 section 40 of Ulysses Ulysses by James Joyce, episode 15, Cersei, part 2. She fades from his side. Followed by the whining dog, he walks on towards Hell's Gates. In an archway, a standing woman, bent forward, her feet apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered pub, a bunch of loiterers listen to a tale which their broken-snouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour. An armless pair of them flop, wrestling, growling, in maimed, sodden play-fight. The gaffer crouches, his voice twisted in his snout. And when Carrens came down from the scaffolding in Beaver Street, what was he doing it? Into only the bucket of porter that was waiting on the shavings for a dear one's plasterers? The loiterers gaffore with cleft pallets, their paint-speckled hats wag, spattered with sighs and lime of their lodges. They frisk limblessly about him. Bloom. Coincidence, too. They think it funny. Anything but that. Broad daylight, trying to walk. Lucky no woman. The loiterers. Jays, that's a gooden. Globless alts, or jays into the men's porter. Bloom. Passes. Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners. Are you going far, queer fellow? Has your middle leg got a march on you? Hey, come here till I stiffen it for you. He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk. In the shadow a shebeen keeper haggles with the navvy and the two redcoats. The navvy belching. Where's the bloody house? The shebeen keeper. Purden Street. Shelling a bottle of stout. Respectable woman. The navvy, gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them. Come on, you British army. Private Carr behind his back. He ain't half balmy. Private Compton laughs. Oh, oh, oh! Private Carr to the navvy. Poor fellow barracks canteen. You ask for Carr. Just Carr. The navvy shouts. We are the boys of Wexford. Private Compton. Say, what praises Sergeant Major? Private Carr. Bennett, he's my pal. I love old Bennett. The navvy shouts. The galling chain and free our native land. He staggers forward, dragging them with him. Bloom stops at fault. The dog approaches his tongue out, lolling, panting. Bloom. Wild goose chased this. Disorderly houses. Lord knows where they are gone. Drunks cover distance double quick. Ice mix up, seen at Westland Row. Then jump in first class with third ticket. Then too far, trained with engine behind. Might have taken me to Malahide, or a sighting for the night, or collision. Second drink does it. Once is a dose. What am I following him for? Still, he's the best of that lot. If I hadn't heard about Mrs. Beaufoy, purefoy, I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met. Kismet. He'll lose that cash. We're leaving off us here. Good biz for cheap jacks, organs. What do you lack? Soon got, soon gone. Might have lost my life, too, with that man-gong-wheel-track-trolley-glair juggernaut, only for presence of mind. Can't always save you, though. If I had passed Trulok's window that day, two minutes later, would have been shot. Still, if bullet only went through my coat, get damages for shock. Five hundred pounds. What was he? Killed Air Street Club Toff. God help his gamekeeper. He gazes ahead, reading on the wall a scrawled chalk legend, wet dream, and a phallic design. Odd. Molly drawing on the frosted carriage-pane at Kingstown. What's that like? Three doll-women lull in the lighted doorways, in window embrasures, smoking bird's-eye cigarettes. The odour of the sick sweet weed floats toward him in slow, round, ovelling wreaths. The wreaths. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet, sticky. Absurd I am. Waste of money. One in eight pins too much. The retriever drives a cold, sniveling muzzle against his hand, wagging his tail. Strange how they take to me, even that brute today better speak to him first. Like women, they like we're all contrary. Stinks like a poke at Patricia is on gout. He might be mad, dog-days, uncertain in his movements. Good fellow, Fido, good fellow, Gary Owen!" The wolf-dog sprawls on his back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, his long black tongue lolling out. Influence of his surroundings, given have done with it, provided nobody. Calling encouraging words, he shambles back, with a furtive poachers' tread, dogged by the setter into a dark, stale, stunk corner. He unrolls one parcel, and goes to dump the crevine softly, but holds back and feels the trotter. Sizable for three pints, but then I have it in my left hand, calls for more effort. Why? Smaller from want of use. Oh, let it slide, two and six. With regret, he lets the unrolled crevine and trotter slide. The mastiff mauls the bundle clumsily, and gluts himself with growling greed, crunching the bones. Two rain-caped watch approach, silent, vigilant, they murmur together. Bloom, of bloom, for bloom, bloom. Each lays hand on Bloom's shoulder. First watch. Got in the act, commit no nuisance. Bloom, stammer's. I am doing good to others. A covey of gulls, storm-petrels, rises hungrily, from liffy slime, with banberry cakes in their beaks. Bloom, the friend of man, trained by kindness. He points, Bob Doran, toppling from a high barstool, sways over the munching spaniel. Douser, give us the paw, give the paw! The bulldog growls, his scruff standing, a gobbit of pigs knuckle between his molars, through which rabid, scum-spittle dribbles. Bob Doran fills silently into an area. Second watch. Prevention of cruelty to animals. Bloom, enthusiastically. A noble work. I scolded that tram-driver on Harold's cross-bridge for elusing the poor horse with his harness-scab. Bad French I got for my pains. Of course it was frosty in the last tram. All tales of circus life are highly demoralising. Signor Mathai, passion pale in lion tamer's costume, with diamond studs in his shirt-front, steps forward, holding a circus paper-hoop, a curling carriage-whip, and a revolver, with which he covers the gorging boar-hound. Signor Mathai, with a sinister smile. Ladies and gentlemen, my educated grey-hound! It was I broke in the bucking-brung-to-age-axe with my patient-spite-saddle for carnivores, lash under the belly with a knotted thong. Block-tackle, and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to heal, no matter how fractious, even Leo Ferox air the Libyan man-eater. A red-hot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning pot produced fritz of Amsterdam, the thinking hyena. He glares. I possess the Indian sign. The glint of my eye does it with these breast-sparklers. With a bewitching smile. I now introduce Madame Waselle Ruby, the Pride of the Ring. First watch. Come, name and address. Bloom. I have forgotten for the moment. Ah, yes. He takes off his high-grade hat, saluting. Dr. Bloom, Leopold, dental surgeon. You have heard of Von Bloom Pasha, umpteen millions. Donnervetter owns half-Austria, Egypt, cousin. First watch. Proof. A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom's hat. Bloom, in red fares, Cuddy's dress coat with broad green sash, wearing a false badge of the Legion of Honor, picks up the card hastily and offers it. Allow me. My club is the junior army in Navy. Solicitors. Mr. John Henry Menton, 27, Bachelor's Walk. First watch. Reads. Henry Flower, no fixed abode, unlawfully watching and besetting. Second watch. An alibi? You are cautions. Bloom produces from his heart pocket a crumpled yellow flower. This is the flower in question. It was given me by a man I don't know his name. Plausibly. You know that old joke, Rose of Castile? Bloom. What a change of name. Virag. He murmurs privately and confidentially. We are engaged, you see, Sergeant, lady in the case. Love entanglement. He shoulders the second watch gently. Dash it all. It's a way we gallants have in the Navy, uniform that does it. He turns gravely to the first watch. Still, of course, you do get your water loo sometimes. Drop in some evening and have a glass of old burgundy. To the second watch, gaily. I'll introduce you, Inspector. She's game. Do it in the shake of a lamb's tail. A dark, mercurialised face appears, leading a veiled figure, the dark mercury. The castle is looking for him. He was drummed out of the army. Martha. Thick veiled, a crimson halter round her neck, a copy of the Irish Times in her hand. One tone of reproach, pointing. Henry, Leopold, Lionel, thou lost one. Clear my name. First watch, sternly. Come to the station. Bloom, scared, hats himself, steps back, then plucking at his heart and lifting his right forearm on the square. He gives the sign and due guard of fellow craft. No, no, worshipful master, light of love, mistaken identity. The Leon's male. The Cirque and Dubosque. You remember the child's fratricide case? We medical men. By striking him dead with a hatchet, I am wrongfully accused. Better one guilty escape than ninety-nine wrongfully condemned. Martha, sobbing behind her veil. Per each of promise, my real name is Peggy Griffin. He wrote to me that he was miserable. I'll tell my brother the bective rug of fullback on you heartless flirt. Bloom, behind his hand. She's drunk. The woman is inebriated. He murmurs vaguely the pass of f-frame. Shit-burlethe. Second watch, tears in his eyes, to Bloom. You ought to be thoroughly well ashamed of yourself. Gentlemen of the jury, let me explain. A pure mare's nest. I am a man misunderstood. I am being made a scapegoat of. I am a respectable married man, without a stain on my character. I live in Eccles Street. My wife, I am the daughter of a most distinguished commander, a gallant, upstanding gentleman. What do you call him? Major General Brian Tweedy, one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles. Got his majority for the heroic defense of Rorke's Drift. First watch. Regiment. Bloom, turns to the gallery. The royal doublins, boys, the salt of the earth, known the world over. I think I see some old comrades in arms up there among you. The RDF, with our own metropolitan police, guardians of our homes, the pluckiest lads, and the finest body of men, as physique in the service of our sovereign. A voice. Turncoat. Up the boars. Bloom, his hand on the shoulder of the first watch. My old dad, too, was a JP. I'm as staunch a Britisher as you are, sir. I fought with the colours for King and Country in the Absent-Minded War under General Gow in the park, and was disabled at Spine Cop in Blum Fountain, was mentioned in dispatches. I did all a white man could. With quiet feeling. Bloom, blood-soe, hold her nozzle again to bank. First watch. Profession or trade. Well, I follow a literary occupation, author, journalist. In fact, we are just bringing out a collection of prize stories of which I am the inventor. Something that is an entirely new departure. I am connected with the British and Irish press. If you ring up- Miles Crawford strides out jirkely, a quill between his teeth. His scarlet beak blazes within the oriol of his straw hat. He dangles a hank of Spanish onions in one hand, and holds, with the other hand, a telephone-receiver nozzle to his ear. Miles Crawford, his cox-wattles wagging. Hello. 7784. Hello. Freeman's urinal in weekly oswipier. Paralyzed Europe. You wish. Blue bags. Well, who writes? Is it blue? Mr. Philip Beaufoy, pale-faced, stands in the witness-box, in accurate morning-dress, out-brest pocket with peak of handkerchief showing creased lavender trousers and patent boots. He carries a large portfolio labelled matchums, master-strokes. Beaufoy draws. No, you aren't. Not by a long short if I know it. I don't see it, that's all. No born gentleman, no one with the most rudimentary promptings of a gentleman, would stoop to such particularly lonesome conduct. One of those, my lord, a plaguerist, a soapy sneak masquerading as literature. It's perfectly obvious that with most inherent baseness, he has script some of my best-selling copy. Really gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages which are beneath suspicion. The Beaufoy books of love and great possessions, with which your lordship is doubtless familiar, are a household word throughout the kingdom. Bloom murmurs with hangdog meekness, glum. That bit about the laughing witch hand-in-hand I take exception to, if I may. Beaufoy, his lip up curled, smiles superciliously on the court. You funny as you, you're too beastly awful weird for words. I don't think you need to over-excessively disincomodate yourself in that regard. My literary agent, Mr. J.B. Pinker, is in attendance. I presume, my lord, we shall have the usual witness's fee, shan't we, we are considerably out of pocket over this baly pressman joining, this jack-daw of reins, who has not even been to university. Bloom, indistinctly. University of life, bad art. Beaufoy, shouts. It's a damnably foul lie, showing the moral rottenness of the man. He extends his portfolio. We have here damning evidence, the corpus deliciti, my lord, a specimen of my matured work, disfigured by the hallmark of the beast. A voice from the gallery. Moses, Moses, king of the Jews, wiped his arse in the daily news. Bloom, bravely. Overdrawn. Beaufoy. You low clad, you ought to be ducked in the horse-pond, you rotter. Bloom to the court. Why look at the man's private life, leading a quadruple existence, street angel and house devil, not fit to be mentioned in mixed society, the arch-conspirator of the age. Bloom to the court. And hey, a bachelor, how? First watch. The keen versus bloom, call the woman Driscoll. The crier. Mary Driscoll, scullery maid. Mary Driscoll, a slip-shod-servant girl, approaches. She has a bucket on the crook of her arm, and a scouring brush in her hand. Second watch. Another? Are you of the unfortunate class? Mary Driscoll indignantly. I'm not a bad one. I bear a respectable character, and was four months in my last place. I was in a situation, six pounds a year, and my chances with Fridays out, and I had to leave owing to his carrying's on. First watch. What do you tax him with? He made a certain suggestion, but I thought more of myself as poor as I am. Bloom in a house-jacket of ripple cloth, flannel trousers, heelless slippers, unshaven, his hair rumpled, softly. I treated you white, I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station. Incautiously I took your part when you were accused of pilfering. There's a medium in all things. Play cricket. As God is looking down on me this night, if ever I laid my hand on the moisters. The offense complained of? Did something happen? He surprised me in the rear of the premises, your honour, when the missus was out shopping one morning with a request for a safety pin. He held me, and I was discoloured in four places as a result. And he interfered, tweaked my clothing. She counter-assaulted. I had more respect for the scouring-brush, so I had. I remonstrated with him, your lord. And he remarked, Keep it quiet. General Laughter. George Fottrell. Clock of the Crown and Peace. Resonantly. Order in the court. The accused will now make a bogus statement. Bloom, pleading not guilty, and holding a full-blown water lily, begins a long, unintelligible speech. They would hear what council had to say in his stirring address to the grand jury. He was down and out, but though branded as a black sheep, if he might say so, he meant to reform, to retrieve the memory of the past in a purely sisterly way, and return to nature as a purely domestic animal. A seven-month child he had been carefully brought up and nurtured by an aged bedridden parent. There might have been lapses of an oaring father, but he wanted to turn over a new leaf, and now, when at long last in sight of the whipping-post, to lead a homely life in the evening of his days, permeated by the affectionate surroundings of the heaving bosom of the family. And a climatised Britisher he had seen that summer eve from the footplate of an engine cab of the Loop Line Railway Company, while the rain refrained from falling glimpses, as it were, through the windows of loveful households in Dublin City. An urban district of scenes truly rural, of happiness of the better land with Dockroll's wallpaper, at one and nine pence a dozen. Innocent British-born bears lisping prayers to the sacred infant, youthful scholars grappling with their pensums, or model young ladies playing on the piano forte, or anon, all with fervour reciting the family rosary, round the crackling yule log, while in the barines and green lanes the collines with their swains strolled, watchtimes, the strains of the organ-toned melodian Britannia, metal-bound with four acting stops and twelve-fold bellows, a sacrifice greatest bargain ever. He'd laughter, he mumbles incoherently, reporters complain that they cannot hear, longhand and shorthand, without looking up from their notebooks, loosen his boots, Professor McHugh, from the press-table coughs and calls, ah, cough it up, man, get it out in bits! The cross-examination proceeds Ray Bloom and the Bucket, a large bucket, Bloom himself, bowel trouble, in Beaver Street gripe, yes, quite bad, a plasterer's bucket, by walking stiff-legged, suffered untold misery, deadly agony, about noon, love or burgundy, yes, some spinach, crucial moment. He did not look in the bucket, nobody, rather a mess, not completely, a tit-bit back-number, uproar and cat-calls, Bloom, in a torn frock-coat stained with white-wash, dinged silk hat sideways on his head, a strip of sticking plaster across his nose, talks inaudibly, J. J. O'Molloy, in Barrister's grey wig and stuff gown, speaking with a voice of pained protest, This is no place for indecent levity at the expense of an earring mortally disguised in liquor. We are not in a beer-garden, nor at an Oxford rag, nor is this a travesty of justice. My client is an infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch as a stowaway and is now trying to turn an honest penny. The trumped-up misdemeanor was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on by hallucination, such familiarities as the alleged guilty occurrence being quite permitted in my client's native place, the land of Deferro. Prima Fasi, I put it to you, that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. Intimacy did not occur, and the offence complained of by Driscoll that her virtue was solicited, was not repeated. I would deal in especial with atavism. There have been cases of shipwreck and some nambulism in my client's family. If he accused could speak, he could a tale unfold, one of the strangest that have ever been narrated between the covers of a book. He himself, my lord, is a physical wreck from Cobbler's weak chest. His submission is that he is of Mongolian extraction and irresponsible for his actions. Not all there, in fact. Bloom, barefoot, pigeon-breasted, in Laskar's vest and trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny mole's eyes, and looks about him day's idly, passing a slow hand across his forehead. Then he hitches his belt sailor fashion, and with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court, pointing one thumb heavenward. He make a very muchy fine night. He begins to lilt simply. Lilly, poor little child, blingy pigfoot every night, pay to shilly. He is howled down. J. J. Omeloy, hotly to the populace. This is a long-hand fight. By Hades I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a pack of cars and laughing hyenas. The mosaic coat has superseded the law of the jungle. I say it, and I say it emphatically, without wishing for one moment to defeat the ends of justice. Accused was not accessory before the act, and prosecutrix has not been tampered with. The young person was treated by defendant as if she were his very own daughter. Bloom takes J. J. Omeloy's hand and raises it to his lips. I shall call, rebutting evidence to prove up to the hilt that the hidden hand is again at its old game. When in doubt, persecute Bloom, my client, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the world to do anything un-gentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard responsible for her condition had worked his own sweet will on her. He wants to go straight. I regard him as the whitest man I know. He is down on his look at present owing to the mortgaging of his extensive property at Agendeth Nathaeum in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which will now be shown. To Bloom, I suggest you do the handsome thing. A penny in the pound. The image of the lake of Kinnereth, with blurred cattle cropping in silver haze, is projected on the wall. Moses Dlu Gatch, ferretide albino in blue dungarees, stands up in the gallery, holding in each hand an orange citron and a pork kidney. Dlu Gatch, hoarsely. Bledreustrasse, Berlin, W13. J. J. Omeloy steps onto a low plinth and holds the lapel of his coat with solemnity. His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with sunken eyes, the blotches of thisis and hectic cheekbones of John F. Taylor. He applies his handkerchief to his mouth and scrutinizes the galloping tide of rose-pink blood. J. J. Omeloy, almost voicelessly. Excuse me, I am suffering from a severe chill, have recently come from a sick bed. A few, well-toes and words. He assumes the avine head, foxy moustache and proboscodal eloquence of Seymour Bush. When the angel's book comes to be opened, if art that the pence of bosom has inaugurated of so transfigured and of so transfigurate deserves to live, I say a card de-brisner at the bar, the sacred benefit of the house. A paper with something written on it is handed into court, bloom, in court dress. Can give best references, Mr. Cullen Coleman, Mr. Wisdom Healy JP, my old chief Joe Cuff, Mr. V. B. Dillon, ex-Lord Mayor of Dublin. I have moved in the charmed circle of the highest, Queens of Dublin Society. Carelessly. I was just chatting this afternoon at the Vice Regal Lodge to my old pals, Sir Robert and Lady Ball, Astronomer Royal of the Levy. Sir Bob, I said, Mrs. Yelverton Barry, in low, corsaged, opal ball dress, and elbow-length ivory gloves, wearing a sable-trimmed brick-quilted dolmen, a comb of brilliance and panache of osprey in her hair. Arrest him, Constable. He wrote me an anonymous letter in Prentice Backhand when my husband was in the North Riding of Tipperary on the Munster Circuit, signed James Loveburch. He said that he had seen from the gods my peerless globes as I sat in a box in the Theatre Royal at a command performance of La Cigale. I deeply inflamed him, he said. He made improper overtures to me to misconduct myself at half-past four p.m. on the following Thursday, Dunn-sink time. He offered to send me through the post a work of fiction by Moncier Paul de Coq, entitled The Girl with the Three Pairs of Stays. Mrs. Bellingham, in cap and seal-cony mantle, wrapped up to the nose, steps out of her brow, and scans through tortoise-shell quizzing-glasses, which she takes from inside her huge opossum muff. Also to me. Yes, I believe it is the same objectionable person. Once he closed my carriage door outside Sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day, during the cold snap of February ninety-three, when even the grit of the waste-pipe and the ball-stop in my bath-sistern were frozen. Subsequently, he enclosed a bloom of Adelweiss called on the heights, as he said, in my honour. I had it examined by a botanical expert, and elicited the information that it was a blossom of the home-grown potato plant, perloined from a forcing case of the model farm. Mrs. Yulveton Barry Shame on him. A crowd of sluts and dragon-muffins surges forward, screaming, Stop him! Three cheers for Aikimo! Second watch produces handcuffs. Here are the derbies. Mrs. Bellingham She addressed me in several hand-writings with fulsome complements as a venus in furs, an alleged profound pity for my frost-bound coachman Palmer, while in the same breath he expressed himself as envious of his ear-flaps and fleedy sheep-skins, and of his fortunate proximity to my person when standing behind my chair wearing my livery and the armorial bearings of the Bellingham escutcheon, garnished sable, a box-head coop-door. He lauded most extravagantly my nether extremities, my swelling calves and silk-hose drawn up to the limit, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace, which he said he could conjure up. He urged me, stating that he felt it was his mission in life to urge me, to defile the marriage-bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity. The Honourable Mrs. Mervyn Tallboys In Amazon costume, hard hat, jack-boots cock-spurred, vermilion waistcoat, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up, and hunting-crop, with which she strikes her welt constantly. So me!—because he saw me on the polio-ground of the Phoenix Park at the match, all Ireland versus the rest of Ireland. My eyes I know shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Denahy of the Inn skillings win the final chucker and his darling cobb-centaur. This plebeian darn whan observed me from behind a hackney-car, and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as a sewed-after dark on Paris boulevards, insulting to any lady. I have it still. It represents a partially nude senorita, frail and lovely. His wife, as he solemnly assured me, taken by him from nature, practising illicit intercourse with a muscular terrarium, evidently a-blaggard. He urged me to do likewise, to misbehave, to sin with officers of the garrison. He implored me to soil his letter in an unspeakable manner, to chastise him as he richly deserves, to bestride and ride him, to give him a most vicious horse-whipping. Mrs. Bellingham. Me, too. Mrs. Yelverton Barry. Me, too. Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom. The honourable Mrs. Mervyn Tallboys stamps her jingling spurs in a sudden paroxysm of fury. I will, by the God above me. I'll scourge the pigeon-leavid cur as long as I can stand over him. I'll flay him alive. Bloom, his eyes closing, quails expectantly. Here. He squirms. Again. The dance cringing. I love the danger. The honourable Mrs. Mervyn Tallboys. Very much so. I'll make it hot for you. I'll make your dance, Jack Latin, for that. Mrs. Bellingham. Tan his breach well, the upstart. Write the stars and stripes on it. Mrs. Yelverton Barry. Disgraceful. There's no excuse for him. A married man. Bloom. All these people. I meant only the spanking idea. A warm, tingling glow without effusion. Refined birching to stimulate the circulation. The honourable Mrs. Mervyn Tallboys laughs derisively. Ha-ha-ha! Oh, did you, my fine fellow? Well, by the living God, you'll get the surprise of your life now, believe me. The most unmerciful hiding a man ever bargained for. You have lashed the dormant Tigris in my nature into fury. Mrs. Bellingham shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses vindictively. Make him smart, Hanadir. Give him ginger. Thresh the mongrel within an inch of his life. The catanine tails geld him, vivisect him. Bloom, shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands with hang-dog mean. Oh, cold, oh, shivery. It was your ambrosial beauty. Don't forgive. Kismet, let me off this once. He offers the other cheek. Mrs. Yelverton Barry. Severely. Don't do so on any account, Mrs. Tallboys, who should be soundly trounced. The honourable Mrs. Mervyn Tallboys, unbuttoning her gauntlet violently. I'll do no such thing. Pig-dog and always was, ever since he was pupped, to dare address me. I'll flog him black and blue in the public streets. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel. He is a well-known cuckold. She swishes her hunting-crop savagely in the air. Take down his trousers without loss of time. Come here, sir. Quick. Ready? Bloom, trembling, beginning to obey. The weather has been so warm. Davy Stevens, ring-littered, passes with a bevy of barefoot newsboys. Messenger of the Sacred Heart, an evening telegraph with St. Patrick's Day sublament, containing the new addresses of all the coccolds in Dublin. The very reverend Canon O'Hanlon, in cloth of gold cope, elevates and exposes a marble time-piece. Before him, Father Conroy and the reverend John Hughes, S.J., bend low. The time-piece, unportalling, coo-coo, coo-coo, coo-coo. The brass quaits of a bed are heard to jingle. The quaits, cheek-check, cheek-check, cheek-check. A panel of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing rapidly in the jury-box the faces of Martin Cunningham, Foreman, Silk Hatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton Miles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosy Flynn, McCoy, and the featureless face of a nameless one, the nameless one. Bareback riding, wait for age, garb, he organised her. The jurors, all their heads turned to his voice. Really? The nameless one snarls. Ours over-tip, hundred shillings to five. The jurors, all their heads lowered in ascent. Most of us thought as much. First watch. He is marked man, another girl's plate-cut. Wanted, Jack the Ripper, a thousand pounds roared. Second watch. Oared, whispers. And in black, a mormon, anarchist. The crier. Loudly. Whereas Leopold Bloom, of no fixed abode, is a well-known dynamite-hard forger, bigamist bard and cuckold, and a public nuisance to the citizens of Dublin. And whereas this commission of a size is the most honourable. His honour, Sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, in judicial garb of grey stone, rises from the bench, stone-bearded. He bears in his arms an umbrella scepter. From his forehead arise starkly the mosaic ram's horns, the recorder. I will put an end to this white slave-traffic and rid Dublin of this odious pest. Scandalous! He dons the black cap. Let him be taken, Mr. Sub-Sheriff, from the dock where he now stands, and detained in custody in Mount Joy Prison during his Majesty's pleasure, and there be hanged by the neck until he is dead, and therein fail not at your peril, or may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Remove him. A black skull-cap descends upon his head. The Sub-Sheriff, Long John Fanning, appears, smoking a pungent Henry Clay. Long John Fanning, scowls, had calls with rich rolling utterance. Who hanged, Judas, his chariot? Each rumbled master-barber, in a blood-coloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a rope coiled over his shoulder mounts the block. A life-preserver and a nail-studded bludgeon are stuck in his belt. He rubs grimly his grappling hands, knobbed with knuckle-dusters, rumbled to the recorder with sinister familiarity. Hanging Harry, your Majesty, the Mirzy Terror, five guineas a jugular, neck or nothing. The bells of George's Church toll slowly, loud, dark, iron. Hi-ho, hi-ho! Bloom desperately. Wait. Stop. Gulls. Good heart. I saw. Innocence. Girl in the monkey-house, zoo, lewd chimpanzee, breathlessly, pelvic basin, her artless blush unmanned me, overcome with emotion, I left the precincts. He turns to a figure in the crowd, appealing, Heinz, may I speak to you? You know me, that three shillings you can keep, if you want a little more. Heinz, coldly. You are a perfect stranger. And watch, points to the corner. The bomb is here. First watch. Infernal machine with a time fuse. Bloom. No, no. Pig's feet. I was at a funeral. First watch draws his truncheon. Liar! The beagle lifts his snout, showing the gray, scorebutic face of Paddy Dignam. He has gnawed all. He exhales a putrid, carcass-fed breath. He grows to human size and shape. His taxoned coat becomes a brown, mortuary habit. His green eye flashes bloodshot, half of one ear, all the nose and both thumbs are ghoul-eaten. Paddy Dignam in a hollow voice. That is true. It was my funeral. Dr. Finio came for no life extinct when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes. He lifts his mutilated ashen face, moon-woods, and bays legubriously. Bloom in triumph. You hear? Bloom. I am Paddy Dignam's spirit. List. List. All list. The voice is the voice of Issa. Second watch blesses himself. How is that possible? First watch. He is not in the penny catechism. By Madame Tsikosis. Spokes. A voice. Oh, rocks! Once I was in the employ of Mr. J. H. Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths at affidavits of twenty-seven bachelors' work. No, I am defunct. The wall of the heart, hypotrophied. Hard lines. The poor wife was awfully caught up. How is she bearing it? Keep her off that bottle of sherry. He looks round him. Alam, I must satisfy an animal need. That puttable didn't agree with me. The portly figure of John O'Connell, caretaker, stands forth, holding a bunch of keys tied with crepe. Beside him stands Father Coffee, chaplain, toad-bellied, rye-necked. In a surplus and bandanna nightcap, holding sleepily, a staff-twisted poppies. Father Coffee yawns, then chants with a horse-croak. Na-mi-ne, ye curbs, wo biscuits, amen. John O'Connell, fog-horns stormily through his megaphone. Dynum, Patrick T. deceased. Paddy Dignum, with pricked-up ears, winces. Overtoons. He wriggles forward and places an ear to the ground. My master's voice. John O'Connell. Variable docket letter, number U.P. 85,000, Field 17, House of Keys, Plot 101. Paddy Dignum listens with visible effort, thinking his tail stiff-pointed, his ears cocked. Breathe for the repose of his soul. He worms down through a coal-hole, his brown habit trailing its tether over rattling pebbles. After him, toddles an obese grandfather-rat on fungus-turtle-paws under a grey carapace. Dignum's voice muffled, his herd baying underground. Dignum's dead and gone below. Tom Rochford, robin-breasted in cap-and-breaches, jumps from his two-columbed machine. Tom Rochford, a hand to his breast-bone, bows. Lubin J. Afloren, I find him. He fixes the manhole with a resolute stare. My turn now on. Follow me up to Carlo. He executes a daredevil salmon-leap in the air, and is engulfed in the coal-hole. Two discs on the columns wobble, eyes of nought. All recedes. Bloom plodges forward again through the sump. Kisses chirp amid the rifts of fog, a piano sounds. He stands before a lighted house, listening. The kisses, winging from their bowers, fly about him, twittering, warbling, cooing. The kisses, warbling, twittering, cooing, warbling, big comeback, pirat, loobapold, twittering, warbling, they rustle, flutter upon his garments, a light, bright, giddy flex, silvery sequence, bloom. A man's touch, sad music, church music, perhaps here. End of Section 40. Section 41 of Ulysses. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ulysses by James Joyce. Episode 15, Cersei, Part 3 Zoe Higgins, a young whore, in a sapphire slip, closed with three bronze buckles, a slim, black velvet fillet round her throat, nods, trips down the steps, and accosts him. Zoe. Are you looking for someone? He's inside with his friend. Bloom. Is this Mrs. Max? No. 81. Mrs. Cohen's. You might go farther and fair worse. Mother's Slipper Slapper. Familiarly. She's on the job herself tonight, with the vet, her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford. Working overtime, but her luck's turned to-day. Suspiciously. You're not his father, are you? Not I. You both in black. Has little Mousey any tickles tonight? His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach. A hand glides over his left thigh. How's the nuts? Offside. Curiously, they are on the right, heavier, I suppose. One in a million, my tailor, Messiah, says. Zoe, in sudden alarm. You've a hard chance. If not likely. I feel it. Her hand slides into his left trouser pocket, and brings out a hard, black, shriveled potato. She regards it and bloom with dumb, moist lips. A talisman. Air loom. For Zoe. For keeps. For being so nice, eh? She puts the potato greedily into a pocket, then links his arm, cuddling him with supple warmth. He smiles uneasily, slowly, note by note, Oriental music is played. He gazes in the tawny crystal of her eyes, ringed with call. His smile softens. You'll know me the next time. Bloom for lawnly. I never loved a dear gazelle, but it was sure to. Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near are lakes. And their shores file shadows black of cedar groves. Aroma rises, a strong hair-growth of resin. It burns, the Orient, a sky of sapphire cleft by the bronze flight of eagles. Under it lies the woman-city, nude, white, still, cool in luxury. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Aroma throws his murmur of scarlet wine-grapes. A wine of shame, lust, blood, exudes, strangely murmuring. Zoe, murmuring, sings song with the music. Her odourless lips lusciously smeared with salve of swine-fat and rose-water. Shorak ani wei no wak, benawit yeru shalayam. Bloom, fascinated, she bites his ear gently with little gold-stopped teeth, sending on him a clawing breath of stale garlic. The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones. Bloom draws back, mechanically caressing her right-bub with a flat, awkward hand. Are you a Dublin girl? Zoe catches a stray hair deftly, and twists it to her coil. No bloody fear. I'm English. Have you a swagger-root? Bloom, as before. Rarely smoke, dear, cigar now and then, childish device. Ludely. The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed. Make a stump speech out of it. Bloom, in workman's corduroy overalls, black gansey with red-floating tie and a patchy cap. Mankind is incorrigible. Sir Walter Raleigh brought from the New World that potato and that weed, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the other a poisoner of the ear, eye, heart, memory, will understanding, all. That is to say, he brought the poison a hundred years before another person, whose name I forget, brought the food, suicide, lies, all our habits, while I look at our public life. Midnight chimes from distant steeples. Turn again, Leopold, Lord Mayor of Dublin. Bloom, in Alderman's gown and chain. Years of erin quay, inns quay, rotunda, mount joy and north dock, better run a tram line, I say, from the cattle market to the river. That's the music of the future. That's my program. Quibono. But our buccaneering Vanderdeckens and their phantom ship of finance. An Elector. Three times three for our future Chief Magistrate. The Aurora Borealis of the torchlight procession. Leaps. The torchbearers. Hooray! Several well-known burgesses, city magnates and freemen of the city, shake hands with Bloom and congratulate him. Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, imposing in meryl scarlet, gold chain and white silk tie, confers with Councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens, they nod vigorously in agreement. Late Lord Mayor Harrington, in scarlet robe, with mace, gold meryl chain and large white silk scarf. That old man's home Leo Bloom's speech be-printed at the expense of the rate-payers, that the house in which he was born be-arnamented with the commemorative tablet, and that are of her hitherto known as cow parlour of Cork Street, be-henceforth designated Boloard Bloom. Councillor Lorcan Sherlock. Carried unanimously. Bloom, Impassionately. These flying Dutchmen, or lying Dutchmen, as they recline in their upholstered poop, casting dice, what wreck they? Humans as their cry, their camera, their panacea, labor-saving apparatuses, supplanters, bug-bearers, manufactured monsters for mutual murder, hideous hobgoblins produced by a horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted labor. The poor man's starves while they are grasping their royal mountain stags or shooting pheasants and cartridges in their purblind pomp of pelf and power, but their reign is rover for ever and ever and ever. Prolonged applause. Venetian masts, may-polls, and festal arches spring up. A streamer bearing the legends, Cade Milaforce, and Mahtob Melek Israel, spans the street. All the windows are thronged with sightseers, chiefly ladies. Along the route the regiments of the royal Dublin fusiliers, the king's own Scottish borderers, the Cameron Highlanders and the Welsh fusiliers, standing to attention, keep back the crowd. Boys from high school are perched on the lamp-posts, telegraph-polls, window-sills, cornices, gutters, chimney-pots, railings, rain-spouts. Playing and cheering the pillar of the cloud appears, a thife and drum band is heard in the distance, playing the coal-needery. The beaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing banners and waving oriental palms. The chrysalophantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by penons of the civic flag. The van of the procession appears, headed by John Howard Parnell, city marshal, in a chessboard tabard, the Athlone Porsuivant and Ulster King of Arms. They are followed by the right honourable Joseph Hutchinson, Lord Mayor of Dublin, his lordship the Lord Mayor of Cork, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford. Twenty-eight Irish representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajas bearing the cloth of estate. The Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the chapter of the saints of finance in their plutocratic order of precedence, the Bishop of Down and Connor, his eminence Michael Cardinal Loog, Archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, his grace the most reverend Dr. William Alexander, Archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, the chief rabbi, the Presbyterian moderator, the heads of the Baptist, Anabaptist, Methodist and Moravian chapels, and the honorary secretary of the Society of Friends. After them march the guilds and trades and train-bands with flying colours, coopers, birdfanciers, millwrights, newspaper canvases, law-scriveners, masseurs, vintners, trust-makers, chimney-sweeps, hard-refiners, tabernet and poplin weavers, tharriers, Italian warehousemen, church decorators, bootjack manufacturers, undertakers, silk-mercers, lapidaries, salesmasters, cork-cutters, assessors of fire losses, dyers and cleaners, export-bottlers, felmongers, ticket-writers, heraldic ceiling-gravers, horse-repository hands, bullion-brokers, cricket and archery-outfitters, riddle-makers, egg-and-potato factors, hosiers and glovers, plumbing-contractors. After them march gentlemen of the bed-chamber, black rod, deputy garter, gold stick, the master of horse, the Lord Great Chamberlain, the Earl Marshal, the High Constable, carrying the sword of state, St. Stephen's Iron Crown, the Chalice and Bible. Four buglers on foot blow a senate. Beef-eaters reply, winding clarions of welcome. Under an arch of triumph bloom appears, bare-headed in a crimson velvet mantle, trimmed with the ermine, bearing St. Edward's staff, the Orban scepter with the dove, the katana. He is seated on a milk-white horse with long flowing crimson tail, richly comparisoned with gold and head-store, wild excitement. The ladies from their balconies throw down rose-petals. The air is perfumed with essences. The men cheer, blooms, boys run amid the bystanders, with branches of hawthorn and wren-bushes, blooms, boys. The wren, the wren, the king of all birds, St. Stephen's's day was caught in the furs. A blacksmith, murmurs, for the honour of God, and is that bloom? He scarcely looks thirty-one. A pavia and flagger. That's the famous bloom now, the world's greatest reformer. Hats off! All uncover their heads. Then whisper, eagerly, a millionaires, richly, Isn't he simply wonderful? A noblewoman, nobly, All that man has seen. A feminist, masculinly, And done. A bell-hanger, A classic face. He has the forehead of a thinker. Blooms weather. A sunburst appears in the north-west, the bishop of Down and Connor. I here present your undoubted emperor-president, and king-chairman, the most serene and potent and very poignant ruler of this realm. God save Leopold I! God save Leopold I! Bloom, in Dalmatic and Purple Mantle, to the bishop of Down and Connor, with dignity. Thanks, somewhat imminent, sir. William, Archbishop of Armagh. In Purple Stock and Shovel Hat. Will you, to your power, cause law and mercy, to be executed in all your judgments, in Ireland, and territories thereunto belonging? Bloom, placing his right hand on his testicles, swears. So may the creator deal with me, all this I promise to do. Michael, Archbishop of Armagh, pours a cruise of hair oil over Bloom's head. Gaudium magnum annuntio vobis, habemus con aficium. Leopold, Patrick, Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed. Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold, and puts on a ruby ring. He ascends and stands on the stone of destiny. The representative peers put on at the same time their twenty-eight crowns. Joy Bell's ring, in Christchurch, St. Patrick's, George's, and Gay Malahide. Myrus bizarre fireworks go up from all sides, with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs. The peers do homage one by one, approaching and genuflecting. The peers, I do become your liege, hen of life, and limb to earthly worship. Bloom holds up his right hand, on which sparkles the Koinua diamond. His poultry nays immediate silence. While its intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message. My subjects, we hereby nominate our faithful Charger Copula Felix, hereditary Grand Vizier, and announce that we have, this day, repudiated our former spouse, and have bestowed our royal hand upon the Princess Selene, the Splendour of Night. The former Morganatic spouse of Bloom is hastily removed in the Black Mariah. The Princess Selene, in moon-blue robes, a silver crescent on her head, descends from a sedan chair, borne by two giants. An outburst of cheering, John Howard Parnell, raises the royal standard. Illustrious Bloom, successor to my famous brother! Bloom embraces John Howard Parnell. We thank you from our heart, John, for this right royal welcome to Greenerron, the promised land of our common ancestors. The freedom of the city is presented to him, embodied in a charter. The keys of Dublin, crossed on a crimson cushion, are given to him. He shows all that he is wearing green socks. Tom Kernan. You deserve it, Your Honor. On this day, twenty years ago, we overcame their hereditary enemy at Ladysmith. Our howardsers and camels swivel guns, played on his lines with telling effect. Alpha League onward. They charge. All is lost now. Do we yield? No! We drive them headlong. No! We charge! Deploying to the left, our light horse, swept across the heights of Plevna, and uttering their war cry, Bonifide Sabayoth, savored the Saracen gunners to a man. The Chapel of Freeman typesetters. Here Here. John Wise Nolan. There's the man that got away. James Stevens. A blue-coat schoolboy. Bravo! An old resident. You're a credit to your country, sir. That's what you are. An Applewoman. He's a man like Ireland wants. Bloom. My beloved subjects, a new era is about to dawn. I, Bloom, tell you verily, it is even now at hand. Yea, on the word of a bloom, ye shall ere long enter into the golden city which is to be, the new blue muslim in the Nova Hiberania of the future. Thirty-two workmen wearing rosettes from all the counties of Ireland, under the guidance of Derwin the Builder, construct the new blue muslim. It is a colossal edifice, with crystal roof, built in the shape of a huge pork kidney, containing forty thousand rooms. In the course of its extension, several buildings and monuments are demolished. Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds. Numerous houses are raised to the ground. The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all mucked in red with the letters L, B. Several paupers fill from a ladder. A part of the walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses. The sightseers, dying. Woe he to thee, de salutant. They die. A man in a brown Macintosh springs up through a trapdoor. He points an elongated finger at Bloom. Don't you believe a word he says? That man is Leopold Macintosh, the notorious fire-raiser. His real name is Higgins. Shoot him! Dog of a Christian! So much for Macintosh! A cannon-shot, the man in the Macintosh disappears. Bloom with his scepter strikes down poppies. The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of standing committees, are reported. Bloom's bodyguard distribute mourny money, commemoration medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay cigars, free cow bones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with gold thread, butterscotch, pineapple rock, be a do in the form of cocked hats, ready-made suits, porringers of toad in the hole, bottles of jade fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days indulgences, spurious coins, dairy-fed pork sausages, theatre passes, season tickets available for all tram lines, coupons of the royal and privileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of The World's Twelve Worst Books, Froggy and Fritz, Politic, Care of the Baby, Infantillic, Fifty Meals for Seven and Six, Culinic, Was Jesus a Sun-Myth, Historic, Expel that Pain, Medic, Infant's Compendium of the Universe, Cosmic, Let's All Chortle, Hilaric, Canvases Vardy Mecham, Journalic, Love Letters of Mother Assistant, Erotic, Whose Who in Space, Astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart, Melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth, Parsimonic, A General Rush and Scramble, Women Press Forward to Touch the Hem of Bloom's Robe, The Lady Gwendolyn Dubedat, Bursts Through the Throng, Leaps on His Horse and Kisses Him on Both Cheeks, Amid Great Acclamation, A Magnesium Flashlight Photograph is Taken, Babes and Sucklings are Held Up, The Women, Little Father, Little Father, The Babes and Sucklings, Clap Clap Hands till Pauline Comes Home, Cakes in His Pocket for Leo Alone, Bloom, Bending Down, Popes, Baby Boardman Gently in the Stomach, Baby Boardman, Hiccups, Curdled Milk, Flowing from His Mouth, Bloom, Shaking Hands with a Blind Stripling, My More Than Brother, Placing His Arms Round the Shoulders of an Old Couple, Dear Old Friends, He Plays Pussy Four Corners with Ragged Boys and Girls, Beep, Bo Peep, He Wheels Twins in a Perambulator, Tick-Tack Two, Would You Set a Shoe? He Performs Juggler's Tricks, Draws Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet, Silk Handkerchiefs from His Mouth, He Consoles a Widow, Absence Makes the Heart Grow Younger, He Dances the Highland Fling with Grotesque Antics, Leg it, ye devils! He Kisses the Bed Sores of a Palsied Veteran, Honourable Wounds, He Trips Up a Fit Policeman, U.P. Up, U.P. Up, He Whispers in the Ear of a Blashing Waitress and Laughes Kindly, He Eats a Raw Turnip Offered Him by Morris Butlerly, Farmer, He Refuses to Accept Three Shillings Offered Him by Joseph Heinz, Journalist, He Gives His Coat to a Beggar, He Takes Part in a Stomach Race with Elderly Male and Female Cripples, The Citizen Choked with Emotion Brushes Aside a Tier in His Emerald Muffler, May the Good God Bless Him! The Ram's Horns Sound for Silence, The Standard of Zion is Hoisted, Bloom Uncloaks Impressively, Revealing Obesity, Unrolls a Paper and Reads Solemly, An Official Translation is Read by Jimmy Henry, Assistant Town Clerk, The Court of Conscience is Now Open, His Most Catholic Majesty Will Now Administer Open Our Justice, Free Medical and Legal Advice, Solution of Doubles and Other Problems, All Cordially Invited, Given at This Our Loyal City of Dublin in the Year One of the Paradysical Era, Paddy Leonard, What Am I to Do About My Rates and Taxes, Bloom, Pay Them My Friend, Paddy Leonard, Thank You, Nosy Flynn, Can I Raise a Mortgage on My Fire Insurance, Bloom, Obduately, Sirs, Take Notice That By the Law of Torts You Are Bound Over in Your Own Recognizances For Six Months in the Sum of Five Pounds, J. J. O. Molloy, A Daniel Did I Say, Nay, A Peter O'Brien, Nosy Flynn, Where Do I Draw the Five Pounds, Pissa Burke, For Bladder Trouble, Bloom, Acid Nit Hydrochlor Dill, Twenty Minims, Tinked Nooks Vom Five Minims, Extra Terraxel Lick, Thirty Minims, Ach Dis Turindy, Chris Callinan, What Is the Parallax of the Sub-Solar Elliptic of Aldebaran, Pleased to Hear From You, Chris, K2, Joe Hines, Why Aren't You in Uniform? When My Progenitor of Sainted Memory wore the Uniform of the Austrian Despot in a Dank Prison, Where Was Yours? Ben Dollard, Pansies, Embellish, Beautify, Suburban Gardens, When Twins Arrive, Father, Potter, Dad, Starts Thinking, Larry O'Rourke, An Eight-Day License for My New Premises, You Remember Me, Sir Leo, When You Were in Number Seven, I'm Sending Around a Dozen of Stout for the Misses, Bloom, Coldly, You Have the Advantage of Me, Lady Bloom, Accepts No Presence, Crofton, This is Indeed a Festivity, Bloom, Solemnly, You Call it a Festivity, I Call it a Sacrament, Alexander Keys, When Will We Have Our Own House of Keys? I Stand for the Reform of Municipal Morals and the Plain Ten Commandments, New Worlds for Old, Union of All, Jew, Muslim and Gentile, Three Acres and a Cow for All Children of Nature, Saloon Motor Herces, Compulsory Manual Labor for All, All Parks Open to the Public Day and Night, Electric Discrubbers, Tuberculosis, Lunacy, War, and Menacancy Now Must Seize, General Amnesty, Weekly Carnival with Masked License, Bonuses for All, Esperanto the Universal Language with Universal Brotherhood, No More Patriotism of Bar Spongers and Dropsical Impostors, Free Money, Free Rent, Free Love, and a Free Lay Church in a Free Lay State, O'Madden Burke, Free Fox in a Free Hen Roast, Davey Byrne, Yawning, Mixed Races and Mixed Marriage, Lenehan, What About Mixed Beading? Bloom explains to those near him his schemes for social regeneration. All agree with him. The keeper of the Kildare Street Museum appears, dragging a lorry on which are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Calipegi, Venus Pandemos, Venus Metempsychosis, and plaster figures also naked, representing the new nine muses, Commerce, Operatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty of Speech, Plural Voting, Gastronomy, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainment, Painless Obstetrics, and Astronomy for the People. Father Farley, He is an Episcopalian, an Agnostic, and anything Gerion seeking to overthrow our holy faith. Mrs. Riordan tears up her will. I am disappointed in you, you bad man! Mother Grogan removes her boot to throw it at Bloom. You beast! You abominable person! Nosy Flynn. Give us a tune, Bloom, one of the old sweet songs. Bloom with rollicking humour. I vowed that I never would leave her. She turned out a cruel deceiver, with a to-reloom, to-reloom, to-reloom, to-reloom. Happy Hollihan. Good old Bloom. There's nobody like him after all. Patty Leonard. Stage, Irishman. Bloom. What railway opera is like a tram line in Gibraltar? The Rose of Castile. Laughter. Lenohan. Plagarist. Down with Bloom. The Veiled Sibyl. Enthusiastically. I'm a bloom-ite, and I glory in it. I believe in him in spite of all. I'd give my life for him the funniest man on earth. Bloom. Winks at the bystanders. I bet she's a bonnie, lassie. Theodore Purifoy. In fishing-cap and oil-skin jacket. He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. The Veiled Sibyl stabs herself. My hero-god! She dies. Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by stabbing, drowning, drinking, prusic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening their veins, refusing food, casting themselves under steam-rollers from the top of Nelson's Pillar into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads in gas ovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping from windows of different stories. Alexander J. Dowey. Violently. Fellow Christians and anti-bloom-ites, the man called Bloom is from the roots of hell, a disgrace to Christian men. A fiendish libertine from his earliest years, this stinking goat of Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery, recalling the cities of the plain with a dissolute grandum. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy, is the white bowl mentioned in the apocalypse. A worshipper of the scarlet woman, intrigue is the very breath of his nostrils, the steak faggots, and the cauldron of boiling oil are for him. Caliban. The mob. Lancham! Roast him! He's as bad as Parnell was. Mr. Fox. Mother Grogan throws her boot at Bloom. Several shopkeepers from Upper and Lower Dorset Street throw objects of little or no commercial value. Ham bones, condensed milk tins, unsalable cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat. Bloom, excitedly. This is Midsummer Madness. Some ghastly joke again. By heaven I am guiltless as the unsun snow. It was my brother Henry. He's my double. He lives in number two dolphins barn. Slander, the viper, has wrongfully accused me. Fellow countrymen. I call on my old friend Dr. Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to give medical testimony on my behalf. Dr. Mulligan, in motor jerking, green motor goggles on his brow. Dr. Bloom is bisexualy abnormal. He has recently escaped from Dr. Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen. Born out of bedrock hereditary epilepsy is present. The consequence of unbridled lust. Traces of elephantitis have been discovered among his ascendents. There are marked symptoms of chronic exhibitionism. Ambidexterity is also latent. He is prematurely bald from self-abuse, perversely idealistic in consequence. A reformed rake and has smetal teeth. In consequence of a family complex he has temporarily lost his memory, and I believe him to be more sinned against than sinning. I have made a pervaginal examination, and after application of the acid test, to 5,427 anal axillary pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be Virgo intacta. Bloom holds his high-grade hat over his genital organs. Dr. Madden. Hypospadia is also marked. In the interest of coming generations, I suggest that the parts affected should be preserved in spirits of wine in the National Territological Museum. Dr. Crothers. I have examined the patient's urine. It is albuminoid. Salivation is insufficient. The patella reflects intermittent. Dr. Punch Costello. The Fedor Gideakis is most perceptible. Dr. Dixon reads a Bill of Health. Professor Bloom is a finished example of the new womanly man. His moral nature is simple and lovable. Many have found him a dear man, a dear person. He is a rather quaint fellow on the whole, coy, though not feeble-minded, in the medical sense. He has written a really beautiful letter, a poem in itself, to the court missionary of the Reformed Priest's Protection Society, which clears up everything. He is practically a total abstainer, and I can affirm that he sleeps on a straw litter and eats the most Spartan food, cold dried grocers' peas. He wears a hair-shirt of pure Irish manufacture, winter and summer, and scourges himself every Saturday. He was, I understand, at one time a first-class misdemeanant in Glencree Reformatory. Another report states that he was a very posthumous child. I appeal for clemency in the name of the most sacred word our vocal organs have ever been called upon to speak. He is about to have a baby. General Commotion and Compassion Women Faint A wealthy American makes a street collection for Bloom. Gold and silver coins, blank checks, banknotes, jewels, treasury bonds, maturing bills of exchange, IOUs, wedding rings, watch chains, lockets, necklaces and bracelets are rapidly collected. Bloom Oh, I so want to be a mother. Mrs. Thornton In Nurse Tender's gown Embrace me tight, dear. You'll be soon over it. Tight, dear. Bloom embraces her tightly, and bears eight male yellow and white children. They appear on a red carpeted staircase adorned with expensive plants. All the octuplets are handsome, with valuable metallic faces. Well made, respectably dressed and well conducted. Speaking five modern languages fluently, and interested in various arts and sciences. Each has his name printed in legible letters on his shirt front. Nazadoro, Goldfinger, Chrysostomus, Main Doree, Silver Smile, Silver Selba, Vifarjant, Panargairos. They are immediately appointed to positions of high public trust in several different countries, as managing directors of banks, traffic managers of railways, chairman of limited liability companies, vice chairman of hotel syndicates, a voice. Bloom, are you the Messiah Ben Joseph, or Ben David? Bloom, darkly. You have said it. Brother Buzz Then perform a miracle like Father Charles. Bantam Lyons Prophecy who will win the Saint Lager Bloom walks on a net, covers his left eye with his left ear, passes through several walls, climbs Nelson's pillar, hangs from the top ledge by his eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters, shells included, heals several sufferers from King's Evil, contracts his face so as to resemble many historical personages. Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Byron, Watt Tyler, Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip Van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide, turn back, eclipses the sun by extending his little finger. Brini, Papal Nuncio, in Papal Zouave's uniform, steel curasses as breastplate, arm plates, thigh plates, leg plates, large profane mustaches and brown paper mitre. Leopoldy, Autumn, Generatio, Moses begat Noah, and Noah begat Unik, and Unik begat O'Halloran, and O'Halloran begat Guggenheim, and Guggenheim begat Agendoth, and Agendoth begat Netheim, and Netheim begat Lay Hirsch, and Lay Hirsch begat Jezreum, and Jezreum begat McKay, and McKay begat Ostroelopski, and Ostroelopski begat Smerdaz, and Smerdaz begat Weiss, and Weiss begat Schwartz, and Schwartz begat Adrienopoli, and Adrienopoli begat Aranquais, and Aranquais begat Louis Lawson, and Louis Lawson begat Ichabudun Nosor, and Ichabudun Nosor begat O'Donnell Magnus, and O'Donnell Magnus begat Chris Baum, and Chris Baum begat Ben Maiman, and Ben Maiman begat Dusty Roads, and Dusty Roads begat Benamor, and Benamor begat John Smith, and John Smith begat Savognanovic, and Savognanovic begat Jasperstone, and Jasperstone begat Vingtaytunium, and Vingtaytunium begat Sombate, and Sombate begat Virag, and Virag begat Blum, and Vokobitor Nomen Eus Amanuel. A dead hand writes on the wall. Blum is a cod. Crab in Bushranger's kit. What did you do in the cattle creep behind Kilbaric? A female infant shakes a rattle. And on the belly found bridge. A holly bush. And in the devil's glen. Blum blushes furiously all over, from fronds to nates. Three tears filling from his left eye. Spare my past. The Irish evicted tenants. In body-coats, knee-bridges, with Donnybrook fair shillelies. Sham-bock him. Blum, with asses' ears, seats himself in the pillory with crossed arms. His feet protruding. He whistles Don Giovanni a cenateco. Artane orphans joining hands, cape around him. Girls of the prison gate mission joining hands, cape around in the opposite direction. The artane orphans. The prison gate girls. A few C.K. tell me may, C.U.T. tell him from me. And he shall carry the sins of the people to Azazel, the spirit which is in the wilderness, and to Lilith, the night hag. And they shall stone him and defile him, yea, or from Agendath, Natem, and from Mizraim in the land of Ham. All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Blum. Many bona fide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and defile him. Mastiansky and Kittron approach in Gabbardines, wearing long earlocks. They wag their beards at Blum. Belial. Lamnain of Istria, the false messiah. Abulafia. Recant. To alteration one pair trousers, eleven shillings. Blum rubs his hands cheerfully. Just like old times. Poor Blum. Ruben J. Dodd, black-bearded Iscariot. Bad shepherd, bearing on his shoulders the drowned corpse of his son, approaches the pillory. Ruben J. whispers hoarsely. The squeak is out. A split is gone for the flatties. Nip the first rattler. The fire brigade. Brother Buzz invests Blum in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high-pointed hat. He places a bag of gunpowder round his neck, and hands him over to the civil power, saying, forgive him his trespasses. Lieutenant Myers of the Dublin Fire Brigade, by general request, sets fire to Blum. Lamentations. The Citizen. Tank-heaven. Blum, in a seamless garment marked IHS, stands upright amid Phoenix flames. Weep not for me, O daughters of Erin. He exhibits to Dublin reporters traces of burning. The daughters of Erin, in black garments, with large prayer-books and long lighted candles in their hands, kneel down and pray. Kidney of Blum pray for us. Flower of the Bath pray for us. Mentor of Menton pray for us. Canvasser of the Freeman pray for us. Charitable Mason pray for us. Wandering Soap pray for us. Sweep of Thin pray for us. Music without words pray for us. Reprover of the Citizen pray for us. Friend of all Phyllis pray for us. Mid-life Most Merciful pray for us. Potato Preservative against plague and pestilence pray for us. A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O'Brien, sings the chorus from Handel's Messiah. Alleluia for the Lord God Omnipotent Raineth, accompanied on the organ by Joseph Glyn. Blum becomes mute, shrunken, carbonized. Zoe. Tuck away till you're black in the face. Blum in Corbin with clay pipe stuck in the band, dusty brogues, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his hand, leading a black bog oak pig by a seagorn with a smile in his eye. Let me be going now, woman of the house, for by all the goats in Connemara, I'm after having the father and mother of a baiting. With a tear in his eye. All insanity, patriotism, sorrow for the dead, music, future of the race, to be or not to be, life's dream is our, end it peacefully, they can live on. He gazes far away mournfully. I am ruined, a few pastiles of Akinite, the blind's drawn, a letter, then lie back to rest. He breathes softly. No more, I have lived, fair, farewell. Zoe, stiffly, her finger in her neck fillet. Honest, till the next time. She sneers. Suppose you got up the wrong side of the bed, or came too quick with your best girl. Oh, I can read your thoughts. Blum, bitterly. Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork in a bottle. I'm sick of it. Let everything rip. Zoe, in sudden sulks. I hate a rutter that's insincere. Give a bleeding whore a chance. Blum, repentently. I am very disagreeable. You are a necessary evil. Where are you from, London? Zoe, glibly. Hogs Norton, where the pigs play the organs. I'm Yorkshire-born. She holds his hand, which is feeling for her nipple. I say, Tommy Tittle-mouse, stop that and begin worse. Have you cashed for a short time? Ten shillings. Blum smiles, nods slowly. More, Ory, more. And more's mother? She pats him, offhandedly, with velvet paws. Are you coming into the music room to see our new penula? Come, and I'll peel off. Blum, feeling his oxyput dubiously, with the unparalleled embarrassment of a harassed peddler, gauging the symmetry of her peeled pears. Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew the green-eyed monster. Ernestly. You know how difficult it is. I needn't tell you. Zoe, flattered. What the eye can't see, the heart can't grieve for. She pats him. Come. Laughing, witch, the hand that rocks the cradle. Blum, in baby linen and police, big-headed, with a call of dark hair, fixes big eyes on her fluid slip, and counts its bronze buckles with a chubby finger, his moist tongue, lolling and lisping. The buckles. Love me, love me not. Love me. Zoe. Silent means consent. With little, parted talons, she captures his hand, her forefinger giving to his palm the past touch of secret monitor, luring him to doom. Hot hands, cold gizzard. He hesitates amid scents, music, temptations. She leads him towards the steps, drawing him by the odour of her armpits, the vice of her painted eyes, the rustle of her slip, in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all the male brutes that have possessed her. The male brutes, exhaling sulphur over rut and dung and ramping in their loose box, faintly roaring, their drugged heads swaying to and fro. Blurgh. Zoe and Bloom reach the doorway, where two sister whores are seated. They examine him curiously from under their penciled brows, and smile to his hasty bow. He trips awkwardly. Zoe, her lucky hand instantly saving him. Oops, sir! Don't fall upstairs. Bloom. The just man falls seven times. He stands aside at the threshold. After you is good manners. Ladies first, gentlemen after.