmth of
<lb n="040306"/>her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she
<lb n="040307"/>poured.</p>
<p><lb n="040308"/>A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the
<lb n="040309"/>act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.
<lb n="040310"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Who was the letter from?</said> he asked.</p>
<p><lb n="040311"/>Bold hand. Marion.
<lb n="040312"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―O, Boylan,</said> she said. <said who="Molly Bloom">He's bringing the programme.</said>
<lb n="040313"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―What are you singing?</said>
<lb n="040314"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―<title type="song">Là ci darem</title> with J. C. Doyle,</said> she said, <said who="Molly Bloom">and <title type="song">Love's Old Sweet Song</title>.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040315"/>Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves
<lb n="040316"/>next day. Like foul flowerwater.
<lb n="040317"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Would you like the window open a little?</said></p>
<p><lb n="040318"/>She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking:
<lb n="040319"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―What time is the funeral?</said>
<lb n="040320"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Eleven, I think,</said> he answered. <said who="Leopold Bloom">I didn't see the paper.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040321"/>Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled
<lb n="040322"/>drawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a
<lb n="040323"/>stocking: rumpled, shiny sole.
<lb n="040324"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―No: that book.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040325"/>Other stocking. Her petticoat.
<lb n="040326"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―It must have fell down,</said> she said.</p>
<p><lb n="040327"/>He felt here and there. <foreign xml:lang="it">Voglio e non vorrei.</foreign> Wonder if she pronounces
<lb n="040328"/>that right: <foreign xml:lang="it">voglio</foreign>. Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped and
<lb n="040329"/>lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of the
<lb n="040330"/>orangekeyed chamberpot.
<lb n="040331"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Show here,</said> she said. <said who="Molly Bloom">I put a mark in it. There's a word I wanted to ask
<lb n="040332"/>you.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040333"/>She swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by nothandle and,
<lb n="040334"/>having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to search the text
<lb n="040335"/>with the hairpin till she reached the word.
<lb n="040336"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Met him what?</said> he asked.
<lb n="040337"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Here,</said> she said. <said who="Molly Bloom">What does that mean?</said></p>
<p><lb n="040338"/>He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail.
<lb n="040339"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Metempsychosis?</said>
<lb n="040340"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Yes. Who's he when he's at home?</said>
<lb n="040341"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Metempsychosis,</said> he said, frowning. <said who="Leopold Bloom">It's Greek: from the Greek. That
<lb n="040342"/>means the transmigration of souls.</said>
<lb n="040343"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―O, rocks!</said> she said. <said who="Molly Bloom">Tell us in plain words.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040344"/>He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. The same young
<lb n="040345"/>eyes. The first night after the charades. Dolphin's Barn. He turned over the
<lb n="040346"/>smudged pages. <title type="book">Ruby: the Pride of the Ring.</title> Hello. Illustration. Fierce
<lb n="040347"/>Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor naked.
<lb n="040348"/>Sheet kindly lent. <emph>The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him
<lb n="040349"/>with an oath.</emph> Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals. Trapeze at Hengler's.
<lb n="040350"/>Had to look the other way. Mob gaping. Break your neck and we'll break
<lb n="040351"/>our sides. Families of them. Bone them young so they metamspychosis.
<lb n="040352"/>That we live after death. Our souls. That a man's soul after he dies,
<lb n="040353"/>Dignam's soul ....
<lb n="040354"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Did you finish it?</said> he asked.
<lb n="040355"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Yes,</said> she said. <said who="Molly Bloom">There's nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the first
<lb n="040356"/>fellow all the time?</said>
<lb n="040357"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Never read it. Do you want another?</said>
<lb n="040358"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Nice name he has.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040359"/>She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways.</p>
<p><lb n="040360"/>Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to
<lb n="040361"/>Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that's the word.
<lb n="040362"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Some people believe,</said> he said, <said who="Leopold Bloom">that we go on living in another body after
<lb n="040363"/>death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we all lived
<lb n="040364"/>before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. They say
<lb n="040365"/>we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040366"/>The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Better
<lb n="040367"/>remind her of the word: metempsychosis. An example would be better. An
<lb n="040368"/>example?</p>
<p><lb n="040369"/><title type="artwork">The Bath of the Nymph</title> over the bed. Given away with the Easter
<lb n="040370"/>number of <title type="magazine">Photo Bits</title>: splendid masterpiece in art colours. Tea before you
<lb n="040371"/>put milk in. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Three and six I
<lb n="040372"/>gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed. Naked
<lb n="040373"/>nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the people that lived then.</p>
<p><lb n="040374"/>He turned the pages back.
<lb n="040375"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Metempsychosis,</said> he said, <said who="Leopold Bloom">is what the ancient Greeks called it. They used
<lb n="040376"/>to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for instance. What
<lb n="040377"/>they called nymphs, for example.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040378"/>Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her,
<lb n="040379"/>inhaling through her arched nostrils.
<lb n="040380"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―There's a smell of burn,</said> she said. <said who="Molly Bloom">Did you leave anything on the fire?</said>
<lb n="040381"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―The kidney!</said> he cried suddenly.</p>
<p><lb n="040382"/>He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes
<lb n="040383"/>against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping
<lb n="040384"/>hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork's legs. Pungent smoke shot up
<lb n="040385"/>in an angry jet from a side of the pan. By prodding a prong of the fork
<lb n="040386"/>under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Only a little
<lb n="040387"/>burnt. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy
<lb n="040388"/>trickle over it.</p>
<p><lb n="040389"/>Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf. He
<lb n="040390"/>shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Then he put a forkful into
<lb n="040391"/>his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Done to a
<lb n="040392"/>turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread, sopped one in the
<lb n="040393"/>gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that about some young student
<lb n="040394"/>and a picnic? He creased out the letter at his side, reading it slowly as he
<lb n="040395"/>chewed, sopping another die of bread in the gravy and raising it to his
<lb n="040396"/>mouth.</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="040397"/>Dearest Papli</p>
<p><lb n="040398"/>Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. It suits me
<lb n="040399"/>splendid. Everyone says I am quite the belle in my new tam. I got mummy's
<lb n="040400"/>lovely box of creams and am writing. They are lovely. I am getting on
<lb n="040401"/>swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of me and Mrs.
<lb n="040402"/>Will send when developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair day and all the
<lb n="040403"/>beef to the heels were in. We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a
<lb n="040404"/>few friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to mummy and to yourself
<lb n="040405"/>a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano downstairs. There is to be a
<lb n="040406"/>concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday. There is a young student comes
<lb n="040407"/>here some evenings named Bannon his cousins or something are big swells
<lb n="040408"/>and he sings Boylan's (I was on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's) song
<lb n="040409"/>about those seaside girls. Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. I must
<lb n="040410"/>now close with fondest love
<lb n="040411"/>Your fond daughter
<lb n="040412"/>Milly
<lb n="040413"/>P. S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Byby.
<lb n="040414"/>M.</p>
<p><lb n="040415"/>Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first
<lb n="040416"/>birthday away from home. Separation. Remember the summer morning she
<lb n="040417"/>was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old
<lb n="040418"/>woman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew from
<lb n="040419"/>the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Well, God is good, sir. She knew at
<lb n="040420"/>once. He would be eleven now if he had lived.</p>
<p><lb n="040421"/>His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse bad writing.
<lb n="040422"/>Hurry. Piano downstairs. Coming out of her shell. Row with her in the XL
<lb n="040423"/>Café about the bracelet. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Saucebox.
<lb n="040424"/>He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of
<lb n="040425"/>kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still, she might do worse.
<lb n="040426"/>Musichall stage. Young student. He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash
<lb n="040427"/>down his meal. Then he read the letter again: twice.</p>
<p><lb n="040428"/>O, well: she knows how to mind herself. But if not? No, nothing has
<lb n="040429"/>happened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does. A wild piece of
<lb n="040430"/>goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny. Ripening now.
<lb n="040431"/>Vain: very.</p>
<p><lb n="040432"/>He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window. Day I
<lb n="040433"/>caught her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. Anemic a
<lb n="040434"/>little. Was given milk too long. On the <emph>Erin's King</emph> that day round the Kish.
<lb n="040435"/>Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf loose
<lb n="040436"/>in the wind with her hair.</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="040437"/><emph>All dimpled cheeks and curls,
<lb n="040438"/>Your head it simply swirls.</emph></p>
<p><lb n="040439"/>Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers' pockets, jarvey
<lb n="040440"/>off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. <emph>Swurls</emph>, he says. Pier with
<lb n="040441"/>lamps, summer evening, band.</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="040442"/><emph>Those girls, those girls,
<lb n="040443"/>Those lovely seaside girls.</emph></p>
<p><lb n="040444"/>Milly too. Young kisses: the first. Far away now past. Mrs Marion.
<lb n="040445"/>Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling,
<lb n="040446"/>braiding.</p>
<p><lb n="040447"/>A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will
<lb n="040448"/>happen, yes. Prevent. Useless: can't move. Girl's sweet light lips. Will
<lb n="040449"/>happen too. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move
<lb n="040450"/>now. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey woman's lips.</p>
<p><lb n="040451"/>Better where she is down there: away. Occupy her. Wanted a dog to
<lb n="040452"/>pass the time. Might take a trip down there. August bank holiday, only two
<lb n="040453"/>and six return. Six weeks off, however. Might work a press pass. Or
<lb n="040454"/>through M'Coy.</p>
<p><lb n="040455"/>The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper,
<lb n="040456"/>nosed at it and stalked to the door. She looked back at him, mewing. Wants
<lb n="040457"/>to go out. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Let her wait. Has the
<lb n="040458"/>fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her ear with her back
<lb n="040459"/>to the fire too.</p>
<p><lb n="040460"/>He felt heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his bowels. He stood up,
<lb n="040461"/>undoing the waistband of his trousers. The cat mewed to him.
<lb n="040462"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Miaow!</said> he said in answer. <said who="Leopold Bloom">Wait till I'm ready.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040463"/>Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs to
<lb n="040464"/>the landing.</p>
<p><lb n="040465"/>A paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope no ape comes knocking just
<lb n="040466"/>as I'm.</p>
<p><lb n="040467"/>In the tabledrawer he found an old number of <title type="magazine">Titbits</title>. He folded it
<lb n="040468"/>under his armpit, went to the door and opened it. The cat went up in soft
<lb n="040469"/>bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed.</p>
<p><lb n="040470"/>Listening, he heard her voice:
<lb n="040471"/><said who="Molly Bloom">―Come, come, pussy. Come.</said></p>
<p><lb n="040472"/>He went out through the backdoor into the garden: stood to listen
<lb n="040473"/>towards the next garden. No sound. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry.
<lb n="040474"/>The maid was in the garden. Fine morning.</p>
<p><lb n="040475"/>He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall.
<lb n="040476"/>Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to
<lb n="040477"/>manure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur. All soil
<lb n="040478"/>like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is? The
<lb n="040479"/>hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. Best of
<lb n="040480"/>all though are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes.
<lb n="040481"/>Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes
<lb n="040482"/>too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in that corner there. Lettuce.
<lb n="040483"/>Always have fresh greens then. Still gardens have their drawbacks. That bee
<lb n="040484"/>or bluebottle here Whitmonday.</p>
<p><lb n="040485"/>He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back
<lb n="040486"/>on the peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I don't remember that.
<lb n="040487"/>Hallstand too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters.
<lb n="040488"/>Drago's shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown
<lb n="040489"/>brillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder have
<lb n="040490"/>I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox there got
<lb n="040491"/>away James Stephens, they say. O'Brien.</p>
<p><lb n="040492"/>Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is it? Now, my
<lb n="040493"/>miss. Enthusiast.</p>
<p><lb n="040494"/>He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to
<lb n="040495"/>get these trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head under
<lb n="040496"/>the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash
<lb n="040497"/>and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered
<lb n="040498"/>through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. The king was in his
<lb n="040499"/>countinghouse. Nobody.</p>
<p><lb n="040500"/>Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages
<lb n="040501"/>over on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it
<lb n="040502"/>a bit. Our prize titbit: <title type="short story">Matcham's Masterstroke</title>. Written by Mr Philip
<lb n="040503"/>Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a
<lb n="040504"/>column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three.
<lb n="040505"/>Three pounds, thirteen and six.</p>
<p><lb n="040506"/>Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but
<lb n="040507"/>resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed
<lb n="040508"/>his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently that
<lb n="040509"/>slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not too big bring on
<lb n="040510"/>piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive. One tabloid of cascara sagrada.
<lb n="040511"/>Life might be so. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick
<lb n="040512"/>and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read on, seated calm above
<lb n="040513"/>his own rising smell. Neat certainly. <emph>Matcham often thinks of the
<lb n="040514"/>masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now.</emph> Begins and
<lb n="040515"/>ends morally. <emph>Hand in hand.</emph> Smart. He glanced back through what he had
<lb n="040516"/>read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy
<lb n="040517"/>who had written it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six.</p>
<p><lb n="040518"/>Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story
<lb n="040519"/>for some proverb. Which? Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what
<lb n="040520"/>she said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting
<lb n="040521"/>her nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her. 9.15. Did
<lb n="040522"/>Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What
<lb n="040523"/>possessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. I'm swelled after that cabbage. A
<lb n="040524"/>speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot: rubbing smartly in turn
<lb n="040525"/>each welt against her stockinged calf. Morning after the bazaar dance when
<lb n="040526"/>May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the hours. Explain that: morning
<lb n="040527"/>hours, noon, then evening coming on, then night hours. Washing her teeth.
<lb n="040528"/>That was the first night. Her head dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that
<lb n="040529"/>Boylan well off? He has money. Why? I noticed he had a good rich smell
<lb n="040530"/>off his breath dancing. No use humming then. Allude to it. Strange kind of
<lb n="040531"/>music that last night. The mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass
<lb n="040532"/>briskly on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it.
<lb n="040533"/>Lines in her eyes. It wouldn't pan out somehow.</p>
<p><lb n="040534"/>Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then: black with
<lb n="040535"/>daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink, then golden, then grey, then
<lb n="040536"/>black. Still, true to life also. Day: then the night.</p>
<p><lb n="040537"/>He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it.
<lb n="040538"/>Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled
<lb n="040539"/>back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom into
<lb n="040540"/>the air.</p>
<p><lb n="040541"/>In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his
<lb n="040542"/>black trousers: the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time is
<lb n="040543"/>the funeral? Better find out in the paper.</p>
<p><lb n="040544"/>A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells of George's
<lb n="040545"/>church. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron.</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="040546"/><said who="bells of George's church" direct="false" rend="italics">Heigho! Heigho!
<lb n="040547"/>Heigho! Heigho!
<lb n="040548"/>Heigho! Heigho!</said></p>
<p><lb n="040549"/>Quarter to. There again: the overtone following through the air. A
<lb n="040550"/>third.</p>
<p><lb n="040551"/>Poor Dignam!</p>
</div> <!-- End of Episode 4, "Calypso" -->