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Ulysses 

274 

of

 1305 

What? Our envelopes. Hello, Jones, where are you going? 

Can’t stop, Robinson, I am hastening to purchase the only 

reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely’s Ltd, 85 Dame 

street. Well out of that ruck I am. Devil of a job it was 

collecting accounts of those convents. Tranquilla convent. 

That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple 

suited her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was 

crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that 

sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that 

morning. But glad to communicate with the outside 

world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of 

Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew I, I 

think she knew by the way she. If she had married she 

would have changed. I suppose they really were short of 

money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. 

No lard for them. My heart’s broke eating dripping. They 

like buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her 

veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker’s daughter. It 

was a nun they say invented barbed wire. 

He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S 

had plodded by. Rover cycleshop. Those races are on 

today. How long ago is that? Year Phil Gilligan died. We 

were in Lombard street west. Wait: was in Thom’s. Got 

the job in Wisdom Hely’s year we married. Six years. Ten 

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years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that’s right the big fire at 

Arnott’s. Val Dillon was lord mayor. The Glencree dinner. 

Alderman Robert O’Reilly emptying the port into his 

soup before the flag fell. Bobbob lapping it for the inner 

alderman. Couldn’t hear what the band played. For what 

we have already received may the Lord make us. Milly 

was a kiddy then. Molly had that elephantgrey dress with 

the braided frogs. Mantailored with selfcovered buttons. 

She didn’t like it because I sprained my ankle first day she 

wore choir picnic at the Sugarloaf. As if that. Old 

Goodwin’s tall hat done up with some sticky stuff. Flies’ 

picnic too. Never put a dress on her back like it. Fitted 

her like a glove, shoulders and hips. Just beginning to 

plump it out well. Rabbitpie we had that day. People 

looking after her. 

Happy. Happier then. Snug little room that was with 

the red wallpaper. Dockrell’s, one and ninepence a dozen. 

Milly’s tubbing night. American soap I bought: 

elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she 

looked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography. 

Poor papa’s daguerreotype atelier he told me of. 

Hereditary taste. 

He walked along the curbstone. 

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Stream of life. What was the name of that 

priestylooking chap was always squinting in when he 

passed? Weak eyes, woman. Stopped in Citron’s saint 

Kevin’s parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory is 

getting. Pen ...? Of course it’s years ago. Noise of the 

trams probably. Well, if he couldn’t remember the 

dayfather’s name that he sees every day. 

Bartell d’Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. 

Seeing her home after practice. Conceited fellow with his 

waxedup moustache. Gave her that song Winds that blow 

from the south. 

Windy night that was I went to fetch her there was that 

lodge meeting on about those lottery tickets after 

Goodwin’s concert in the supperroom or oakroom of the 

Mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet of her music blew 

out of my hand against the High school railings. Lucky it 

didn’t. Thing like that spoils the effect of a night for her. 

Professor Goodwin linking her in front. Shaky on his pins, 

poor old sot. His farewell concerts. Positively last 

appearance on any stage. May be for months and may be 

for never. Remember her laughing at the wind, her 

blizzard collar up. Corner of Harcourt road remember that 

gust. Brrfoo! Blew up all her skirts and her boa nearly 

smothered old Goodwin. She did get flushed in the wind. 

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Remember when we got home raking up the fire and 

frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her supper with 

the Chutney sauce she liked. And the mulled rum. Could 

see her in the bedroom from the hearth unclamping the 

busk of her stays: white. 

Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always 

warm from her. Always liked to let her self out. Sitting 

there after till near two taking out her hairpins. Milly 

tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. Happy. That was the 

night ... 

—O, Mr Bloom, how do you do? 

—O, how do you do, Mrs Breen? 

—No use complaining. How is Molly those times? 

Haven’t seen her for ages. 

—In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily. Milly has a 

position down in Mullingar, you know. 

—Go away! Isn’t that grand for her? 

—Yes. In a photographer’s there. Getting on like a 

house on fire. How are all your charges? 

—All on the baker’s list, Mrs Breen said. 

How many has she? No other in sight. 

—You’re in black, I see. You have no ... 

—No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral. 

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