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Ulysses 

230 

of

 1305 

The bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in 

quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was struggling 

up with the second tissue. 

—Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said, clutching him for an 

instant and making a grimace. 

—My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you 

hurt? I’m in a hurry. 

—Knee, Lenehan said. 

He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee: 

—The accumulation of the anno Domini. 

—Sorry, Mr Bloom said. 

He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J. J. 

O’Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two 

shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway 

from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps: 

—We are the boys of Wexford 

Who fought with heart and hand. 

EXIT BLOOM 

—I’m just running round to Bachelor’s walk, Mr 

Bloom said, about this ad of Keyes’s. Want to fix it up. 

They tell me he’s round there in Dillon’s. 

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He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The 

editor who, leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped 

his head on his hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm 

amply. 

—Begone! he said. The world is before you. 

—Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out. 

J. J. O’Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan’s hand 

and read them, blowing them apart gently, without 

comment. 

—He’ll get that advertisement, the professor said, 

staring through his blackrimmed spectacles over the 

crossblind. Look at the young scamps after him. 

—Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running to the 

window. 

A STREET CORTEGE 

Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering 

newsboys in Mr Bloom’s wake, the last zigzagging white 

on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail of white bowknots. 

—Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and 

cry, Lenehan said, and you’ll kick. O, my rib risible! 

Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk. Small nines. Steal 

upon larks. 

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He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor 

on sliding feet past the fireplace to J. J. O’Molloy who 

placed the tissues in his receiving hands. 

—What’s that? Myles Crawford said with a start. 

Where are the other two gone? 

—Who? the professor said, turning. They’re gone 

round to the Oval for a drink. Paddy Hooper is there with 

Jack Hall. Came over last night. 

—Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where’s my 

hat? 

He walked jerkily into the office behind, parting the 

vent of his jacket, jingling his keys in his back pocket. 

They jingled then in the air and against the wood as he 

locked his desk drawer. 

—He’s pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a 

low voice. 

—Seems to be, J. J. O’Molloy said, taking out a 

cigarettecase in murmuring meditation, but it is not always 

as it seems. Who has the most matches? 

THE CALUMET OF PEACE 

He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one 

himself. Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and lit 

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their cigarettes in turn. J. J. O’Molloy opened his case 

again and offered it. 

—Thanky vous, Lenehan said, helping himself. 

The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry 

on his brow. He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at 

professor MacHugh: 

—’Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, 

‘Twas empire charmed thy heart. 

The professor grinned, locking his long lips. 

—Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles 

Crawford said. 

He took a cigarette from the open case. Lenehan, 

lighting it for him with quick grace, said: 

—Silence for my brandnew riddle! 

—Imperium romanum, J. J. O’Molloy said gently. It 

sounds nobler than British or Brixton. The word reminds 

one somehow of fat in the fire. 

Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards 

the ceiling. 

—That’s it, he said. We are the fat. You and I are the 

fat in the fire. We haven’t got the chance of a snowball in 

hell. 

THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME 

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—Wait a moment, professor MacHugh said, raising 

two quiet claws. We mustn’t be led away by words, by 

sounds of words. We think of Rome, imperial, imperious, 

imperative. 

He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained 

shirtcuffs, pausing: 

—What was their civilisation? Vast, I allow: but vile. 

Cloacae: sewers. The Jews in the wilderness and on the 

mountaintop said: It is meet to be here. Let us build an altar to 

Jehovah. The Roman, like the Englishman who follows in 

his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he set 

his foot (on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal 

obsession. He gazed about him in his toga and he said: It is 

meet to be here. Let us construct a watercloset. 

—Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan said. Our 

old ancient ancestors, as we read in the first chapter of 

Guinness’s, were partial to the running stream. 

—They were nature’s gentlemen, J. J. O’Molloy 

murmured. But we have also Roman law. 

—And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh 

responded. 

—Do you know that story about chief baron Palles? J. 

J. O’Molloy asked. It was at the royal university dinner. 

Everything was going swimmingly ... 

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