Ulysses

shillings a maidenhead. Fresh thing was never touched. Fifteen. There’s no-one in it only her old father that’s dead drunk. She points. In the gap of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled Bridie Kelly stands. Bridie Hatch street. Any good in your mind? With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. A burly rough pursues with booted strides. He stumbles on the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom. Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker. The Bawd Her wolfeyes shining. He’s getting his pleasure. You won’t get a virgin in the flash houses. Ten shillings. Don’t be all night before the polis in plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is a bitch. Leering, Gerty MacDowell limps forward. She draws from behind, ogling, and shows coyly her bloodied clout. Gerty With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. She murmurs. You did that. I hate you. Bloom I? When? You’re dreaming. I never saw you. The Bawd Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. Writing the gentleman false letters. Streetwalking and soliciting. Better for your mother take the strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you. Gerty To Bloom. When you saw all the secrets of my bottom drawer. She paws his sleeve, slobbering. Dirty married man! I love you for doing that to me. She slides away crookedly. Mrs Breen in man’s frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, stands in the causeway, her roguish eyes wideopen, smiling in all her herbivorous buckteeth. Mrs Breen Mr⁠ ⁠… Bloom Coughs gravely. Madam, when we last had this pleasure by letter dated the sixteenth instant⁠ ⁠… Mrs Breen Mr Bloom! You down here in the haunts of sin! I caught you nicely! Scamp! Bloom Hurriedly. Not so loud my name. Whatever do you think me? Don’t give me away. Walls have hears. How do you do? It’s ages since I. You’re looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable weather we are having this time of year. Black refracts heat. Short cut home here. Interesting quarter. Rescue of fallen women Magdalen asylum. I am the secretary⁠ ⁠… Mrs Breen Holds up a finger. Now don’t tell a big fib! I know somebody won’t like that. O just wait till I see Molly! Slily. Account for yourself this very minute or woe betide you! Bloom Looks behind. She often said she’d like to visit. Slumming. The exotic, you see. Negro servants too in livery if she had money. Othello black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the bones and cornerman at the Livermore christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter. Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their buttonholes leap out. Each has his banjo slung. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires. Flashing white Kaffir eyes and tusks they rattle through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back to back, toe heel, heel toe, with smackfatclacking nigger lips. Tom and Sam

There’s someone in the house with Dina
There’s someone in the house, I know,
There’s someone in the house with Dina
Playing on the old banjo.

They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, twanging they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away. Bloom With a sour tenderish smile. A little frivol, shall we, if you are so inclined? Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a second? Mrs Breen Screams gaily. O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself! Bloom For old sake’s sake. I only meant a square party, a mixed marriage mingling of our different little conjugials. You know I had a soft corner for you. Gloomily. ’Twas I sent you that valentine of the dear gazelle. Mrs Breen Glory Alice, you do look a holy show! Killing simply. She puts out her hand inquisitively. What are you hiding behind your back? Tell us, there’s a dear. Bloom Seizes her wrist with his free hand. Josie Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember, harking back in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night Georgina Simpson’s housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading! Subject, what is in this snuffbox! Mrs Breen You were the lion of the night with your seriocomic recitation and you looked the part. You were always a favourite with the ladies. Bloom Squire of dames, in dinner jacket, with wateredsilk facings, blue masonic badge in his buttonhole, black bow and mother-of-pear studs, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his hand. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ireland, home and beauty. Mrs Breen The dear dead days beyond recall. Love’s old sweet song. Bloom Meaningfully dropping his voice. I confess I’m teapot with curiosity to find out whether some person’s something is a little teapot at present. Mrs Breen Gushingly. Tremendously teapot! London’s teapot and I’m simply teapot all over me. She rubs sides with him. After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman. Under the mistletoe. Two is company. Bloom Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an amber halfmoon, his fingers and thumb passing slowly down to her soft moist meaty palm which she surrenders gently. The witching hour of night. I took the splinter out of this hand, carefully, slowly. Tenderly, as he slips on her finger a ruby ring. Là ci darem la mano. Mrs Breen In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, a tinsel sylph’s diadem on her brow with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, breathing quickly. Voglio e non. You’re hot! You’re scalding! The left hand nearest the heart. Bloom When you made your present choice they said it was beauty and the beast. I can never forgive you for that. His clenched fist at his brow. Think what it means. All you meant to me then. Hoarsely. Woman, it’s breaking me! Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with