doran: Right. Stand up to it then with force like men.

  citizen (with chorus as before):

  Bayonets in the guts of traitors,

  Bullets in the brains of weaklings,

  Firing squads for all who hate us,

  Crush them like the eggs of ducklings.

  bloom (very loud, stopping their song): But it’s no use. I say, it’s no use. (Softer.) No use. Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s not life for men and women, insult and hatred. It’s the opposite of that that’s really life.

  citizen: What?

  bloom: Love. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now. Just round the corner to the courthouse to see if Martin is there. If he comes say I’ll be back in a second. Just a moment, tell him.

  He leaves to their silence.

  citizen: A new apostle to the gentiles. Universal love.

  o’molloy: Well, isn’t that what we’re told? Love your neighbours?

  citizen: That chap? Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love, moya. He’s a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.

  lambert: Love, eh?

  He starts a vapid waltz-song to which the others add lines.

  No. 12

  Love loves to love love.

  Nurse loves the new chemist.

  doran: Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly.

  hynes: You start with love and love in a game of tennis.

  o’molloy: King Edward the Seventh loves Queen Alexandra.

  lambert: After 565 mistresses and his belly.

  all: Love loves to love love.

  doran: Jumbo the elephant loves Alice the elephant.

  o’molloy: Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow.

  lambert: Old Mrs O’Shaughnessy with the ear trumpet

  Loves old Mr Callaghan with the ear trumpet.

  all:

  You love a certain person,

  And this person loves that other person,

  And everybody loves somebody loves somebody loves somebody,

  But God loves us all.

  doran: Well, Joe, health to you. More power, citizen.

  citizen: The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you.

  hynes cracks his fingers.

  hynes: I know where he’s gone. The courthouse is a blind. He’s had his own shekels on Throwaway. Now he’s gone to collect.

  citizen: Is it that white-eyed kaffir that never backed a horse in anger in his life?

  hynes: Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. He’s the only man in Dublin has it. A dark horse.

  doran: He’s a bloody dark horse himself.

  drunk: Ireland my nation, says he. Should never put up with these bloody Jerusalem cuckoos.

  martin cunningham comes in.

  doran: And here’s the man that’ll tell you all about it, Martin Cunningham himself.

  cunningham: Where’s Bloom? He said he’d be here.

  lenehan: Where is he? Defrauding widows and orphans.

  lambert: What is he, for God’s sake? A Jew or a Gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he?

  cunningham: Simple enough – a Hungarian Jew born in Ireland.

  citizen: That’s the new Messiah for Ireland. Ireland of saints and sages.

  cunningham: Well, they’re still waiting for their redeemer. For that matter, so are we.

  o’molloy: And every male that’s born they think it may be their Messiah. And every Jew is in a tall state of excitement, so they say, till he knows if he’s a father or a mother.

  lenehan: Expecting every moment will be his next.

  lambert: Oh by God, you should have seen him before that son of his was born. Dead now, of course. Dithering like it was him that was pregnant.

  citizen: Do you call that a man?

  hynes: I wonder did he ever put it out of sight.

  cunningham: Well, a son was born, anyway.

  citizen: And who does he suspect?

  cunningham: Ssssh . . .

  For bloom is back.

  bloom: I was just round the courthouse looking for you. I hope I’m not . . .

  cunningham: No, we’re ready.

  doran: Courthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down with gold and silver. Mean bloody scut.

  bloom: What’s that?

  citizen: Don’t tell anyone.

  bloom: I beg your pardon?

  cunningham: Come on, Bloom.

  doran: Just like a Jew. Cute as a shit-house rat. Stand us a drink itself. Devil a sweet fear. All for number one.

  citizen: Don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.

  The dog wakes up and growls viciously.

  cunningham: Bye bye, all.

  citizen: Three cheers for Israel!

  bloom: Have you something to say against the Jews? Well, say it to your own God. Your saviour was a Jew and his father was a Jew. Your God.

  cunningham: He had no father. Let’s get out of here.

  bloom: Well, his uncle was a Jew. Your God was a Jew. Christ was a Jew like me.

  citizen: By Jesus, I’ll brain that bloody Jewman for using the holy name. By Jesus, I’ll crucify him, so I will. Give us that biscuit-box there.

  Sound of empty tin, dog’s growls, murmurs and restraining words of the others: Stop it now, arrah, we’ve got enough trouble etc.

  citizen: Where is he till I murder him?

  Outside in the street. Horse’s snort, jingles.

  cunningham: Get up there, Bloom. Drive off, jarvey.

  hynes: Hold on there, citizen . . .

  doran: Bloody wars, I’ll be in for the last gospel . . .

  The citizen hurls the biscuit-tin which clatters on the road. The cab drives off.

  citizen: Did I kill him or what? After him, Garry. After him, boy!

  (With chorus):

  Crucify the bloody Jewman

  As a thing that’s hardly human.

  God allows you to be violent

  For he is a foe of Ireland.

  God will save Ireland,

  Sweet patient mother.

  Sing to your brother:

  Erin go bragh!

  The scene ends.

  Scene Seven

  Sandymount shore. Waves, sea gulls, a tolling chapel bell, children at play. A couple of minstrels perform a song.

  No. 13

  minstrels:

  Those pretty little seaside girls,

  Pretty little seaside girls,

  They make me so in love

  I coo like any turtle dove.

  Curvy curves and curly curls,

  And frilly frocks with swirly swirls –

  What are the wild waves singing of?

  Those pretty little seaside girls.

  Banjo diminuendos so we can hear gerty.

  gerty: Unrefined. I hate anything unrefined. What was that poem now in Woman Beautiful or was it Irish Girlhood? Ah yes:

  Art thou real,

  My ideal?

  Will you ever come to me

  In the sweet mysterious gloaming

  With your baby on your knee?

  cissy (calling coarsely): Jacky – Tommy! Stop that fighting now or I’ll come there and give you a couple of busted lugs for yourselves.

  Cries and blows of cissy off.

  edy: Now baby, say out big, big. I want a drink of water.

  baby: A jink a jink a jawbo.

  edy: Ah, bless his little cotton socks. What’s your name? Butter and cream? Tell us who your sweetheart is. Is Cissy your sweetheart?

  cissy: Is Edy your sweetheart?

  edy: I know who your sweetheart is. Gerty is your sweetheart.

  A ball comes flying in, to boys’ cries.

  Och, that ball near hit me. That Jacky’s a bold little brat. I’d like to give him something, so I would, where I won’t say.

  cissy: On the beetoteetum.

  edy: For shame, Cissy. I’m sure that gentleman there heard what you said.

  cissy: Let him hear. Give it to him too on the same place as quick as I’d look at him.

  The bell stops and an organ sounds. We hear men’s voices.

  No. 14

  voices:

  Hail to thee, star of the sea,

  Guide to the wandering soul.

  Above the storm and the thunder’s roll

  We turn our eyes to thee.

  gerty: The men’s temperance retreat. Rosary, sermon and benediction. How sad. If only father had avoided the clutches of the demon drink. If only he’d taken the pledge or that cure advertised in Pearson’s Weekly . . .

  edy: That ball again, little brats. Oh, it’s hit that gentleman.

  cissy: Sir – sir – would you throw it to us please?

  voices:

  Thou who dost intercede

  At the All Highest Throne,

  Us who have sinned and who weep alone

  Help us in our sore need.

  gerty: That man. His face there in the twilight. How wan and strangely sad. It’s the saddest face I have ever seen.

  cissy (to the baby): Say papa, baby. Say pa pa pa pa pa pa.

  baby: Jaja haja ja haja.

  cissy: Sit up now, sit up, baby. Holy St Denis, he’s possing wet. Edy, double the blanket the other way under him.

  The baby cries loudly.

  edy: Nononono, baby. Where’s the geegee? Where’s the puffpuff?

  gerty: I wish to goodness they’d take their squalling baby home out of that and not get on my nerves, no hour to be out, and those brats of twins.

  That man. There’s meaning in his look. His eyes burn into me as though he would read my very soul. Dark eyes in a pale intellectual face. Like a matinee idol. A foreigner perhaps. And in deep mourning. The story of a haunting sorrow written on his face. I’d give worlds to know what it is. I’m glad I put on my transparent stockings. He saw, he looked. A mature man, handsome, who has suffered. Like the hero of that serial in Meg’s Monthly.

  Noise of the playing twins.

  Exasperating little brats of twins. Little monkeys common as ditch water. Oh, those eyes. Burning eyes.

  edy: A penny for your thoughts.

  gerty: What? Oh, I was only wondering was it late.

  cissy: Wait. I’ll ask my Uncle Peter over there what’s the time by his conundrum.

  She goes over whistling the minstrels’ song.

  Have you the time, please?

  bloom: I’m very sorry, my watch has stopped. See, stopped at – But I think it must be after eight because the sun has set.

  gerty: His voice has a cultured ring. There is a suspicion of a quiver in the mellow tones.

  cissy (coming back): Uncle says his waterworks is out of order.

  gerty: Dark eyes fixing themselves on me again. Drinking in every contour. Literally worshipping at my . . . Shrine, is it? Undisguised admiration in that passionate gaze.

  edy: High time to go. Baby baby bookins. The sandman is coming, O my! Puddeny pie. He has his bib destroyed. See – a bat.

  Bat squeaks. Distant bells. The organ plays a voluntary.

  the twins: Look, Cissy. Look, Edy. Oh, look.

  cissy: Sheet lightning, is it? No, it’s fireworks.

  edy: It’s the Mirus Bazaar fireworks. Come on, Gerty. Come.

  gerty: I’m not at your beck and call. I’ll come in my own good time.

  cissy: Whoops. Yes, milady. Ladidadidadidadidah.

  The noise of fireworks and a distant band.

  gerty: Those eyes. Fastened on me. White-hot passion in that face. Passion silent and secret as the grave. Alone. We two. A man to be trusted to the death. Steadfast. A sterling man. A man of inflexible honour to his fingertips.

  Bells, organ, fireworks and now bloom’s breathing, which becomes heavier and heavier and more and more rhythmical.

  Now he can see all my graceful beautifully shaped legs, supple and soft and delicately rounded. The passion of men like that, hot-blooded. I can almost feel him draw my face to his and the first quick touch of his hot handsome lips. Besides there’s absolution so long as you don’t do the other thing before being married and there ought to be women priests that would understand without your telling out. And now he can see my other things too, nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven, and, and . . .

  bloom’s breathing grows louder, more urgent, faster, drowning gerty’s words.

  the twins: The rockets, the rockets, look at the rockets!

  The organ reaches a climactic chord and holds it. A rocket bursts. bloom’s breathing becomes a choked ecstatic moan.

  gerty: Oh that lovely Roman candle a stream of rain gold hair threads all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lovely, O so soft, sweet, soft …

  Silence. And then cissy’s voice.

  cissy: Gerty! Gerty! We’re going. The fireworks is over. We’re going to see the viceroy and his procession. Are you coming?

  The noise of gerty getting up, crunch of sand, her feet passing over the sand. She disappears.

  bloom: Hot little devil. Whew. Never expected that. No complaints, though. Ow. Begins to feel cold and clammy. My fireworks. Up like a rocket, down like a stick.

  Funny my watch stopped at half past four. Was that just when he, she? Oh, he did. Into her. She did. Done.

  Well, I had that. Not the same but. Bailey light flashing. Hill of Howth. O sweet little, you don’t know how nice you looked. All quiet on Howth now. I’m a fool. He gets the plum and I get the plum stone.

  (Music.) How many years is it now? Up there on the Head of Howth. She and me. This time of the day. This time of the year. And that was it then. The same. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub, my hand under her nape, you’ll toss me all. O wonder! Cool-soft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Young life. Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. She lay still. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her - eyes, her lips, her stretched neck, beating, her woman’s breasts full in her blouse of nun’s veiling, fat nipples upright. All yielding she tossed my hair. She kissed me. I was kissed. Kissed, she kissed me. What did I call her?

  No. 15

  (He sings.)

  Flower of the mountain,

  Crown of the Head of Howth,

  That’s what I called her then.

  Day of full summer,

  Day of the spring of love –

  You’ll never come again,

  You’ll never come again.

  Me. And me now.

  Tired. Drained all the manhood out of me. What’s that flying about? Swallow? Bat probably. Belfry up there. Bell scared him out, I suppose. Service seems to be over. There they go, the Rev this and the Rev that, for a nice supper of lamb cutlets with ketchup.

  distant newsboy: Evening Telegraph! Result of the Gold Cup race. Stop press edition.

  bloom: Three cheers for Israel. Three cheers for the sister-in-law he hawked about, three fangs in her mouth. Same style of beauty. Wait. That hot little devil. Thought I’d seen her before. Taking that mangy great mongrel for a walk. Of course. Macdowell. The granddaughter. Citizen’s granddaughter. And she. And I. Well, that’s funny. Queer way of getting your own back. Well, I call that funny.

  Ah, let it go. We’ll never meet again. But it was lovely. Thank you dear. Nice, delicate, gentle, like a dream. And Boylan sticking it in, sweating, stinking of Boylan.

  No. 16

  (He sings gently.)

  Goodbye dear.

  Made me feel so young.

  Did no harm to either of us

  What you did to me here.

  Love’s sweet song

  Sung without fiddle or fuss.

  Don’t know your name

  But just the same

  Goodbye dear.

  A distant bell strikes nine. Then a cuckoo clock.

  bloom: All right, don’t rub it in.

  A march is heard coming from the distance, its theme the cuckoo call.

  Must be coming back from the Mirus Bazaar. All over.

  The organ joins in with the band. Male voices sing the word ‘Cuckoo’ over and over again. The band gets louder, cuckooing like mad. Female voices are added.

  bloom: No. No. No.

  The noise is deafening. The scene comes to an end.

  ACT TWO

  Scene Eight

  The lying-in hospital, Hoiles Street. We begin with a canonical chorus:

  students: Deshil Holies eamus. (Three times.)

  women: Send us, bright one, light one, horhorn, quickening and womb-fruit. (Three times.)

  fathers: Hoopsa, boyaboy, hoopsa. (Three times.)

  Our ears are filled with these voices and the cries of newly born babies.

  bloom knocks. A door is opened. A nurse speaks.

  nurse: Yes? Oh, it’s Mr –

  bloom: Bloom. Leopold.

  nurse: Of course. It’s many a day since. Ah, well, poor little boy. You’re wearing black. I hope to God it’s not more sorrow.

  bloom: None of mine. The late Dignam.

  Thunder.

  nurse: Holy mother of God. I think a storm’s coming.

  bloom: I’ve come for news of Mrs Purefoy. How is she?

  nurse: It’s difficult and slow, God help her.

  A door opens. Ribald song and noise emerge.

  No. 17

  students:

  So he shoved her down and he shoved it up

  Till her cup was full to overflowing.

  And this went on till the night was gone

  And even then his cock was crowing.

  nurse: For shame. There’s a woman up there who’s time’s coming.

  lenehan: Expecting every moment to be her next.

  dixon: Is it not Sir Leopold of the Blooms, who came to me once with a spear in his breast wherewith he had been smitten by a fearful dragon?

  bloom: A wasp, yes. And you’re Dr Dixon. Why do you speak like that?