u05_lotus-eaters.xml

<div type="episode" n="05">
<p><lb n="050001"/>By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly,
<lb n="050002"/>past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office.
<lb n="050003"/>Could have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned
<lb n="050004"/>from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street.
<lb n="050005"/>By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked,
<lb n="050006"/>smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her
<lb n="050007"/>forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if he
<lb n="050008"/>smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses. Waiting
<lb n="050009"/>outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't be
<lb n="050010"/>many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of
<lb n="050011"/>Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols' the undertaker. At
<lb n="050012"/>eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for
<lb n="050013"/>O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In
<lb n="050014"/>the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told with
<lb n="050015"/>my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a
<lb n="050016"/>whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.</p>
<p><lb n="050017"/>In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and
<lb n="050018"/>Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice
<lb n="050019"/>blend, finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from
<lb n="050020"/>Tom Kernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still
<lb n="050021"/>read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his
<lb n="050022"/>right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning.
<lb n="050023"/>Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather
<lb n="050024"/>headband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down
<lb n="050025"/>into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the
<lb n="050026"/>headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.</p>
<p><lb n="050027"/>So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow
<lb n="050028"/>and hair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again: choice
<lb n="050029"/>blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must
<lb n="050030"/>be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses,
<lb n="050031"/>flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those
<lb n="050032"/>Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in <foreign xml:lang="it">dolce far niente</foreign>, not doing a hand's
<lb n="050033"/>turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of
<lb n="050034"/>the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes.
<lb n="050035"/>Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired
<lb n="050036"/>to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat
<lb n="050037"/>tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere?
<lb n="050038"/>Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol
<lb n="050039"/>open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of
<lb n="050040"/>the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of
<lb n="050041"/>the what? Or is it the volume is equal to the weight? It's a law something
<lb n="050042"/>like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The
<lb n="050043"/>college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you
<lb n="050044"/>say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per second. Law of falling
<lb n="050045"/>bodies: per second per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's
<lb n="050046"/>the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.</p>
<p><lb n="050047"/>He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk
<lb n="050048"/>with her sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded
<lb n="050049"/><title type="newspaper">Freeman</title> from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton
<lb n="050050"/>and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air:
<lb n="050051"/>just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every second it
<lb n="050052"/>means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the
<lb n="050053"/>postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.</p>
<p><lb n="050054"/>He handed the card through the brass grill.
<lb n="050055"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Are there any letters for me?</said> he asked.</p>
<p><lb n="050056"/>While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the
<lb n="050057"/>recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his
<lb n="050058"/>baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer
<lb n="050059"/>probably. Went too far last time.</p>
<p><lb n="050060"/>The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a
<lb n="050061"/>letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050062"/>Henry Flower Esq,
<lb n="050063"/>c/ₒ P. O. Westland Row,
<lb n="050064"/>City.</p>
<p><lb n="050065"/>Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket,
<lb n="050066"/>reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment?
<lb n="050067"/>Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a
<lb n="050068"/>grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats. Too
<lb n="050069"/>showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to
<lb n="050070"/>enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street
<lb n="050071"/>at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack
<lb n="050072"/>now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire.
<lb n="050073"/>Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able.
<lb n="050074"/>Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a
<lb n="050075"/>bobby. A mason, yes.</p>
<p><lb n="050076"/>He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if
<lb n="050077"/>that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger
<lb n="050078"/>felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women
<lb n="050079"/>will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter the
<lb n="050080"/>letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo
<lb n="050081"/>perhaps. Hair? No.</p>
<p><lb n="050082"/>M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate
<lb n="050083"/>company when you.
<lb n="050084"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?</said>
<lb n="050085"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.</said>
<lb n="050086"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―How's the body?</said>
<lb n="050087"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Fine. How are you?</said>
<lb n="050088"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―Just keeping alive,</said> M'Coy said.</p>
<p><lb n="050089"/>His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:
<lb n="050090"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―Is there any ... no trouble I hope? I see you're ...</said>
<lb n="050091"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―O, no,</said> Mr Bloom said. <said who="Leopold Bloom">Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.</said>
<lb n="050092"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?</said></p>
<p><lb n="050093"/>A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.
<lb n="050094"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Eeleven,</said> Mr Bloom answered.
<lb n="050095"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―I must try to get out there,</said> M'Coy said. <said who="C. P. M'Coy">Eleven, is it? I only heard it last
<lb n="050096"/>night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?</said>
<lb n="050097"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―I know.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050098"/>Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the
<lb n="050099"/>door of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She
<lb n="050100"/>stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his
<lb n="050101"/>pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a
<lb n="050102"/>day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands
<lb n="050103"/>in those patch pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo match.
<lb n="050104"/>Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome
<lb n="050105"/>does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an
<lb n="050106"/>honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out of her.
<lb n="050107"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do
<lb n="050108"/>you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050109"/>Doran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In
<lb n="050110"/>came Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from
<lb n="050111"/>beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the
<lb n="050112"/>braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight
<lb n="050113"/>perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will she
<lb n="050114"/>get up?
<lb n="050115"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―And he said: <said who="Bob Doran" rend="italics">Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy!</said> <said who="C. P. M'Coy" rend="italics">What Paddy?</said> I said.
<lb n="050116"/><said who="Bob Doran" rend="italics">Poor little Paddy Dignam</said>, he said.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050117"/>Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with
<lb n="050118"/>laces dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change for?
<lb n="050119"/>Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two
<lb n="050120"/>strings to her bow.
<lb n="050121"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―<said who="C. P. M'Coy" rend="italics">Why?</said> I said. <said who="C. P. M'Coy" rend="italics">What's wrong with him?</said> I said.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050122"/>Proud: rich: silk stockings.
<lb n="050123"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Yes,</said> Mr Bloom said.</p>
<p><lb n="050124"/>He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a
<lb n="050125"/>minute.
<lb n="050126"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―<said who="Bob Doran" rend="italics">What's wrong with him?</said> he said. <said who="Bob Doran" rend="italics">He's dead</said>, he said. And, faith, he filled
<lb n="050127"/>up. <said who="C. P. M'Coy" rend="italics">Is it Paddy Dignam?</said> I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. I was
<lb n="050128"/>with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch. <said who="Bob Doran" rend="italics">Yes</said>, he
<lb n="050129"/>said. <said who="Bob Doran" rend="italics">He's gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow.</said></said></p>
<p><lb n="050130"/>Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!</p>
<p><lb n="050131"/>A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.</p>
<p><lb n="050132"/>Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and
<lb n="050133"/>the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace
<lb n="050134"/>street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering the
<lb n="050135"/>display of. <foreign xml:lang="fr">Esprit de corps.</foreign> Well, what are you gaping at?
<lb n="050136"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Yes, yes,</said> Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. <said who="Leopold Bloom">Another gone.</said>
<lb n="050137"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―One of the best,</said> M'Coy said.</p>
<p><lb n="050138"/>The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her
<lb n="050139"/>rich gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in
<lb n="050140"/>the sun: flicker, flick.
<lb n="050141"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―Wife well, I suppose?</said> M'Coy's changed voice said.
<lb n="050142"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―O, yes,</said> Mr Bloom said. <said who="Leopold Bloom">Tiptop, thanks.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050143"/>He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050144"/><emph>What is home without
<lb n="050145"/>Plumtree's Potted Meat?
<lb n="050146"/>Incomplete.
<lb n="050147"/>With it an abode of bliss.</emph></p>
<p><lb n="050148"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050149"/>Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I'm off that, thanks.</p>
<p><lb n="050150"/>Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.
<lb n="050151"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―My wife too,</said> he said. <said who="Leopold Bloom">She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the Ulster
<lb n="050152"/>Hall, Belfast, on the twentyfifth.</said>
<lb n="050153"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―That so?</said> M'Coy said. <said who="C. P. M'Coy">Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?</said></p>
<p><lb n="050154"/>Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating
<lb n="050155"/>bread and. No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens.
<lb n="050156"/>Dark lady and fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050157"/><emph>Love's.
<lb n="050158"/>Old.
<lb n="050159"/>Sweet.
<lb n="050160"/>Song.
<lb n="050161"/>Comes lo-ove's old</emph> ....</p>
<p><lb n="050162"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―It's a kind of a tour, don't you see,</said> Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. <quote>Sweeeet
<lb n="050163"/>song.</quote> <said who="Leopold Bloom">There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050164"/>M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.
<lb n="050165"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―O, well,</said> he said. <said who="C. P. M'Coy">That's good news.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050166"/>He moved to go.
<lb n="050167"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―Well, glad to see you looking fit,</said> he said. <said who="C. P. M'Coy">Meet you knocking around.</said>
<lb n="050168"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Yes,</said> Mr Bloom said.
<lb n="050169"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―Tell you what,</said> M'Coy said. <said who="C. P. M'Coy">You might put down my name at the funeral,
<lb n="050170"/>will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a drowning
<lb n="050171"/>case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself would
<lb n="050172"/>have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name if I'm not
<lb n="050173"/>there, will you?</said>
<lb n="050174"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―I'll do that,</said> Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. <said who="Leopold Bloom">That'll be all right.</said>
<lb n="050175"/><said who="C. P. M'Coy">―Right,</said> M'Coy said brightly. <said who="C. P. M'Coy">Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could.
<lb n="050176"/>Well. Tolloll. Just C. P. M'Coy will do.</said>
<lb n="050177"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―That will be done,</said> Mr Bloom answered firmly.</p>
<p><lb n="050178"/>Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark.
<lb n="050179"/>I'd like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped
<lb n="050180"/>corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his
<lb n="050181"/>for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from
<lb n="050182"/>that good day to this.</p>
<p><lb n="050183"/>Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has
<lb n="050184"/>just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its
<lb n="050185"/>way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you know: in the
<lb n="050186"/>same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can't he hear the
<lb n="050187"/>difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain somehow.
<lb n="050188"/>Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up there
<lb n="050189"/>doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again.
<lb n="050190"/>Your wife and my wife.</p>
<p><lb n="050191"/>Wonder is he pimping after me?</p>
<p><lb n="050192"/>Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the
<lb n="050193"/>multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic).
<lb n="050194"/>Clery's Summer Sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. <emph>Leah</emph> tonight. Mrs
<lb n="050195"/>Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that. Hamlet she played last
<lb n="050196"/>night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia
<lb n="050197"/>committed suicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in
<lb n="050198"/>that. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year
<lb n="050199"/>before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this
<lb n="050200"/>the right name is? By Mosenthal it is. <emph>Rachel</emph>, is it? No. The scene he was
<lb n="050201"/>always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and
<lb n="050202"/>puts his fingers on his face.</p>
<p><lb n="050203"/>Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left
<lb n="050204"/>his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his
<lb n="050205"/>father and left the God of his father.</p>
<p><lb n="050206"/>Every word is so deep, Leopold.</p>
<p><lb n="050207"/>Poor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at
<lb n="050208"/>his face. That day! O, dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best for
<lb n="050209"/>him.</p>
<p><lb n="050210"/>Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the
<lb n="050211"/>hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met
<lb n="050212"/>that M'Coy fellow.</p>
<p><lb n="050213"/>He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently
<lb n="050214"/>champing teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the
<lb n="050215"/>sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all
<lb n="050216"/>they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags.
<lb n="050217"/>Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss. Gelded
<lb n="050218"/>too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches.
<lb n="050219"/>Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they look. Still
<lb n="050220"/>their neigh can be very irritating.</p>
<p><lb n="050221"/>He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he
<lb n="050222"/>carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.</p>
<p><lb n="050223"/>He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies.
<lb n="050224"/>All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. <foreign xml:lang="it">Voglio e non.</foreign>
<lb n="050225"/>Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as
<lb n="050226"/>they pass. He hummed:</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050227"/><foreign xml:lang="it">Là ci darem la mano
<lb n="050228"/>La la lala la la.</foreign></p>
<p><lb n="050229"/>He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted
<lb n="050230"/>in the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks.
<lb n="050231"/>Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court
<lb n="050232"/>with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a
<lb n="050233"/>squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A
<lb n="050234"/>wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb
<lb n="050235"/>them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open it.
<lb n="050236"/>And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked
<lb n="050237"/>mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the letter within the
<lb n="050238"/>newspaper.</p>
<p><lb n="050239"/>A flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not
<lb n="050240"/>annoyed then? What does she say?</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050241"/>Dear Henry</p>
<p><lb n="050242"/>I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry
<lb n="050243"/>you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am
<lb n="050244"/>awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you
<lb n="050245"/>naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is
<lb n="050246"/>the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in your home you poor
<lb n="050247"/>little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me
<lb n="050248"/>what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have.
<lb n="050249"/>Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I
<lb n="050250"/>have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about.
<lb n="050251"/>Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I
<lb n="050252"/>will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy,
<lb n="050253"/>if you do not wrote. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my
<lb n="050254"/>request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye
<lb n="050255"/>now, naughty darling, I have such a bad headache. today. and write <emph>by
<lb n="050256"/>return</emph> to your longing</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050257"/>Martha</p>
<p rend="non-indent"><lb n="050258"/>P. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know.</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050259"/>x x x x</p>
<p><lb n="050260"/>He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell
<lb n="050261"/>and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because
<lb n="050262"/>no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then walking
<lb n="050263"/>slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word.
<lb n="050264"/>Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't
<lb n="050265"/>please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon
<lb n="050266"/>anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having read
<lb n="050267"/>it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.</p>
<p><lb n="050268"/>Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did
<lb n="050269"/>she wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me,
<lb n="050270"/>respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank you:
<lb n="050271"/>not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad
<lb n="050272"/>as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further next
<lb n="050273"/>time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course. Brutal, why not?
<lb n="050274"/>Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.</p>
<p><lb n="050275"/>Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it.
<lb n="050276"/>Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere:
<lb n="050277"/>pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses
<lb n="050278"/>without thorns.</p>
<p><lb n="050279"/>Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in
<lb n="050280"/>the Coombe, linked together in the rain.</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050281"/><emph>O, Mairy lost the pin of her drawers.
<lb n="050282"/>She didn't know what to do
<lb n="050283"/>To keep it up,
<lb n="050284"/>To keep it up.</emph></p>
<p rend="non-indent"><lb n="050285"/>It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day
<lb n="050286"/>typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife
<lb n="050287"/>use. Now could you make out a thing like that?</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050288"/><emph>To keep it up.</emph></p>
<p rend="non-indent"><lb n="050289"/>Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or
<lb n="050290"/>faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the
<lb n="050291"/>two sluts in the Coombe would listen.</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050292"/><emph>To keep it up.</emph></p>
<p rend="non-indent"><lb n="050293"/>Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there:
<lb n="050294"/>quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been,
<lb n="050295"/>strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper:
<lb n="050296"/>fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole in the
<lb n="050297"/>wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the
<lb n="050298"/>trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and
<lb n="050299"/>more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.</p>
<p><lb n="050300"/>Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly
<lb n="050301"/>in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away,
<lb n="050302"/>sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank.</p>
<p><lb n="050303"/>Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in
<lb n="050304"/>the same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure
<lb n="050305"/>cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be
<lb n="050306"/>made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his
<lb n="050307"/>shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million
<lb n="050308"/>pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a
<lb n="050309"/>gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four
<lb n="050310"/>into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.</p>
<p><lb n="050311"/>What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the
<lb n="050312"/>same.</p>
<p><lb n="050313"/>An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach.
<lb n="050314"/>Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. The
<lb n="050315"/>bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together,
<lb n="050316"/>winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of
<lb n="050317"/>liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.</p>
<p><lb n="050318"/>He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the
<lb n="050319"/>porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again
<lb n="050320"/>behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy
<lb n="050321"/>for a pass to Mullingar.</p>
<p><lb n="050322"/>Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee
<lb n="050323"/>S. J. on saint Peter Claver S. J. and the African Mission. Prayers for the
<lb n="050324"/>conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious.
<lb n="050325"/>The protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D. D. to the
<lb n="050326"/>true religion. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the
<lb n="050327"/>heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for
<lb n="050328"/>them. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with
<lb n="050329"/>hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown of
<lb n="050330"/>thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks?
<lb n="050331"/>Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry I
<lb n="050332"/>didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father
<lb n="050333"/>Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that. He's not going
<lb n="050334"/>out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The
<lb n="050335"/>glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them sitting round in a
<lb n="050336"/>ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I
<lb n="050337"/>suppose.</p>
<p><lb n="050338"/>The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps,
<lb n="050339"/>pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.</p>
<p><lb n="050340"/>Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place
<lb n="050341"/>to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow
<lb n="050342"/>music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the
<lb n="050343"/>benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt
<lb n="050344"/>at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the
<lb n="050345"/>thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a
<lb n="050346"/>drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her
<lb n="050347"/>hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her hat sank at once. Then the next
<lb n="050348"/>one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth,
<lb n="050349"/>murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your
<lb n="050350"/>mouth. What? <foreign xml:lang="lat">Corpus</foreign>: body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them
<lb n="050351"/>first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it: only swallow it
<lb n="050352"/>down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it.</p>
<p><lb n="050353"/>He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by
<lb n="050354"/>one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in its
<lb n="050355"/>corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We
<lb n="050356"/>ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here and
<lb n="050357"/>there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt
<lb n="050358"/>in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread:
<lb n="050359"/>unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy.
<lb n="050360"/>Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind
<lb n="050361"/>it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants.
<lb n="050362"/>Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the
<lb n="050363"/>theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. In
<lb n="050364"/>our confraternity. Then come out a bit spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if
<lb n="050365"/>you really believe in it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock
<lb n="050366"/>apparition, statues bleeding. Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox.
<lb n="050367"/>Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all
<lb n="050368"/>pain. Wake this time next year.</p>
<p><lb n="050369"/>He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel
<lb n="050370"/>an instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace
<lb n="050371"/>affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what to
<lb n="050372"/>do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I. N. R. I? No: I. H. S. Molly
<lb n="050373"/>told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered, it is. And
<lb n="050374"/>the other one? Iron nails ran in.</p>
<p><lb n="050375"/>Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up
<lb n="050376"/>with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here
<lb n="050377"/>with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly.
<lb n="050378"/>Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the invincibles
<lb n="050379"/>he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning.
<lb n="050380"/>This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of.
<lb n="050381"/>Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home. And
<lb n="050382"/>plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good
<lb n="050383"/>name for them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. They're
<lb n="050384"/>not straight men of business either. O, no, she's not here: the flower: no,
<lb n="050385"/>no. By the way, did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.</p>
<p><lb n="050386"/>The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs
<lb n="050387"/>smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank
<lb n="050388"/>what they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage
<lb n="050389"/>Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale
<lb n="050390"/>(aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine: only the other. Cold
<lb n="050391"/>comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser
<lb n="050392"/>worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the whole
<lb n="050393"/>atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.</p>
<p><lb n="050394"/>Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music.
<lb n="050395"/>Pity. Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make
<lb n="050396"/>that instrument talk, the <foreign xml:lang="it">vibrato</foreign>: fifty pounds a year they say he had in
<lb n="050397"/>Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the <foreign xml:lang="lat">Stabat Mater</foreign> of
<lb n="050398"/>Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ,
<lb n="050399"/>but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped.
<lb n="050400"/>Could hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I
<lb n="050401"/>could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up:</p>
<p rend="inset"><lb n="050402"/><foreign xml:lang="lat">Quis est homo.</foreign></p>
<p><lb n="050403"/>Some of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last
<lb n="050404"/>words. Mozart's twelfth mass: <foreign xml:lang="lat">Gloria</foreign> in that. Those old popes keen on
<lb n="050405"/>music, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example
<lb n="050406"/>too. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting, regular
<lb n="050407"/>hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still, having
<lb n="050408"/>eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is
<lb n="050409"/>it? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses. Connoisseurs.
<lb n="050410"/>Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall
<lb n="050411"/>into flesh, don't they? Gluttons, tall, long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One
<lb n="050412"/>way out of it.</p>
<p><lb n="050413"/>He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about
<lb n="050414"/>and bless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom
<lb n="050415"/>glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up
<lb n="050416"/>at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he
<lb n="050417"/>sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar, holding
<lb n="050418"/>the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered each other in
<lb n="050419"/>Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a card:
<lb n="050420"/><said who="priest_Lotus-Eaters">―O God, our refuge and our strength .....</said></p>
<p><lb n="050421"/>Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw
<lb n="050422"/>them the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass?
<lb n="050423"/>Glorious and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More
<lb n="050424"/>interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation
<lb n="050425"/>certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants to. Then I will
<lb n="050426"/>tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon in their hands. More
<lb n="050427"/>than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And
<lb n="050428"/>did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look down at her ring to
<lb n="050429"/>find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears. Husband learn to his
<lb n="050430"/>surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep.
<lb n="050431"/>Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers,
<lb n="050432"/>incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant
<lb n="050433"/>imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the
<lb n="050434"/>Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they work the whole
<lb n="050435"/>show. And don't they rake in the money too? Bequests also: to the P. P. for
<lb n="050436"/>the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to
<lb n="050437"/>be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in
<lb n="050438"/>that Fermanagh will case in the witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had
<lb n="050439"/>his answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the
<lb n="050440"/>church. The doctors of the church: they mapped out the whole theology of
<lb n="050441"/>it.</p>
<p><lb n="050442"/>The priest prayed:
<lb n="050443"/><said who="priest_Lotus-Eaters">―Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our
<lb n="050444"/>safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain
<lb n="050445"/>him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the
<lb n="050446"/>power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked
<lb n="050447"/>spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050448"/>The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The
<lb n="050449"/>women remained behind: thanksgiving.</p>
<p><lb n="050450"/>Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate
<lb n="050451"/>perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.</p>
<p><lb n="050452"/>He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all
<lb n="050453"/>the time? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a
<lb n="050454"/>(whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked.
<lb n="050455"/>Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me
<lb n="050456"/>before. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south. He
<lb n="050457"/>passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door
<lb n="050458"/>into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl
<lb n="050459"/>while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the
<lb n="050460"/>low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow in her
<lb n="050461"/>weeds. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. He covered himself. How
<lb n="050462"/>goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made
<lb n="050463"/>up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place. Chemists
<lb n="050464"/>rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton
<lb n="050465"/>Long's, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there.
<lb n="050466"/>Visit some day.</p>
<p><lb n="050467"/>He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the
<lb n="050468"/>other trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O
<lb n="050469"/>well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait.
<lb n="050470"/>I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been or
<lb n="050471"/>the second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions book.</p>
<p><lb n="050472"/>The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he
<lb n="050473"/>seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher's stone.
<lb n="050474"/>The alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then.
<lb n="050475"/>Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character.
<lb n="050476"/>Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his alabaster
<lb n="050477"/>lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure
<lb n="050478"/>you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor Whack. He ought to physic himself a
<lb n="050479"/>bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure
<lb n="050480"/>himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to
<lb n="050481"/>chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose
<lb n="050482"/>of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad
<lb n="050483"/>for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy
<lb n="050484"/>where you least expect it. Clever of nature.
<lb n="050485"/><said who="Sweny">―About a fortnight ago, sir?</said>
<lb n="050486"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Yes,</said> Mr Bloom said.</p>
<p><lb n="050487"/>He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the
<lb n="050488"/>dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling your
<lb n="050489"/>aches and pains.
<lb n="050490"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin,</said> Mr Bloom said, <said who="Leopold Bloom">and then
<lb n="050491"/>orangeflower water ....</said></p>
<p><lb n="050492"/>It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.
<lb n="050493"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―And white wax also,</said> he said.</p>
<p><lb n="050494"/>Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to
<lb n="050495"/>her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs.
<lb n="050496"/>Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles
<lb n="050497"/>and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. Skinfood. One of
<lb n="050498"/>the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin. Leopold,
<lb n="050499"/>yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you
<lb n="050500"/>want a perfume too. What perfume does your? <foreign xml:lang="fr">Peau d'Espagne.</foreign> That
<lb n="050501"/>orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Pure curd soap.
<lb n="050502"/>Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt
<lb n="050503"/>gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I.
<lb n="050504"/>Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine business with
<lb n="050505"/>pleasure. Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be
<lb n="050506"/>rather glum.
<lb n="050507"/><said who="Sweny">―Yes, sir,</said> the chemist said. <said who="Sweny">That was two and nine. Have you brought a
<lb n="050508"/>bottle?</said>
<lb n="050509"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―No,</said> Mr Bloom said. <said who="Leopold Bloom">Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and I'll
<lb n="050510"/>take one of these soaps. How much are they?</said>
<lb n="050511"/><said who="Sweny">―Fourpence, sir.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050512"/>Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.
<lb n="050513"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―I'll take this one,</said> he said. <said who="Leopold Bloom">That makes three and a penny.</said>
<lb n="050514"/><said who="Sweny">―Yes, sir,</said> the chemist said. <said who="Sweny">You can pay all together, sir, when you come
<lb n="050515"/>back.</said>
<lb n="050516"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―Good,</said> Mr Bloom said.</p>
<p><lb n="050517"/>He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit,
<lb n="050518"/>the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.</p>
<p><lb n="050519"/>At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:
<lb n="050520"/><said who="Bantam Lyons">―Hello, Bloom. What's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050521"/>Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To
<lb n="050522"/>look younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.</p>
<p><lb n="050523"/>Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants
<lb n="050524"/>a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears'
<lb n="050525"/>soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.
<lb n="050526"/><said who="Bantam Lyons">―I want to see about that French horse that's running today,</said> Bantam
<lb n="050527"/>Lyons said. <said who="Bantam Lyons">Where the bugger is it?</said></p>
<p><lb n="050528"/>He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar.
<lb n="050529"/>Barber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and
<lb n="050530"/>get shut of him.
<lb n="050531"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―You can keep it,</said> Mr Bloom said.
<lb n="050532"/><said who="Bantam Lyons">―Ascot. Gold cup. Wait,</said> Bantam Lyons muttered. <said who="Bantam Lyons">Half a mo. Maximum
<lb n="050533"/>the second.</said>
<lb n="050534"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―I was just going to throw it away,</said> Mr Bloom said.</p>
<p><lb n="050535"/>Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.
<lb n="050536"/><said who="Bantam Lyons">―What's that?</said> his sharp voice said.
<lb n="050537"/><said who="Leopold Bloom">―I say you can keep it,</said> Mr Bloom answered. <said who="Leopold Bloom">I was going to throw it away
<lb n="050538"/>that moment.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050539"/>Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread
<lb n="050540"/>sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.
<lb n="050541"/><said who="Bantam Lyons">―I'll risk it,</said> he said. <said who="Bantam Lyons">Here, thanks.</said></p>
<p><lb n="050542"/>He sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut.</p>
<p><lb n="050543"/>Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the
<lb n="050544"/>soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it
<lb n="050545"/>lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender
<lb n="050546"/>turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to
<lb n="050547"/>gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come
<lb n="050548"/>back. Fleshpots of Egypt.</p>
<p><lb n="050549"/>He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you
<lb n="050550"/>of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He
<lb n="050551"/>eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up
<lb n="050552"/>like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a
<lb n="050553"/>wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college.
<lb n="050554"/>Something to catch the eye.</p>
<p><lb n="050555"/>There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on
<lb n="050556"/>hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr
<lb n="050557"/>Hornblower? How do you do, sir?</p>
<p><lb n="050558"/>Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.
<lb n="050559"/>Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here.
<lb n="050560"/>Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare
<lb n="050561"/>street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line.
<lb n="050562"/>And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor.
<lb n="050563"/>Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the
<lb n="050564"/>stream of life we trace is dearer thaaan them all.</p>
<p><lb n="050565"/>Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle
<lb n="050566"/>tepid stream. This is my body.</p>
<p><lb n="050567"/>He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of
<lb n="050568"/>warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and
<lb n="050569"/>limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow:
<lb n="050570"/>his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating,
<lb n="050571"/>floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid
<lb n="050572"/>floating flower.</p>
</div> <!-- End of Episode 5, "Lotus Eaters" -->