For most of human
history, as Victoria Finlay lovingly details in
Colour:
Travels through the Paintbox (2002), the precious
pigments and dyes in artists' paintboxes came from substances
like crushed beetle shells, rocks mined from deep in the earth,
and the urine of cows fed on mangoes. Then, in the Industrial
Era, came "
the world-changing find of mauve by the
eighteen-year-old chemistry prodigy William Perkin in 1856"
(xi). Working with other students under the German chemist
August Wilhelm von Hofmann, Perkin was using a coal tar-derived
salt called aniline to try to synthesize quinine, an
anti-malarial substance (very important to the Empire in those
days) that could only be harvested from the bark of chinchona
trees in the Andes.
All the students' efforts failed, but when Perkin used alcohol
to clean a black residue from one of his flasks, he observed an
intense purple color and astutely tried dying a piece of silk
with it. He conducted further experiments, filed a patent for
his process, borrowed money from his father to build a factory,
went into the dyeing business, and found almost immediate
financial success. Throughout the late 1850s and early 60s,
fashionable women in western capitals (including Queen Victoria
and the Empress Eugénie) were wearing dresses dyed with the new
color. Scientists too took note: in the following decades
laboratories produced many new synthetic aniline dyes.
Purple garments had traditionally been reserved for Roman
senators and emperors and other people of great power or wealth.
The ancient dye, painstakingly harvested from the anal mucus of
certain predatory sea snails, came from the Phoenicians, a
mercantile people who lived in Tyre, in the south of what is now
Lebanon. Their name, Finlay observes, "derives from the Greek
word for purple,
phoinis" (340). The prestige of the
Purple People's product endured long after the garments made
with it were lost. Perkin initially dubbed his new color Tyrian
Purple, but soon he hit on a brand-new, catchier moniker. He
termed it "
mauve," a French word for the common mallow
plant whose flowers have a similar color—or, alternatively, "
mauveine,"
a compound of mauve and aniline. ("Aniline" itself has a
colorful history. It comes from
nila, an ancient name
for the Indus Valley plants that produced the deep blue indigo,
i.e. "Indian," hue.) The "mauveine measles" that swept through
European populations after 1856 influenced the coloring even of
postage stamps.
Ulysses contains a couple of details that hearken back
to the early days of this frenzy. In
Nestor Stephen
gazes on Mr. Deasy's apostle spoons "snug in their
spooncase
of purple plush, faded," and in
Ithaca Bloom
dreams of becoming rich by finding a rare postage stamp from the
year of his birth ("
7 shilling, mauve, imperforate, Hamburg,
1866"). Other details suggest that the rage for the
synthetic dye was still very much alive in 1904. In
Hades
Bloom admires the flecks of bright color in a wool coat: "Nice
soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit.
Tinge of purple.
I had one like that when we lived in Lombard street west." In
Circe
"
A man in purple shirt and grey trousers,
brownsocked," walks through the hallway of the brothel on
his way out. Bloom has recently bought Molly some sexy "
violet
garters" (
Calypso, Nausicaa, Ithaca, Penelope)
after receiving payment for his advertising labors, and if one
of his new plans pays off he intends to buy her some even sexier
"
violet silk petticoats" (
Sirens). In
Ithaca he
takes off his right sock "having unhooked
a purple elastic
sock suspender." In
Nausicaa Gerty MacDowell
remembers some beautiful thoughts that she has written "
in
violet ink" that she bought in Wisdom Hely's stationery
store.
Other purple shades were available before Perkin's discovery.
The ancient Celtic hero featured in one of
Cyclops'
parodic episodes wears leather boots "
dyed in lichen purple,"
an old British and Irish practice that produced a softer shade
of purple. (It involved soaking lichens in urine.) The Citizen
looks back to other imagined glories when Irishmen traded with
Mediterranean sailors: "Where are the Greek merchants that came
through the pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar now grabbed by
the foe of mankind,
with gold and Tyrian purple to sell
in Wexford at the fair of Carmen?" These cultural memories of
the ancient Phoenician color of emperors surface repeatedly in
Circe.
Bloom sports "
a purple Napoleon hat" (presumably the
familiar
bicorne) while flirting with Josie Breen. When
the bishops invest him with royal power later in the chapter he
appears "
In dalmatic and purple mantle" (the
dalmatic is a garment worn by English kings at their
coronations). The Archbishop of Armagh stands before Bloom "
In
purple stock and shovel hat," ceremonially
administering the oath of office.
Violet and purple, in Joyce's lyrical prose, often conjure up
the lush, evocative hues of night skies and dark sea floors,
respectively: "in violet night walking beneath a reign of
uncouth stars" (
Proteus); "Night sky, moon, violet,
colour of Molly's new garters" (
Calypso); "The bay purple
by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards
Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass,
buried cities" (
Lestrygonians); "purple seagems and
playful insects" (
Cyclops); "a cluster of violet but one
white stars" (
Nausicaa); "
from the Lion's Head cliff
into the purple waiting waters" (
Circe); "
A
white yashmak, violet in the night, covers her face" (
Circe).
"Mauve," on the other hand, is associated with artificially
colored fabrics. In
Aeolus Stephen imagines
Dante's triune
rhymes as "approaching girls, in green, in rose, in
russet, entwining,
per l'aer perso,
in mauve, in
purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, in gold of
oriflamme,
di rimirar fè più ardenti." Gerty MacDowell
too thinks of the colors of beautiful garments: "each set
slotted with different coloured ribbons, rosepink, pale blue,
mauve
and peagreen." And the shade over the gasjet in Bella Cohen's
brothel, the one that occasions so much uproar, is made of "
mauve
tissuepaper." The color is mentioned repeatedly as Gerald
the moth bangs against it, as the gas level fluctuates, and as
Stephen smashes it with his ashplant. (In this last instance, it
is called a "
mauve purple shade.")
But the most indelible impression of this artificial color is
created at the end of the chapter, when an apparition of his
dead son comes to Bloom as he stands over Stephen's crumpled
body in the street. Rudy holds "
a slim ivory cane with a
violet bowknot," and "
He has a delicate mauve face."
It is unclear whether "delicate" modifies "face" or "mauve."
Both are possible, since the dye could be applied in a dilute
form, as seen in the shawl shown here. Such an odd facial
coloring might seem (since this is
Circe) to spring
purely from spontaneous hallucination, but that is not the case.
The word takes readers back to a moment in
Hades when
Bloom contemplated a child's tiny coffin passing in the street
and thought, "
A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little
Rudy's was."
Here too the coloring seems odd, but knowing that Bloom has
actually observed it on his sick son makes a difference. A
pediatric cardiologist of my acquaintance who has remotely
diagnosed the
cause of Rudy's early
death—hypoplastic left heart syndrome—notes that the
mixture of cyanotic and oxygenated blood resulting from this
congenital heart defect would produce precisely the effect Bloom
recalls: purple skin.
It is interesting that a shade (or family of shades)
associated with rich, exotic beauty should find its most
lasting impression in Bloom's most painful memory. Joyce's
text does something similar when Stephen imagines, in Proteus,
that the bag of one of the women walking down to the beach
contains "A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool." A botched birth
becomes transformed, in his language, from an ugly
bloodstained mess to a baby softly enveloped in red wool, with
all the sense of quiet peace implied by "hushed" and all the
connotations of cheerful good health carried by the word
"ruddy." Rudy was buried in a wool garment that Molly knitted
for him, and the novel allows the memory to resurface twice in
visions of lost children with rich reddish coloration—a kind
of sea change into
something rich and strange.
Thanks to Vincent Van Wyk for getting me thinking about all
the mentions of purple in Ulysses and their relation
to the discovery of the first synthetic aniline dye.