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This partial draft of Circe-- probably the third or fourth-- was composed in Paris in the summer of 1920. For more details, try: ftp://ftp.trentu.ca/pub/jjoyce/newgame/circe.txt (470k)
News (Sept2000): lost draft found (Sam Slote reports it's definitely later than this one.)
If your browser supports frames, you can compare this draft to the published version using this simple page.
(Night town. Rows of grimy houses with gaping doors. Rare smoky lamps. Little men and women squabble for ices round a halted gondola. They receive wafers between which are wedged lumps of coral and coppery snow. The little men and women scatter slowly, sucking up the melting coloured snow. They are children. The high reared comb of the gondola pushes on through the dark, passing under the lamplight, white and blue. Whistles are heard in the distance, calling and answering: Wait, my lover, and I'll be with you. On a step a ragpicker crouches to shoulder a sack. A crone standing by with a guttering oil lamp rams a last bottle in the neck of his sack. He shoulders it and lurches off mutely, tugging his peaked cap askew on his eyes. The crone goes back in her lair, swaying her lamp. A bandylegged child, asquat on the doorstep with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in jerks, and clutching her skirt it scrambles up. A drunken navvy grips with both hands the railings of an area, swaying heavily to and fro. At a corner two night patrols, in shoulder capes, stand tall and silent, their hands at rest on their staff holsters. In an openwindowed room, lit by a candlestick in a bottleneck, a slut combs the natts out of another slut's hair. A plate is heard to crash: a woman's scream follows. Figures, male and female, continue to pass through the murk, round corners, into doorways. Heads are thrust out of windows to listen. A child is heard crying. The oaths of a man are roared out indistinctly. They die away. A girl's voice sings out, high and still young, from a lane:
I gave it to Molly
Because she was jolly
The leg of the duck
The leg of the duck.Three redcoats, swaggersticks tight in their oxters, turn about towards the voice and, without halting, emit in chorus a loud fart from their mouths. Laughter of men in the lane. A hoarse hag calls:
--Signs on you, dirtyarse. More power, the Kildare girl.
The redcoats turn as before and reply. They march on. The girl's voice rises higher:
I gave it to Nelly
To stick in her belly
The leg of the duck
The leg of the duck.The redcoats halt beside the patrol and talk. Their tunics are bloodbright near the lamp, their blond heads close cropped, their biscuit caps set on the side lobes are round ballsockets. A girl with hair on the wind rushes across the street, her shawl flapping from her arms. She shrieks, laughing, rushing, and is engulfed in a doorway. A burly navvy pursues with long strides. He stumbles on the steps but recovers and plunges into the doorway after her. Weaker shrieks of laughter are heard: they stop. A young man in black with a wide hat, pointing ahead with a flourish of his stick, passes through the figures, talking. A broader young man wearing a jockey cap walks beside him. A sneer of discontent is seen on his beaked face. An elderly woman lolled against a doorframe looks out as they pass and calls in a discreet whisper:
--Sst! (wait) Come here till I tell you. Sst! Maidenhead inside. They pass on, unseeing. She calls after them:
--Trinity medicals. Fallopian tube.
Still unheeded she spits. A redhaired girl seated with a friend on a doorstep draws her shawl rapidly across her nostrils as she relates:
--And says the one: I seen you Faithful place with your squarepusher in the come-to-bed hat. That's not for you to say, says I. You never seen me in the mantrap with a highlander, says I. And her walking with two fellows the one time.
Lynch So that?
Stephen So that the art of gesture renders visible not the lay sense but the first formal rhythm. Who wants a gesture to illustrate a loaf, a jug? This movement illustrates thou and the loaf and jug of bread, or wine, I mean, in Omar. Hold my stick.
Lynch Damn your yellow stick.
Stephen gives the stick quickly and slowly holds out his hands, his head going back till both hands are a span or so from his breast, downturned in planes at an angle, the fingers about to open, the left hand being higher.
Lynch Which is the jug of bread? Illustrate thou. Here take your stick.
They pass out of sight. A barefoot urchin scrambles to a street lamp and clasping climbs it in jerks. From the top he slides down to his ring of urchin friends. Another starts to climb. The navvy, leaving hold of the railings, lurches against the lamp. The urchin slides down: all scuttle off in the darkness. The navvy, swaying, presses a forefinger against a wing of his nose. Swaying, he ejects from the other nostril a long dribbling jet of snot.
Bloom comes round the corner hastily and stops. In each hand he has a paper parcel, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen and a cold sheep's trotter sprinkled with wholepepper, the other two slices of quatern loaf and a tablet of Fry's chocolate. He frowns slightly and hesitates. A stooped bearded figure appears beside him, in horned spectacles dressed in a long caftan embroidered with dogs' heads and wearing a smoking cap with crimson tassel.
Rudolph Half crown wasted. I told you not go with drunken goys ever.
Bloom I know.
He looks down, conscious of error, feeling through the paper a warm crubeen and a cold trotter.
Rudolph What are you doing? Are you not my son Leopold?
Bloom Yes, father.
Rudolph (severely) One night they bring you home drunk as a dog after spend your good money. What you call those running chaps?
Bloom Harriers. Only that once.
Rudolph Once! All mud head to foot. Cut your hand open.
Bloom (weakly) They asked me to race them. I slipped.
Rudolph (with contempt) Goim Nachez. Nice spectacles for your mother.
The Mother's Voice (in shrill alarm) O, blessed Redeemer, where were you at all?
Bloom looks down at his clothes and bestows the chocolate and bread in a side pocket. A handsome woman in Turkish costume stands before him. Her opulent curves fill out her scarlet trousers and jacket. A white yashmak, violet in the night, covers her face and hair leaving free only her large dark eyes.
Marion Bloom Poldy!
He breathes in deep agitation, wavering. Questions throng to his lips. He swallows them down. He wishes to sink to the ground near her slippers. He wishes to tell her that he bought the crubeen, the trotter, the bread and the chocolate for her supper. He wishes and unwishes, is warm, then cold, knows then knows not, stands helpless, spellbound by her eyes and dress. Beneath her turreted turban a coin gleams on her brow. Her anklets are linked together by a fetterchain. Beside her a camel waits, with hood and palanquin, a ladder of countless steps reaching to his hump. A slow friendly mockery steals into her eyes.
Marion Bloom Poldy!
Bloom Yes.
Marion Ti trema un poco il core?
She saunters away in disdain. He follows, followed by a sniffing terrier. She is gone. The elderly woman seizes his sleeve. Instinctively he tightens his grip on the crubeen and trotter. The woman pours into his ear a fetid husky message.
--Ten shillings a maidenhead. Fresh thing that was never touched. Fifteen.
Her mouldy sweat promises obscenities. She indicates the doorway. He looks. In the dark hall, furtive, secret, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands. She calls to him:
--Any good in your mind?
He thinks of giving the crubeen and trotter to the procuress. Gertie Mac Dowell limps to his side. Leering, she draws from behind her, shows him coyly something. It is a bloodied clout. She whispers:
--You did that.
Bloom There is some mistake. I? When?
Gertie (pawing his coat) Dirty married man. I love you for doing that.
The Procuress (hurriedly) Come. Don't be all night. You won't get a virgin in the flash houses. The polis will see us. 33 is a bitch.
Mrs Breen stands in the middle of the street. She throws open her mouth, eyes and arms, astonished.
Mrs Breen You down here? Wait till I see Molly.
Bloom (confused) How do you do? It's a short cut home. I just was buying something for supper. Very good place round there for hot pigs' feet.
Richie Goulding stands by, weighted with the black legal bag of Collis & Ward on which a skull and crossbones are painted in limewash. He opens it and shows it full of white pudding, kippered herring. Pills rattle.
Richie Goulding Best value in Dublin.
Bloom Best value in Dublin. Feel how hot.
Mrs Breen (shouts with laughter) Glory Alice! You do look a holy show. O, you ruck! You should see yourself.
Bloom (cautiously) Don't attract the attention of these people. I want to tell you a little secret about how I came here. But between ourselves. You must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a special reason.
Mrs Breen O, not for worlds. Tell me.
He shakes himself free from the procuress and walks on with Mrs Breen. The dog slinks at their heels, sniffing.
Bloom (mysteriously) Do you remember a long long time ago when we all went to Fairyhouse races just after Milly was weaned when Molly won seven shillings on a horse named Nevertell and coming home in the wagonette you were sitting beside me and you wore a new hat Denis had just bought you that didn't become you at all as well as the toque and Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallagher's basket and laughing because Rogerson and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking this cock as we passed a farmhouse on the road and Marcus Tertius Moses, the tea merchant, drove past us with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and began to bark and you asked me if I ever heard or read or came across.........
Mrs Breen (eagerly) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
She fades from his side. He walks on alone, displeased, uncertain, mistrustful, excited, towards hell's gates. In an archway a woman standing, her feet planted apart, pisses noisily. Outside a shuttered pub a group of loiterers listen to the end of a story which a broken snouted man relates with rasping humour. He half crouches to show them and laughs raucously.
The Man And what was he after doing it into only into the bucket of porter that was there for Derwan's plasterers.
The Loiterers (guffawing) O, jays! Jays, that's a good one! Glauber salts. O, jays, into the men's porter.
They laugh in all voices, indifferent to the scene about them. Cheap whores, bold, disshevelled, singly and in couples call from hallways, laneways, doorsteps.
--Come here, queer fellow.
--How is your middle leg?
--That you, love?
--Have you a match on you?
--He's going down to Mrs Mack's.
--Sh! Come here till I feel it for you.Bloom passes through the swamp into the lower street. The housedoors are open. Gaudy women loll in the lighted halls or about the doors smoking birdseye cigarettes. The odour of the sicksweet weed floats round Bloom. Kisses are chirped towards him. Ashamed, fluttered he tries to hide his parcel.
Bloom I cannot go back. In which house have they gone? I could ask a woman. But this parcel. Shall I eat it? Where? Get myself all sticky. Useless waste.
He perceives the dog. An idea strikes him. He returns a few yards to a dark corner, followed by the terrier, and opens the parcel. He throws the crubeen softly in the corner. He would like to eat the trotter but, after a moment, throws it down regretfully. The terrier, snarling with famine, gluts himself greedily, crunching the bones. Two raincaped watch approach. They lay hands on his shoulders.
First Watch Commit no nuisance.
Bloom (stammers) I am doing good to others.
He points. Bob Doran sways over the dog.
Doran Give us the paw. Give the paw, doggy.
The dog growls ominously. Bob Doran falls softly sideways into an area.
First Watch Name and address.
Bloom (takes off his hat and salutes) Bloom. I can identify myself. Leopold Bloom.
First Watch Proof.
Bloom hastily takes a card from inside the leather headband of his hat and gives it.
Second Watch (reading) Henry Flower.
First Watch An alibi!
Bloom (producing a yellow flower, murmurs privately, confidentially) This is the flower. We are engaged, you see. Change of name. Virag.
Martha (veiled, in tone of reproach, pointing) Henry! Leopold! Lionel, thou lost one!
First Watch Come to the station.
Bloom (in alarm) No, no. Let me explain. My wife! I live in Eccles street. I am a respectable married man. A journalist. I write for the Freeman.
Mrs Brereton Barry (in a lowcut opal dress) Arrest him, officer. He wrote me an anonymous letter when my husband was on circuit signed James Lovebirch. He said he saw me in a box at the Gaiety. That inflamed him. He made improper overtures to me.
Mrs Bellingham (in a fur mantle, steps out of her carriage) Also to me. Because he closed my carriage door one rainy day outside sir Thornley Stoker's. He wrote urging me to commit adultery whenever possible. He offered me a work by Paul de Kock, The Girl with the Three Pairs of Stays.
Second Watch (produces handcuffs) Here are the darbies.
The Honourable Mrs Paget Butler (in riding costume, topboots, hard hat, long train, and riding crop with which she strikes her boot constantly) Also to me. He saw me on the polo ground in the Phoenix park. He sent me in an envelope an obscene photograph insulting to any lady. I have it still. He urged me to sin with officers of the army and navy. He implored me to chastise him as he deserved.
Mrs Bellingham Me too.
Mrs Brereton Barry Me too.
The Honourable Mrs Paget Butler (suddenly, furiously) I will. I will thrash him black and blue in the public street. He is a wellknown cuckold. Take down his trousers. Quick!
The brass quoits of a bed are heard to jingle
The Quoits Jigjag jigajigajigjag.
The faces of Martin Cunningham, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Ned Lambert, Tom Kernan, John Henry Menton, Myles Crawford, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, Lenehan, McCoy and a Nameless One appear simultaneously in the jurybox.
The Nameless One (snarls) Didn't I tell he'd organise her? Arse over tip. Hundred shillings to five!
The Others (gravely) We all thought so.
First Watch (awed, whispers) He is in black. An anarchist! A bomb it is.
Bloom (desperately) No, no. Pig's feet. I was at a funeral.
Second Watch (draws his truncheon) Liar!
The dog lifts his face. He has devoured all. He grows to a great size suddenly. His terrier coat becomes a brown habit. He has the face of Paddy Dignam. He speaks in a loud hollow voice:
Dignam It is true. It was my funeral. (He lifts an ashen face and bays lugubriously.)
Bloom (triumphantly) You see!
First Watch But how is that possible?
Second Watch It is not in the catechism.
Dignam By metempsychosis.
He crawls and worms down through a coalhole, his brown habit trailing after him. The women grow dark. The watch recede. Bloom goes forward again. New louder kisses are chirped to him. A piano sounds. He stands before the house, listening. The kisses fly about him, twittering.
The Kisses Leo! Icky sticky licky micky for Leo! Coo coo-coo! Yummy yum womwom big come big pirouette, Leolee! O Leo!
Bloom A man's touch that is. Perhaps they are here. Sad music. Church music. Yes, it is here.
Zoe Higgins, a young whore in a sapphire slip closed with four bronze bucklepins, nods to him. She comes down the steps and accosts him.
Zoe Are you looking for someone? He's inside with his friend.
Bloom Is this Mrs Mack's?
Zoe No, Mrs Cohen's. You're not his father, are you?
Bloom O, no.
Zoe (suspiciously) I thought from your both being in black.
She takes his arm, cuddling him. Strange oriental music is played slowly, note by note. He looks into her brown eyes, gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near are lakes. Black shadows of cedar forests file round them. A perfume of resin rises from the strong hairgrowth. It burns, the orient, a sky of sapphire cleft by the bronze flight of eagles. Under it the woman city lies nude, white, cool in luxury. A fountain murmurs among purple roses. The roses of mammoth scarlet winegrapes murmur. A wine of shame, blood, lust exudes from them. Within a sepulchre, the gold of kings, their mouldering bones. She smiles, showing her goldstopped teeth.
Zoe (murmuring, her lips smeared lusciously with pomade of swinefat and rosewater, in singsong with the music) Schorah ani wenowah, benoith Hierushaloim.
Bloom (mechanically caressing her left bub with free hand) I knew. Are you a Dublin girl?
Zoe (as she catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her coil) Not bloody much. I'm English. Have you a swaggerroot for me?
Bloom (as before) I don't smoke, dear. Where are you from? London?
Zoe Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs. (catching his hand which is feeling for her nipple) I say! Stop that and begin worse. Have you money for a short time? Ten shillings.
Bloom (smiles, nods slowly) More. More.
Zoe And more's mother? Coming in?
He stands listening to music, inhaling scents, seeing colours, feeling being tempted.
Zoe Silent means consent.
She leads him up the steps by his hand, the odours of her armpits and the vice of her eyes, the rustle of her slip in which lurks the leonine reek of all the males that have possessed her.
The Males (roaring faintly) Good!
They reach the doorway where two sister whores are seated. They examine him curiously, lazily and at last smile to his hasty bow.
Bloom (at the threshold standing aside) After you is good manners.
Zoe Ladies first, gentlemen after.
She goes first into the house: he goes after. On the return landing a door is thrown open. A man in shirt and trousers crosses, his braces undone dangling behind him making him like a twotailed ape. Bloom averting his face follows Zoe into the parlour. The gaslamp is covered with a mauve tissue paper so that the light is dim. A moth flies round and round, colliding against it. On the mantelpiece lie two large china dogs. On the flank of each is painted a woodland glade. Between them a vase with peacock feathers. In the grate is a Japanese parasol screen. On a rug of matted sheepskin before the fireplace Lynch is seated crosslegged, his cap back to the front. He beats time to the music with a wand in his hand. Kitty Lawrence, a bony pallid whore in street costume, sits on the side of a high armchair, swinging her leg. Lynch indicates derisively the other group.
Kate (behind her hand) She's a little imbecillic.
Lynch tips up her skirt and white petticoat with his wand.
Kate (settling it down quickly) Respec (she hiccups, bending quickly a [] hat from under which her hennared hair glowers) O, excuse. Respect yourself.
Zoe (going to the chandelier, turns the gas full on) More limelight, Charley.
The wand in Lynch's hand flashes: it is a brass poker. Stephen stands by the piano, on which lie his stick and hat. He repeats once more the series of empty fifths. Florrie Talbot, a blond feeble goosefat white whore in a mildewed gown of strawberry, lolls spreadeagle over a sofa corner, listening, a heavy stye drooping over her sleepy eyelid.
Stephen As a matter of fact it is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello found it or made it. The rite is the poet's rest. It may be an ancient Greek song to Demeter or it may illustrate the eighteenth psalm Coeli enarrant gloriam Domini. It is susceptible of modes so far apart as the hyperphrygian and the mixoldyian because, of texts so divergent as the haihooping of priests round Ceres altars, David's tip from the stable to his chief tomtom player concerning God's glory, night to night shewing knowledge. Lord Mayor...
Lynch's Cap Bah! It is because it is. Jewgreek is Greekjew. Extremes meet. Death is the highest form of life. Bah!
Stephen You remember quite accurately all my little errors, boasts, mistakes, faults. Whetstone!
The Cap Bah!
Stephen Here is another. It is because the fundamental and the dominant are separated by the greatest interval which...
The Cap Which? Finish if you can. Which?
Stephen (with an effort) ...interval which is the greatest elipse. Consistent with. The ultimate return, octave. In which.
The Cap (interested) Ha!
Stephen What went forth to traverse not itself having itself traversed itself becomes that self which is itself.
Lynch (whinnies with laughter, grinning at Florrie Talbot) What a learned speech, eh?
Zoe (briskly) He knows more than you have forgotten.
Florrie Power with obese stupour regards Stephen.
Florrie What can it all mean?
A female stream leaks out from her, obfuscating the sight of all, redolent of sex. In the obscurity Elijah's voice is heard, shrill as a cock's.
Elijah's Voice Just one more word. Are you a god or a clod? Florrie Christ, Stephen Christ, Bloom Christ, you have that Something Within. It's up to you to sense that cosmic force. It is immense. All goin on in this vibration. It vibrates. It restores. I know. And I am some vibrator. Harmonial Philosophy. Have you got that? You call me up by sunphone any old time.
Kate (hiccups again) O, excuse.
She bends again more quickly. A brown feather boa uncoils and slides, glides over her shoulder, back, arm, chair to the ground and coils, a catterpillar. Stephen glances behind and sees Lynch's squatted figure with the cap back to the front.
Zoe Tie a knot on your shift and stick it back. Who has a fag?
Lynch offers her one. She stretches up and lights it over the gasjet. With his poker he lifts up a side of her gown boldly. Bare from her shoes up her flesh between the sapphire ?reddening is lizard green.
Zoe (calmly) Can you see the beauty spot of my behind?
Litpold Virag, Bloom's double, wearing Stephen's hat, Buck Mulligan's primrose vest, and a brown mackintosh under which he holds a book in two tomes stands somewhat behind Bloom who sees him.
Virag (points to Zoe Higgins, and with a cough speaks in a dry voice) There is a lot of nakedness knocking about, what? You perceive that she is not wearing what you like. On the other hand the seated one is in walking costume and I always understood that the act performed so pleased you by reason of its exhibitionistic procedure, especially, I believe, in the furs of beasts. Am I right?
Bloom But she is terribly lean.
Virag True. And the effect of those pannier pockets of the skirt is intended to give the impression of breadth. Well then, the third. Her beam is broad. She is coated with a considerable layer of fat. You perceive that she has in front two protuberances which are of respectable dimensions and on the other side, lower down, two protuberances which are even larger. When they are coopfattened their livers reach an elephantine size. Pellets of new breadpills with fenugreek, swamped down by draughts of green tea produce natural cushions on them, a colossal blubber. That suits your taste, eh?
Bloom The stye I dislike.
Virag (coughs) Perhaps it is a wart. I presume you remember what I told you on that subject. Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg is a sure cure.
Bloom (reflecting) It has been a fatiguing day. Wait. Bloodwarts, I mean wartsblood spreads warts.
Virag (severely) Exercise your mnemotechnic.
Bloom Mnemno? Rosemary also.
Virag Technic. (with energy) Caustic. They must be starved. Snip off with a horsehair under the denned neck. But to change the subject have you made up your mind yet whether you like or dislike women in male costume, pyjamas, let us say? Or those complicated combinations, camiknickers? You intended to devote one year to a study of the religious problem. From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.
Bloom looks uncertainly, uncertainly watches the everflying moth. Virag whispers in his ear, Bloom repeats.
Bloom Insects of the day spend their brief existence chiefly in repeated coitions. The smell of the female attracts them. But these night insects which follow light are the victims of error. Their movements are automatic. It suits him. Night bird to night town. The Midnight sun. They no longer pursue and fecundate the female. That bee, as I observed the other day, was butting against his own shadow on the wall. He dazed himself and drowsed me. He made me drowsy. In a dazed condition he wandered into my shirt and reached my belly. It was well I woke. A woman's case is still worse. That is why they fear all vermin. They feel themselves always open. Eve v Serpent?
The Moth
I'm a tiny tiny thing
Ever flying in the spring
Round and round in ringaring.
Long ago I was a king
Now I do this sort of thing
On the wing, on the wing
Bing!He rushes against the red tissue paper, flapping noisily.
The Moth Pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats.
Henry Flower stands between Bloom and Virag, both of whom he resembles. He wears a drooping black sombrero and a black velvet cloak under which he holds a dulcimer.
Henry (in a low voice) All is lost now.
Virag stares at the lamp, Bloom regards Zoe's neck, Henry turns to the piano.
Stephen (to himself) I am slightly drunk
He touches the keys again. Florrie Power regards him with stupour.
Florrie Are you out of Maynooth?
Stephen I am out of it now. (to himself) Clever. By the way, have you the lamp, the key, the stick. (he sees it) Yes.
Zoe There was a priest here on Monday to do his bit of business with his coat buttoned up. You needn't try to hide, I says to him, I know you've a Roman collar.
Bloom (unctuously) []
Zoe He couldn't get connection. Only, you know, sensation. A dry rush.
Stephen (over his shoulder) You would have preferred the founder of the protestant error.
Zoe (lightly) All one and the same God to me.
Lynch He is. He is a cardinal's son.
His Eminence Cardinal Simon Dedalus appears in the doorway. He is all in red, shoes, socks, soutane and berretta. He has a battered silk hat sideways on his head and a corkscrew hanging on his breast. Seven massboys, the seven cardinal sins, also in red, hold up his train. He looks at all for a moment, his right eye closed, his left cheek puffed out.
The Cardinal (struggling to suppress his merriment, proclaims with bloated pomp)
Conservio lies captured
He lies in the lowest dungeon,
With manacles and chains around his limbs,
Weighing upwards of three tons.He shuffles off, muttering comically, the massboys giggling zigzag behind him till he shrinks to the size of the massboys and disappears. Bloom advances, and taking the chocolate from his pocket offers it to Zoe Higgins.
Zoe Thank your mother for the rabbits.
She takes a piece and nibbles. Kate Ricketts does the same.
Zoe (invitingly to Lynch) No objections to French lozenges?
As he opens his mouth, she tosses him a piece of the chocolate. He catches it and chews. Kate Ricketts offers a piece to Bloom.
Bloom What if it were aphrodisiac? But no, I bought it. Vanilla too is a sedative. Mnemotechnic. Possibly the confused light here confuses the memory. It seems to influence the taste also of this chocolate. This colour influences lupus. It encourages hypochondriacs. My figure is sad here in black. The choice of colours is important, suggestive. Let me eat and rejoice here. Or is it because I have not tasted chocolate for a long time. I shall look for some truffles tomorrow.
Bella Cohen, a massive whoremistress, enters the room. She is dressed in a black evening gown and carries a black fan of plumes which she flutters. Her eyes are deeply carboned. She has an incipient moustache. Her face is heavy, full-nosed, olive complexioned. She has huge pendent earrings.
Bella My word! I'm all of a mucksweat!
She glances round her at the young couples. Then her eye rests on Bloom with hard insistency. He large fan winnows cooler wind towards her face and neck and bosom. Her falcon eyes glitter.
The Fan (flirting slowly) Married, I see.
It closes together and rests against her left earring.
The Fan Have you forgotten me?
Bloom Nes. Yo.
The Fan Is this was as you thought before? She were then what you here since knew? Am all one and the same now me?
Bloom (with deep humility) Powerful being! In my eyes read that slumber which women love. The submission of my soul is absolutely unlimited. Awe and despair possess me.
Bella (approaches, furling her fan)
Bloom (winces) Enormously I desire your domination. But I fear also. I am alone, exhausted, abandoned. The door and window open in a right line cause a draught. I have felt a twinge of sciatica in my left glutear muscle. Long exposure on the rocks in the late evening may have occasioned it. Would, O would, I were young! O, Embrace of universal woman! Queen, marvellous commanding woman, restore me to my youth! Abundantly I will eat from your hands. Feed me with miracleworking truffles.
Bella (with a hard stare) Hound of dishonour!
Bloom Empress!
Bella Adorer of the adulterous rump!
Bloom Hugeness!
Bella Dungdevourer!
Bloom Magnificence!
Bella (tips him playfully on the shoulder with her fan) Down!
Bloom (sinks on all fours, with a piercing cry) Truffles! (he grovels, grunting, snuffling, rooting at her feet)
Bella (comfortably) Which of you was playing the dead march? (to Zoe) You?
Zoe (promptly) Me. Ever see me running? Mind your cornflowers. (she runs to the piano and thumps the keyboard up and down, laughing) Do you know that?
Lynch Beethoven?
Zoe The cat's rambles through the slag. (suddenly runs back to the table, to grab chocolate, to Kitty) Easy all. Who's making love to my sweeties. What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own. (Kitty, disconcerted, takes the silver paper and coats her teeth with it, grinning.)
The manuscript is reproduced in JJA14, p203-233.
The full published chapter in four parts is here 2 3 4.
Joyce:
main :
fast portal :
portal
major: FW :
Pomes :
U :
PoA :
Ex :
Dub :
SH :
CM :
CM05 :
CM04
minor:
Burner :
[Defoe] :
[Office] :
PoA04 :
Epiph :
Mang :
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