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Ulysses 

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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. 

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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 twenty-

fifth. 

—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. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope. 

Love’s 

Old 

Sweet 

Song 

Comes lo-ove’s old ... 

—It’s a kind of a tour, don’t you see, Mr Bloom said 

thoughtfully.  Sweeeet 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. 

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—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, rivetted 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 

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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 Bandmann 

Palmer. Like to see her again in that. Hamlet she played 

last night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. 

Why Ophelia committed suicide. Poor papa! How he 

used to talk of 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 

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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 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. 

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