Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons’ hall.  Solemn as Troy.  After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace.  Old legal cronies cracking a magnum.  Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the bluecoat school.  I sentenced him to ten years.  I suppose he’d turn up his nose at that stuff I drank.  Vintage wine for them, the year marked on a dusty bottle.  Has his own ideas of justice in the recorder’s court.  Wellmeaning old man.  Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime.  Sends them to the rightabout.  The devil on moneylenders.  Gave Reuben J. a great strawcalling.  Now he’s really what they call a dirty jew.  Power those judges have.  Crusty old topers in wigs.  Bear with a sore paw.  And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.

Hello, placard.  Mirus bazaar.  His Excellency the lord lieutenant.  Sixteenth.  Today it is.  In aid of funds for Mercer’s hospital.  The messiah was first given for that.  Yes.  Handel.  What about going out there:  Ballsbridge.  Drop in on Keyes.  No use sticking to him like a leech.  Wear out my welcome.  Sure to know someone on the gate.

Mr Bloom came to Kildare street.  First I must.  Library.

Straw hat in sunlight.  Tan shoes.  Turnedup trousers.  It is.  It is.

His heart quopped softly.  To the right.  Museum.  Goddesses.  He swerved to the right.

Is it?  Almost certain.  Won’t look.  Wine in my face.  Why did I?  Too heady. 
Yes, it is.  The walk.  Not see.  Get on.

Making for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes. 
Handsome building.  Sir Thomas Deane designed.  Not following me?

Didn’t see me perhaps.  Light in his eyes.

The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs.  Quick.  Cold statues:  quiet there.  Safe in a minute.

No.  Didn’t see me.  After two.  Just at the gate.

My heart!

His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone.  Sir Thomas
Deane was the Greek architecture.

Look for something I.

His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded Agendath
Netaim.  Where did I?

Busy looking.

He thrust back quick Agendath.

Afternoon she said.

I am looking for that.  Yes, that.  Try all pockets.  Handker.  Freeman. 
Where did I?  Ah, yes.  Trousers.  Potato.  Purse.  Where?

Hurry.  Walk quietly.  Moment more.  My heart.

His hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap lotion have to call tepid paper stuck.  Ah soap there I yes.  Gate.

Safe!

* * * * * * *

Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred: 

—­And we have, have we not, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister.  A great poet on a great brother poet.  A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as one sees in real life.