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Ulysses 

91 

of

 1305 

He took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, 

dallying still. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without 

me. All days make their end. By the way next when is it 

Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new year, 

mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn Tennyson, 

gentleman poet. Già. For the old hag with the yellow 

teeth. And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. Già. 

My teeth are very bad. Why, I wonder. Feel. That one is 

going too. Shells. Ought I go to a dentist, I wonder, with 

that money? That one. This. Toothless Kinch, the 

superman. Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean 

something perhaps? 

My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not 

take it up? 

His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn’t. 

Better buy one. 

He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge 

of rock, carefully. For the rest let look who will. 

Behind. Perhaps there is someone. 

He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. 

Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, her 

sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, 

silently moving, a silent ship.  

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Ulysses 

92 

of

 1305 

II  

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of 

beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, 

a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, 

fried hencods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton 

kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly 

scented urine. 

Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the 

kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the humpy 

tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of 

doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel 

a bit peckish. 

The coals were reddening. 

Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. 

She didn’t like her plate full. Right. He turned from the 

tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the 

fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of 

tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a 

leg of the table with tail on high. 

—Mkgnao! 

—O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the 

fire. 

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The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly 

round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over 

my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr. 

Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black 

form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white 

button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. 

He bent down to her, his hands on his knees. 

—Milk for the pussens, he said. 

—Mrkgnao! the cat cried. 

They call them stupid. They understand what we say 

better than we understand them. She understands all she 

wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice 

never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what I look like to 

her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me. 

—Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. 

Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid 

pussens as the pussens. 

Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to 

like it. 

—Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly. 

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, 

mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite 

teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed 

till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the 

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Ulysses 

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 1305 

dresser, took the jug Hanlon’s milkman had just filled for 

him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it 

slowly on the floor. 

—Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap. 

He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light 

as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it 

true if you clip them they can’t mouse after. Why? They 

shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in 

the dark, perhaps. 

He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No 

good eggs with this drouth. Want pure fresh water. 

Thursday: not a good day either for a mutton kidney at 

Buckley’s. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a 

pork kidney at Dlugacz’s. While the kettle is boiling. She 

lapped slower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their 

tongues so rough? To lap better, all porous holes. Nothing 

she can eat? He glanced round him. No. 

On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the 

hall, paused by the bedroom door. She might like 

something tasty. Thin bread and butter she likes in the 

morning. Still perhaps: once in a way. 

He said softly in the bare hall: 

—I’m going round the corner. Be back in a minute. 

And when he had heard his voice say it he added: 

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Ulysses 

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 1305 

—You don’t want anything for breakfast? 

A sleepy soft grunt answered: 

—Mn. 

No. She didn’t want anything. He heard then a warm 

heavy sigh, softer, as she turned over and the loose brass 

quoits of the bedstead jingled. Must get those settled 

really. Pity. All the way from Gibraltar. Forgotten any 

little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for 

it. Old style. Ah yes! of course. Bought it at the governor’s 

auction. Got a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old 

Tweedy. Yes, sir. At Plevna that was. I rose from the 

ranks, sir, and I’m proud of it. Still he had brains enough 

to make that corner in stamps. Now that was farseeing. 

His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled 

heavy overcoat and his lost property office secondhand 

waterproof. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Daresay lots of 

officers are in the swim too. Course they do. The sweated 

legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto’s 

high grade ha. He peeped quickly inside the leather 

headband. White slip of paper. Quite safe. 

On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the 

latchkey. Not there. In the trousers I left off. Must get it. 

Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe. No use disturbing her. 

She turned over sleepily that time. He pulled the halldoor 

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