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Ulysses 

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wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow would 

lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get 

a job making the new invention? 

Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a 

buff suit with a crape armlet. Not much grief there. 

Quarter mourning. People in law perhaps. 

They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark’s, under 

the railway bridge, past the Queen’s theatre: in silence. 

Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. 

Could I go to see LEAH tonight, I wonder. I said I. Or 

the  Lily of Killarney? Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big 

powerful change. Wet bright bills for next week. Fun on 

the Bristol. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the 

Gaiety. Have to stand a drink or two. As broad as it’s long. 

He’s coming in the afternoon. Her songs. 

Plasto’s. Sir Philip Crampton’s memorial fountain bust. 

Who was he? 

—How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising 

his palm to his brow in salute. 

—He doesn’t see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. 

How do you do? 

—Who? Mr Dedalus asked. 

—Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his 

quiff. 

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Just that moment I was thinking. 

Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the 

Red Bank the white disc of a straw hat flashed reply: 

spruce figure: passed. 

Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then 

those of his right hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything 

more in him that they she sees? Fascination. Worst man in 

Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes feel what a 

person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I am just 

looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone. 

Body getting a bit softy. I would notice that: from 

remembering. What causes that? I suppose the skin can’t 

contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off. But the 

shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders. Hips. 

Plump. Night of the dance dressing. Shift stuck between 

the cheeks behind. 

He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, 

sent his vacant glance over their faces. 

Mr Power asked: 

—How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom? 

—O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts 

of it. It’s a good idea, you see ... 

—Are you going yourself? 

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—Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to 

go down to the county Clare on some private business. 

You see the idea is to tour the chief towns. What you lose 

on one you can make up on the other. 

—Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson 

is up there now. 

Have you good artists? 

—Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes, 

we’ll have all topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John 

MacCormack I hope and. The best, in fact. 

—And  Madame, Mr Power said smiling. Last but not 

least. 

Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft 

politeness and clasped them. Smith O’Brien. Someone has 

laid a bunch of flowers there. Woman. Must be his 

deathday. For many happy returns. The carriage wheeling 

by Farrell’s statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees. 

Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered 

his wares, his mouth opening: oot. 

—Four bootlaces for a penny. 

Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office 

in Hume street. Same house as Molly’s namesake, 

Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Has that silk hat 

ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning too. Terrible 

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comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at a 

wake. O’Callaghan on his last legs. 

And Madame. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is 

in to clean. Doing her hair, humming. voglio e non vorrei. 

No.  vorrei e non. Looking at the tips of her hairs to see if 

they are split. Mi trema un poco il. Beautiful on that tre her 

voice is: weeping tone. A thrush. A throstle. There is a 

word throstle that expresses that. 

His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power’s goodlooking 

face. Greyish over the ears. Madame: smiling. I smiled 

back. A smile goes a long way. Only politeness perhaps. 

Nice fellow. Who knows is that true about the woman he 

keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it 

told me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that 

would get played out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton 

met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak. 

What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury’s. Or the Moira, was 

it? 

They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator’s form. 

Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power. 

—Of the tribe of Reuben, he said. 

A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping 

round the corner of Elvery’s Elephant house, showed 

them a curved hand open on his spine. 

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—In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said. 

Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said 

mildly: 

—The devil break the hasp of your back! 

Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from 

the window as the carriage passed Gray’s statue. 

—We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said 

broadly. 

His eyes met Mr Bloom’s eyes. He caressed his beard, 

adding: 

—Well, nearly all of us. 

Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his 

companions’ faces. 

—That’s an awfully good one that’s going the rounds 

about Reuben J and the son. 

—About the boatman? Mr Power asked. 

—Yes. Isn’t it awfully good? 

—What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn’t hear it. 

—There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and 

he determined to send him to the Isle of Man out of 

harm’s way but when they were both ... 

—What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody 

hobbledehoy is it? 

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