Ulysses: Chapter 5 Lotus Eaters

Description

• Author: James Joyce

BY LORRIES ALONG SIR JOHN ROGERSON'S QUAY MR BLOOM WALKED soberly, past Windmill lane,

Leask's the linseed crusher's, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address

too. And past the sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and

walked through Lime street. By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of

offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her

forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he

won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses! Waiting outside pubs to bring

da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend street,

passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols' the

undertaker's. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged that job for

O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut. Corney. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What

a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay.

O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom,

tooraloom, tooraloom.


In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and

read the legends of lead-papered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Rather

warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While his

eyes still read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his

right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning. Under their dropped

lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his high grade ha. Just

there. His right hand came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card

behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.

So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over again: choice blend, made of

the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world,

big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them.

Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing around in the sun, in dolce far niente.

Not doing a hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel.

Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes.

Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping

sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where

was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah, in the dead sea, floating on his back,

reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt.

Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the

weight of the. Or is it the volume is equal of the weight? It's a law something like that.

Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking

curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second, per

second. Law of falling bodies: per second, per second. They all fall to the ground. The

earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.

He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like

that something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it,

rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his

trouserleg. Careless air: just drop in to see. Per second, per second. Per second for

every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the

postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.

He handed the card through the brass grill.

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

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with

soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils,

smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far last time.

The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked

and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.

Henry Flower, Esq.


c/o P. O. Westland Row,


City.


Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the

soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap

and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin

fusiliers. Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier

to enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night:

disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten

with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised

like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed

up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.


He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend

matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the

envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His

fingers drew forth the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned

on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.

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

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

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

-- How's the body?

-- Fine. How are you?

-- Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.

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

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

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

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

A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.

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

-- I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night.

Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?

-- I know.

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the

Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stood still, waiting, while

the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat

with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand

of her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo

match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does.

Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her

once take the starch out of her.

-- I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do you call him

Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.

Doran, Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came Hoppy. Having a

wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his veiled eyelids he saw the

bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture

about gives long sight perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side

will she get up?

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

Paddy Dignam, he said.

Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces dangling. Well

turned foot. What is he fostering over that change for? Sees me looking. Eye out for other

fellow always. Good fallback. Two strings to her bow.

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

Proud: rich: silk stockings.

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

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

-- What's wrong with him? he said. He's dead, he said. And, faith, he filled up. Is it

Paddy Dignam? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. I was with him no later than

Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch. Yes, he said. He's gone. He died on Monday,

poor fellow.

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

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and the peri.

Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace street hallway. Monday was it

settling her garter. Her friend covering the display of. Esprit de corps. Well, what are

you gaping at?

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

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

The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich gloved hand on

the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in the sun: flicker, flick.

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

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

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:

What is home without


Plumtree's Potted Meat?


Incomplete.


With it an abode of bliss.


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


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

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

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

Belfast, on the twentyfifth.

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

Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and. No book.

Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady and fair man. Cat furry

black ball. Torn strip of envelope.

Love's


Old


Sweet


Song


Comes lo-ve's old...


-- It's a kind of a tour, don't you see? Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Sweet song. There's a

committee formed. Part shares and part profits.


M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.

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

He moved to go.

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

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

-- Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral, will you? I'd

like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn

up and then the coroner and myself would have to go down if the body is found. You just

shove in my name if I'm not there, will you?

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

-- Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could. Well,

tolloll. Just C. P. M'Coy will do.

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

Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd like my job.

Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, riveted edges, double

action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and

never heard tidings of it from that good day to this.

Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just got an. Reedy

freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way: for a little ballad. No guts

in it. You and me, don't you know? In the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that

would. Can't he hear the difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain

somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get

worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife.

Wonder is he pimping after me?

Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings.

Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's summer sale. No, he's going on

straight. Hello. Leah tonight: Mrs Bandman Palmer. Like to see her in that again. Hamlet

she played last night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed

suicide? Poor papa! How he used to talk about Kate Bateman in that! Outside the Adelphi in

London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And

Ristori in Vienna. What is this the right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No.

The scene he was always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and

puts his fingers on his face.

-- Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his father to

die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his father and left the God of

his father.

Every word is so deep, Leopold.

Poor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his face. That day!

O dear! O dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was the best for him.

Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the hazard. No use

thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow.

He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing teeth. Their

full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their

Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses

stuck in nosebags. Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss.

Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Might be

happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they look. Still their neigh can be very

irritating.

He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Might

just walk into her here. The lane is safer.

He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies, all weathers, all

places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non. Like to give them an odd

cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. He hummed:

La ci darem la mano


La la lala la la.


He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the

station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements. With careful

tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near

the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A

wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed

cut a piece out of his mantel not to wake her. Open it. And once I played marbles when I

went to that old dame's school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the

letter within the newspaper.


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

does she say?

Dear Henry,


I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like

my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I

could punish you for that. I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other

world. Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word. Are you not happy in your

home you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me

what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when

will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much

drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me

more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you

naughty boy, if you do not write. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my

request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty

darling. I have such a bad headache today and write by return to your longing

MARTHA.

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

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in

his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison

bouquet to strike him down. Then, walking slowly forward, he read the letter again,

murmuring here and there a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your

cactus if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon

anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having read it all he took it

from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.


Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she write it herself.

Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could meet one

Sunday after the rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running

round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further

next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of-words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try it

anyhow. A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh? He

threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. Queer the number of

pins they always have. No roses without thorns.

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

together in the rain.

O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers.


She didn't know what to do


To keep it up


To keep it up.


It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus

bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife use? Now could you make out a thing

like that?


To keep it up.

Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money.

He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two sluts in the Coombe would

listen.

To keep it up.

Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let

everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one,

jar on her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of the well

stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go

to the trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all.

Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and

scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white

flutter then all sank.

Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple

bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of

Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter. Still the other brother lord

Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A

million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of

porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about.

Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.

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

An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in

his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. The bungholes sprang open and a huge

dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land,

a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch he doffed his

hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband. Damn

it. I might have tried to work M'Coy for a pass to Mullingar.

Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S. J. on saint Peter

Claver and the African mission. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the

heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them. Prayers for

the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The protestants

the same. Convert Dr. William J. Walsh D. D. to the true religion. Buddha their god lying

on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning.

Not like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock.

Chopsticks? Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguished looking. Sorry I didn't

work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a

fool but wasn't. They're taught that. He's not going out in bluey specs with the sweat

rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing.

Like to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life.

Lap it up like milk, I suppose.

The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor

and entered softly by the rere.

Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next some

girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass.

Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads

bowed. A batch knelt at the altar rails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding

the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are

they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the

next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all

the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus. Body.

Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem

to chew it; only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse why the cannibals

cotton to it.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek

their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and

newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They

were about him here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting

for it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread:

unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Lollipop. It does.

Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is

within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family

party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so

lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a big spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you

really believe in it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues

bleeding. Old fellow asleep near that confession box. Hence those snores. Blind faith.

Safe in the arms of Kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next year.

He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an instant before it,

showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace affair he had on. Suppose he lost the

pin of his. He wouldn't know what to do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back I. N. R.

I.? No: I. H. S. Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have

suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with a veil and black

bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here with a ribbon round her neck and do

the other thing all the same on the sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's

evidence on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion

every morning. This very church. Peter Carey. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of. Denis

Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home. And plotting that murder all

the time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for them, there's always something

shiftylooking about them. They're not straight men of business either. O no she's not

here: the flower: no, no. By the way did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.

The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly. Wine.

Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank what they are used to Guinness's

porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and

Cochrane's ginger ale (aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine: only the other.

Cold comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than

another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the whole atmosphere of the. Quite right.

Perfectly right that is.

Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Pity. Who has the

organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make that instrument talk, the vibrato:

fifty pounds a year they say he had in Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day,

the Stabat Mater of Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate?

Christ, but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped. Could

hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I could feel the

thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up:

Quis est homo!

Some of that old sacred music is splendid. Mercadante: seven last words. Mozart's

twelfth mass: the Gloria in that. Those old popes were keen on music, on art and statues

and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example too. They had a gay old time while it

lasted. Healthy too chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green

Chartreuse. Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind

of voice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses. Connoisseurs.

Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh

don't they? Gluttons, tall, long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it.

He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and bless all the

people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glanced about him and then stood up,

looking over the risen hats. Stand up at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on

their knees again and he sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the

altar, holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered each other in

Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a card:

-- O God, our refuge and our strength.

Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them the bone. I

remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Gloria and immaculate virgin. Joseph her

spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if you understood what it was all about.

Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants to. Then

I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon In their hands. More than

doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And did you

chachachachacha? And why did you? Look down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering

gallery walls have ears. Husband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. Then out she

comes. Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary.

Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant imitation.

Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps

those must be in Rome: they work the whole show. And don't they rake in the money too?

Bequests also: to the P. P. for the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the

repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries and convents. The

priest in the Fermanagh will case in the witness box. No browbeating him. He had his

answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The

doctors of the church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.

The priest prayed:

-- Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our safeguard

against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain him, we humbly pray): and

do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and

with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.

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

behind: thanksgiving.

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

Easter duty.

He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the time. Women

enjoy it. Annoyed if you don't. Why-didn't you tell me before. Never tell you. But we.

Excuse, miss, there's a (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket

unhooked. Glimpses of the moon. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther

south. He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door into

the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl while before him and

behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of

Prescott's dyeworks: a widow in her weeds. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. He

covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion

made up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely

move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton Long's, founded in the

year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.

He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other trousers. O, and

I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, it's not his

fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of

the month it must have been or the second. O he can look it up in the prescriptions book.

The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have.

Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher's stone. The alchemists. Drugs age you

after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually

changes your character. Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his

alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure

you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor whack. He ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary

or emulsion. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck.

Simples. Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus

paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric

poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy

where you least expect it. Clever of nature.

-- About a fortnight ago, sir?

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He waited by the counter, inhaling the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of

sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains.

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

water...

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

-- And white wax also, he said.

Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to her eyes, Spanish,

smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Those homely recipes are often

the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in

buttermilk. Skinfood. One of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one

skin. Leopold yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you

want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau d'Espagne. That orangeflower. Pure curd

soap. Water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Time to get a bath round the corner.

Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it.

Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine

business with pleasure. Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all day. Funeral be

rather glum.

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

-- No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and I'll take one

of those soaps. How much are they?

-- Fourpence, sir.

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

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

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

-- Good, Mr Bloom said.

He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the coolwrappered

soap in his left hand.

At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:

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

Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look younger. He does

look balmy. Younger than I am.

Bantam Lyons' yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a wash too. Take off

the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears' soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp

wants oiling.

-- I want to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons said. Where

the bugger is it?

He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber's itch. Tight

collar he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.

-- You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.

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

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

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

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

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

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr

Bloom's arms.

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

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

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling.

Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys stealing to

put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence.

Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They

never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.

He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a mosque, redbaked

bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He eyed the horseshoe poster over the

gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had

made it round like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big:

college. Something to catch the eye.

There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on hands: might take a turn

in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, sir?

Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around

under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here. Duck for six wickets.

Still Captain Buller broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg.

Donnybrook fair more in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took

the floor. Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream

of life we trace is dearer than them all.

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

my body.

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by

scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and

sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark

tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of

thousands, a languid floating flower.

Disclaimer:
Contents of this page are indexed from the Internet. All actions are under your responsability. Email us to report illegal contents or external links and we'll remove them immediately.

Please check the description for download links if any or do a search to find alternative books.

Can't Download?
Please search mirrors if you can't find download links for "Ulysses: Chapter 5 Lotus Eaters" in "Description" and someone else may update the links. Check the comments when back to find any updates.

Search Mirrors
Maybe some mirror pages will be helpful, search this book at top of this page or click here to find more info.

1. Ebooks list page : 86
2. Law, Orientalism and Postcolonialism: The Jurisdiction of the Lotus-Eaters (Discourses of Law)
3. Ulysses: Chapter 2 Nestor
4. Ulysses: Chapter 8 Lestrygonians
5. Ulysses: Chapter 6 Hades
6. Ulysses: Chapter 4 Calypso
7. Ulysses: Chapter 17 Ithaca
8. Ulysses: Chapter 12 Cyclops
9. Ulysses: Chapter 15 Circe
10. Ulysses: Chapter 11 Sirens
11. Ulysses: Chapter 13 Nausicca
12. Ulysses: Chapter 3 Proteus
13. Ulysses: Chapter 1 Telemachus
14. Ulysses: Chapter 7 Aeolus
15. Ulysses: Chapter 16 Eumaeus
16. Ulysses: Chapter 18 Penelope