ce and lifted his left foot.
-- O, my corns! he said plaintively. Come upstairs for goodness' sake
till I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!
Testily he made room for himself beside Long John Fanning's flank and
passed in and up the stairs.
-- Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff. I don't think
you knew him or perhaps you did, though.
With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.
-- Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said to the stalwart back of
Long John Fanning ascending towards Long John Fanning in the mirror.
-- Rather lowsized, Dignam of Menton's office that was, Martin
Cunningham said.
Long John Fanning could not remember him.
Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.
-- What's that? Martin Cunningham said.
All turned where they stood; John Wyse Nolan came down again. From the
cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street, harness
and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. Gaily they went past before his
cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of the leaders, leaping
leaders, rode outriders.
-- What was it? Martin Cunningham asked, as they went on up the
staircase.
-- The lord lieutenant general and general governor of Ireland, John
Wyse Nolan answered from the stairfoot.
As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his
panama to Haines.
-- Parnell's brother. There in the corner.
They chose a small table near the window opposite a long-faced man
whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard.
-- Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.
-- Yes, Mulligan said. That's John Howard, his brother, our city
marshal.
John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey claw
went up again to his forehead whereat it rested.
An instant after, under its screen, his eyes looked quickly,
ghostbright, at his foe and fell once more upon a working corner.
-- I'll take a mÉlange, Haines said to the waitress.
-- Two mÉlanges, Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some scones and
butter and some cakes as well.
When she had gone he said, laughing:
-- We call it D. B. C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you
missed Dedalus on Hamlet.
Haines opened his newbought book.
-- I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all
minds that have lost their balance.
The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street:
-- England expects...
Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.
-- You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance.
Wandering &Aelig;ngus I call him.
-- I am sure he has an idÉe fixe, Haines said, pinching his chin
thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I am speculating what it would
be likely to be. Such persons always have.
Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.
-- They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell. He will
never capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white
death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet. The
joy of creation.
-- Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled
him this morning on belief. There was something on his mind, I saw. It's
rather interesting because Professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting
point out of that.
Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to
unload her tray.
-- He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said,
amid the cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny,
of retribution. Rather strange he should have just that fixed idea. Does he
write anything for your movement?
He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream.
Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its
smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.
-- Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write
something in ten years.
-- Seems a long way off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon.
Still, I shouldn't wonder if he did after all.
He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.
-- This is real Irish cream I take it, he said with forbearance. I
don't want to be imposed on.
Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by flanks of
ships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping street
past Benson's ferry, and by the three-masted schooner Rosevean from
Bridgwater with bricks.
Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street, past Sewell's yard. Behind
him Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell with
stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house
and, crossing, walked along Merrion square. Distantly behind him a blind
stripling tapped his way by the wall of College Park.
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as Mr
Lewis Werner's cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along Merrion
square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.
At the corner of Wilde's he halted, frowned at Elijah's name announced
on the Metropolitan Hall, frowned at the distant pleasance of duke's lawn.
His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. With ratsteeth bared he muttered:
-- Coactus volui.
He strode on for Clare street, grinding his fierce word.
As he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway of his dustcoat
brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept onwards,
having buffeted a thewless body. The blind stripling turned his sickly face
after the striding form.
-- God's curse on you, he said sourly, whoever you are! You're blinder
nor I am, you bitch's bastard!
Opposite Ruggy O'Donohoe's Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the
pound and half of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, porksteaks he had been sent
for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling. It was too blooming dull
sitting in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and Mrs MacDowell and
the blind down and they all at their sniffles and sipping sups of the
superior tawny sherry uncle Barney brought from Tunney's. And they eating
crumbs of the cottage fruit cake jawing the whole blooming time and sighing.
After Wicklow lane the window of Madame Doyle, court dress milliner,
stopped him. He stood looking in at the two puckers stripped to their pelts
and putting up their props. From the sidemirrors two mourning Masters Dignam
gaped silently. Myler Keogh, Dublin's pet lamb, will meet sergeant-major
Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of fifty sovereigns, God,
that'd be a good pucking match to see. Myler Keogh, that's the chap sparring
out to him with the green sash. Two bar entrance, soldiers half price. I
could easy do a bunk on ma. Master Dignam on his left turned as he turned.
That's me in mourning. When is it? May the twenty-second. Sure, the blooming
thing is all over. He turned to the right and on his right Master Dignam
turned, his cap awry, his collar sticking up. Buttoning it down, his chin
lifted, he saw the image of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, beside the
two puckers. One of them mots that do be in the packets of fags Stoer smokes
that his old fellow welted hell out of him for one time he found out.
Master Dignam got his collar down and dawdled on. The best pucker going
for strength was Fitzsimons. One puck in the wind from that fellow would
knock you into the middle of next week, man. But the best pucker for science
was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of him, dodging
and all.
In Grafton street Master Dignam saw a red flower in a toff's mouth and
a swell pair of kicks on him and he listening to what the drunk was telling
him and grinning all the time.
No Sandymount tram.
Master Dignam walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to his
other hand. His collar sprang up again and he tugged it down. The blooming
stud was too small for the buttonhole of the shirt, blooming end to it. He
met schoolboys with satchels. I'm not going tomorrow either, stay away till
Monday. He met other schoolboys. Do they notice I'm in mourning? Uncle
Barney said he'd get it into the paper tonight. Then they'll all see it in
the paper and read my name printed and pa's name.
His face got all grey instead of being red like it was and there was a
fly walking over it up to his eye. The scrunch that was when they were
screwing the screws into the coffin: and the bumps when they were bringing
it downstairs.
Pa was inside it and ma crying in the parlour and uncle Barney telling
the men how to get it round the bend. A big coffin it was, and high and
heavylooking. How was that? The last night pa was boosed he was standing on
the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out to Tunney's for to
boose more and he looked butty and short in his shirt. Never see him again.
Death, that is. Pa is dead. My father is dead. He told me to be a good son
to ma. I couldn't hear the other things he said but I saw his tongue and his
teeth trying to say it better. Poor pa. That was Mr Dignam, my father. I
hope he is in purgatory now because he went to confession to father Conroy
on Saturday night.
William Humble, earl of Dudley, and Lady Dudley, accompanied by
lieutenantcolonel Hesseltine, drove out after luncheon from the viceregal
lodge. In the following carriage were the honourable Mrs Paget, Miss de
Courcy and the honourable Gerald Ward, A. D. C. in attendance.
The cavalcade passed out by the lower gate of Phoenix Park saluted by
obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern
quays. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his way through the
metropolis. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him
vainly from afar. Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges Lord Dudley's
viceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B. L., M.
A., who stood on Arran Quay outside Mrs M. E. White's, the pawnbroker's, at
the corner of Arran street west stroking his nose with his forefinger,
undecided whether he should arrive at Phibsborough more quickly by a triple
change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot through Smithfield,
Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. In the porch of Four Courts
Richie Goulding with the costsbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward saw him with
surprise. Past Richmond bridge at the doorstep of the office of Reuben J.
Dodd, solicitor, agent for the Patriotic Insurance Company, an elderly
female about to enter changed her plan and retracing her steps by King's
windows smiled credulously on the representative of His Majesty. From its
sluice in Wood quay wall under Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in
fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. Above the crossblind of the Ormond Hotel,
gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and
admired. On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way from the
greenhouse for the subsheriff's office, stood still in midstreet and brought
his hat low. His Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus' greeting. From
Cahill's corner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M. A., made obeisance
unperceived, mindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant had held of
yore rich advowsons. On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M'Coy, taking leave of
each other, watched the carriages go by. Passing by Roger Greene's office
and Dollard's big red printing house Gerty MacDowell, carrying the Catesby's
cork lino letters for her father who was laid up, knew by the style it was
the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her Excellency had on
because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to stop in front
of her on account of its being the lord lieutenant. Beyond Lundy Foot's from
the shaded door of Kavanagh's winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen
coldness towards the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland.
The Right Honourable William Humble, earl of Dudley, G. C. V. O., passed
Micky Anderson's all times ticking watches and Henry and James's wax
smartsuited freshcheeked models, the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James.
Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of
the cavalcade. Tom Rochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley on him, took his
thumbs quickly out of the pockets of his claret waistcoat and doffed his cap
to her. A charming soubrette, great Marie Kendall, with dauby cheeks and
lifted skirt, smiled daubily from her poster upon William Humble, earl of
Dudley, and upon lieutenantcolonel H. G. Hesseltine and also upon the
honourable Gerald Ward A. D. C. From the window of the D. B. C. Buck
Mulligan gaily, and Haines gravely, gazed down on the viceregal equipage
over the shoulders of eager guests, whose mass of forms darkened the
chessboard whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently. In Fownes's street,
Dilly Dedalus, straining her sight upward from Chardenal's first French
primer, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the glare John
Henry Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from
winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his
fat left hand not feeling it. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed
the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the hoofs of
the outriders. She shouted in his ear the tidings. Understanding, he shifted
his tomes to his left breast and saluted the second carriage. The honourable
Gerald Ward A. D. C., agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. At
Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white
flagons halted behind him, E. L. Y.'S., while outriders pranced past and
carriages. Opposite Pigott's music warerooms Mr Denis J. Maginni professor
of dancing &c, gaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and
unobserved. By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in
tan shoes and socks with skyblue clocks to the refrain of My girl's a
Yorkshire girl.
Blazes Boylan presented to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high
action a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit
of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets forgot to salute but he
offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and the red
flower between his lips. As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency
drew the attention of his bowing consort to the programme of music which was
being discoursed in College park. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and
drumthumped after the cortÉge:
But though she's a factory lass
And wears no fancy clothes.
Baraabum.
Yet I've a sort of a
Yorkshire relish for
My little Yorkshire rose.
Baraabum.
Thither of the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M. C. Green, H.
Thrift, T. M. Patey, C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C.
Adderly, and W. C. Huggard started in pursuit. Striding past Finn's hotel,
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce
eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr E. M. Solomons in the window
of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. Deep in Leinster street, by Trinity's
postern, a loyal king's man, Horn-blower, touched his tallyho cap. As the
glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam,
waiting, saw salutes being given to the gent with the topper and raised also
his new black cap with fingers greased by porksteak paper. His collar too
sprang up. The viceroy, on his way to inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of
funds for Mercer's hospital, drove with his following towards Lower Mount
street. He passed a blind stripling Opposite Broadbent's. In Lower Mount
street a pedestrian in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly
and unscathed across the viceroy's path. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his
hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome
to Pembroke township. At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted
themselves, an umbrella and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to view
with wonder the lord mayor and lady mayoress without his golden chain. On
Northumberland and Landsdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually
salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two small schoolboys at the
garden gate of the house said to have been admired by the late queen when
visiting the Irish capital with her husband, the prince consort, in 1849,
and the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a closing
door.
Ulysses 11: Sirens
BRONZE BY GOLD HEARD THE HOOFIRONS, STEELYRINING IMPERthnthn thnthnthn.
Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips. Horrid! And gold
flushed more.
A husky fifenote blew.
Blew. Blue bloom is on the
Gold pinnacled hair.
A jumping rose on satiny breasts of satin, rose of Castille.
Trilling, trilling: I dolores.
Peep! Who's in the... peepofgold?
Tink cried to bronze in pity.
And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying call.
Decoy. Soft word. But look! The bright stars fade. O rose! Notes
chirruping answer. Castille. The morn is breaking.
Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.
Coin rang. Clock clacked.
Avowal. Sonnez. I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. La
cloche! Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye!
Jingle. Bloo.
Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs. War! War! The tympanum.
A sail! A veil awave upon the waves.
Lost. Throstle fluted. All is lost now.
Horn. Hawhorn.
When first he saw. Alas!
Full tup. Full throb.
Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring.
Martha! Come!
Clapclop. Clipclap. Clappyclap.
Goodgod henev erheard inall.
Deaf bald Pat brought pad knife took up.
A moonlight nightcall: far: far.
I feel so sad. P. S. So lonely blooming.
Listen!
The spiked and winding cold seahorn. Have you the? Each and for other
plash and silent roar.
Pearls: when she. Liszt's rhapsodies. Hissss.
You don't?
Did not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd. With a cock with a carra.
Black.
Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do.
Wait while you wait. Hee hee. Wait while you hee.
But wait!
Low in dark middle earth. Embedded ore.
Naminedamine. All gone. All fallen.
Tiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.
Amen! He gnashed in fury.
Fro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding.
Bronzelydia by Minagold.
By bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow. Bloom. Old Bloom.
One rapped, one tapped with a carra, with a cock.
Pray for him! Pray, good people!
His gouty fingers nakkering.
Big Benaben. Big Benben.
Last rose Castille of summer left bloom I feel so sad alone. Pwee!
Little wind piped wee.
True men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll. Ay, ay. Like you men. Will lift your
tschink with tschunk.
Fff! Oo!
Where bronze from anear? Where gold from afar? Where hoofs?
Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.
Then, not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be pfrwritt.
Done.
Begin!
Bronze by gold, Miss Douce's head by Miss Kennedy's head, over the
crossblind of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofs go by, ringing steel.
-- Is that her? asked Miss Kennedy.
Miss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex, pearl grey and eau de Nil.
-- Exquisite contrast, Miss Kennedy said.
When all agog Miss Douce said eagerly:
-- Look at the fellow in the tall silk.
-- Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly.
-- In the second carriage, Miss Douce's wet lips said, laughing in the
sun. He's looking. Mind till I see.
She darted, bronze, to the backmost corner, flattening her face against
the pane in a halo of hurried breath.
Her wet lips tittered:
-- He's killed looking back.
She laughed:
-- O wept! Aren't men frightful idiots?
With sadness.
Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hair
behind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a hair.
Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.
-- It's them has the fine times, sadly then she said.
A man.
Bloowho went by by Moulang's pipes, bearing in his breast the sweets of
sin, by Wine's antiques in memory bearing sweet sinful words, by Carroll's
dusky battered plate, for Raoul.
The boots to them, them in the bar, them barmaids came. For them
unheeding him he banged on the counter his tray of chattering china. And
-- There's your teas, he said.
Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray down to an upturned
lithia crate, safe from eyes, low.
-- What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.
-- Find out, Miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.
-- Your beau, is it?
A haughty bronze replied:
-- I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I hear any more of your
impertinent insolence.
-- I mperthnthn thnthnthn, bootsnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated as
she threatened as he had come.
Bloom.
On her flower frowning Miss Douce said:
-- Most aggravating that young brat is. If he doesn't conduct himself
I'll wring his ear for him a yard long.
Ladylike in exquisite contrast.
-- Take no notice, Miss Kennedy rejoined.
She poured in a teacup tea, then back in the teapot tea. They cowered
under their reef of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned, waiting
for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, both of black satin, two
and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and seven.
Yes, bronze from anear, by gold from afar, heard steel from anear,
hoofs ring from afar, and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel.
-- Am I awfully sunburnt?
Miss Bronze unbloused her neck.
-- No, said Miss Kennedy. It gets brown after. Did you try the borax
with the cherry laurel water?
Miss Douce halfstood to see her skin askance in the barmirror
gildedlettered where hock and claret glasses shimmered and in their midst a
shell.
-- And leave it to my hands, she said.
-- Try it with the glycerine, Miss Kennedy advised.
Bidding her neck and hands adieu Miss Douce
-- Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. I asked that
old fogey in Boyd's for something for my skin.
Miss Kennedy, pouring now fulldrawn tea, grimaced and prayed:
-- O, don't remind me of him for mercy'sake!
-- But wait till I tell you, Miss Douce entreated.
Sweet tea Miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears
with little fingers.
-- No, don't, she cried.
-- I won't listen, she cried.
But Bloom?
Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone:
-- For your what? says he.
Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak: but said, but prayed
again:
-- Don't let me think of him or I'll expire. The hideous old wretch!
That night in the Antient Concert Rooms.
She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip, sipped sweet tea.
-- Here he was, Miss Douce said, cocking her bronze head three
quarters, ruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa!
Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from Miss Kennedy's throat. Miss Douce
huffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like a shout
in quest.
-- O! shrieking, Miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever forget bis goggle
eye?
Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, shouting:
-- And your other eye!
Bloowhose dark eye read Aaron Figatner's name. Why do I always think
Figather? Gathering figs I think. And Prosper LorÉ's huguenot name. By
Bassi's blessed virgins Bloom's dark eyes went by. Bluerobed, white under,
come to me. God they believe she is: or goddess. Those today. I could not
see. That fellow spoke. A student. After with Dedalus' son. He might be
Mulligan. All comely virgins. That brings those rakes of fellows in: her
white.
By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the sweets.
Of sin.
In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy
your other eye. They threw young heads back, bronze gigglegold, to let
freefly their laughter, screaming, your other, signals to each Other, high
piercing notes.
Ah, panting, sighing. Sighing, ah, fordone their mirth died down.
Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, raised, drank a sip and
giggle-giggled. Miss Douce, bending again over the teatray, ruffled again
her nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles, stooping her
fair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed, spluttered
out of her mouth her tea, choking in tea and laughter, coughing with
choking, crying:
-- O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to a man like that, she cried.
With his bit of beard!
Douce gave full vent to a splendid yell, a full yell of full woman,
delight, joy, indignation.
-- Married to the greasy nose! she yelled.
Shrill, with deep laughter, after bronze in gold, they urged each other
to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold goldbronze, shrilldeep,
to laughter after laughter: And then laughed more. Greasy I knows.
Exhausted, breathless their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by
glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!), panting, sweating
(O!), all breathless.
Married to Bloom, to greaseaseabloom.
-- O saints above! Miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. I
wished I hadn't laughed so much. I feel all wet.
-- O, Miss Douce! Miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing!
And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly.
By Cantwell's offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi's virgins, bright of
their oils. Nannetti's father hawked those things about, wheedling at doors
as I. Religion pays. Must see him about Keyes's par. Eat first. I want. Not
yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing. Clockhands turning. On. Where
eat? The Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I net five guineas with
those ads. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet. The sweets of sin.
Flushed less, still less, goldenly paled.
Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips off one of his
rocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled.
-- O welcome back, Miss Douce.
He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays?.
-- Tiptop.
He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor.
-- Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am. Lying out on the
strand all day.
Bronze whiteness.
-- That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed
her hand indulgently. Tempting poor simple males.
Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.
-- O go away, she said. You're very simple, I don't think.
He was.
-- Well now, I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they
christened me simple Simon.
-- You must have been a doaty, Miss Douce made answer. And what did the
doctor order today?
-- Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I'll trouble
you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.
Jingle.
-- With the greatest alacrity, Miss Douce agreed.
With grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane's
she turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold whisky from her
crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalus brought pouch and
pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky fifenotes.
-- By Jove, he mused. I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must
be a great tonic in the air down there. But a long threatening comes at
last, they say. Yes, yes.
Yes. He fingered shreds of hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid's, into
the bowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute.
None not said nothing. Yes.
Gaily Miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling:
-- O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas!
-- Was Mr Lidwell in today?
In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. Mr Bloom reached Essex
bridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write. Buy
paper. Daly's. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue Bloom is on the rye.
-- He was in at lunchtime, Miss Douce said.
Lenehan came forward.
-- Was Mr Boylan looking for me?
He asked. She answered:
-- Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs?
She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised, her
gaze upon a page.
-- No. He was not.
Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard not seen, read on. Lenehan round the
sandwichbell wound his round body round.
-- Peep! Who's in the corner?
No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made overtures. To mind her
stops. To read only the black ones: round o and crooked ess.
Jingle jaunty jingle.
Girlgold she read and did not glance. Take no notice. She took no
notice while he read by rote a solfa fable for her, plappering flatly:
-- Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your
bill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone?
He droned in vain. Miss Douce turned to her tea aside.
He sighed, aside:
-- Ah me! O my!
He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod.
-- Greetings from the famous son of a famous father.
-- Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked.
Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who?
-- Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask? Stephen, the youthful bard.
Dry.
Mr Dedalus, famous fighter, laid by his dry filled pipe.
-- I see, he said. I didn't recognize him for the moment. I hear he is
keeping very select company. Have you seen him lately?
He had.
-- I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this very day, said Lenehan. In
Mooney's en ville and in Mooney's sur mer. He had received the rhino for the
labour of his muse.
He smiled at bronze's teabathed lips, at listening lips and eyes.
-- The Élite of Erin hung upon his lips. The ponderous pundit, Hugh
MacHugh, Dublin's most brilliant scribe and editor, and that minstrel boy of
the wild wet west who is known by the euphonious appellation of the O'Madden
Burke.
After an interval Mr Dedalus raised his grog and
-- That must have been highly diverting, said he. I see.
He see. He drank. With faraway mourning mountain eye. Set down his
glass.
He looked towards the saloon door.
-- I see you have moved the piano.
-- The tuner was in today, Miss Douce replied, tuning it for the
smoking concert and I never heard such an exquisite player.
-- Is that a fact?
-- Didn't he, Miss Kennedy? The real classical, you know. And blind
too, poor fellow. Not twenty I'm sure he was.
-- Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said.
He drank and strayed away.
-- So sad to look at his face, Miss Douce condoled.
God's curse on bitch's bastard.
Tink to her pity cried a diner's bell. To the door of the diningroom
came bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter of Ormond. Lager for
diner. Lager without alacrity she served.
With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan with impatience, for jingle
jaunty blazes boy.
Upholding the lid he (who?) gazed in the coffin (coffin?) at the
oblique triple (piano!) wires. He pressed (the same who pressed indulgently
her hand), soft pedalling a triple of keys to see the thicknesses of felt
advancing, to hear the muffled hammerfall in action.
Two sheets cream vellum paper on reserve two envelopes when I was in
Wisdom Hely's wise Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower bought. Are you not happy in
your home? Flower to console me and a pin cuts lo. Means something, language
of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is. Respectable girl meet after
mass. Tanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloom eyed on the door a poster, a swaying
mermaid smoking mid nice waves. Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all. Hair
streaming: lovelorn. For some man. For Raoul. He eyed and saw afar on Essex
bridge a gay hat riding on a jauntingcar. It is. Third time. Coincidence.
Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond quay.
Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now. Out.
-- Two pence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say.
Aha... I was forgetting... Excuse...
And four.
At four she. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhom smiled. Bloo smi qui go.
Ternoon. Think you're the only pebble on the beach? Does that to all. For
men.
In drowsy silence gold bent on her page.
>From the saloon a call came, long in dying. That was a tuningfork the
tuner had that he forgot that he now struck. Acall again. That he now poised
that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure, purer, softly and
softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.
Pat paid for diner's popcorked bottle: and over tumbler tray and
popcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald and bothered, with Miss
Douce.
-- The bright stars fade...
A voiceless song sang from within, singing:
-- ... the morn is breaking.
A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive
hands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording, called
to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's leavetaking,
life's, love's morn.
-- The dewdrops pearl...
Lenehan's lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy.
-- But look this way, he said, rose of Castille.
Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.
She rose and closed her reading, rose of Castille. Fretted forlorn,
dreamily rose.
-- Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her.
She answered, slighting:
-- Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.
Like lady, ladylike.
Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor where he
strode. Yes, gold from anear by bronze from afar. Lenehan heard and knew and
hailed him:
-- See the conquering hero comes.
Between the car and window, warily walking, went Bloom, unconquered
hero. See me he might. The seat he sat on: warm. Black wary hecat walked
towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft saluting.
-- And I from thee...
-- I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.
He touched to fair Miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw. She smiled
on him. But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her richer hair, a
bosom and a rose.
Boylan bespoke potions.
-- What's your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please, and a
sloegin for me. Wire in yet?
Not yet. At four he. All said four.
Cowley's red lugs and Adam's apple in the door of the sheriff's office.
Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting. Wait.
Hello. Where off to? Something to eat? I too was just. In here. What,
Ormond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom. Sit tight there. See,
not be seen. I think I'll join you. Come on. Richie led on. Bloom followed
bag. Dinner fit for a prince.
Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm, her
bust, that all but burst, so high.
-- O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. O!
But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.
-- Why don't you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.
Shebronze, dealing from her jar thick syrupy liquor for his lips,
looked as it flowed (flower in his coat: who gave him?), and syrupped with
her voice:
-- Fine goods in small parcels.
That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.
-- Here's fortune, Blazes said.
He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.
-- Hold on, said Lenehan, till I...
-- Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.
-- Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.
-- I plunged a bit, said Boylan winking and drinking. Not on my own,
you know. Fancy of a friend of mine.
Lenehan still drank and grinned at his tilted ale and at Miss Douce's
lips that all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips had trilled.
Idolores. The eastern seas.
Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way (flower, wonder who gave),
bearing away teatray. Clock clacked.
Miss Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister. It
clanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in the till and
hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack. For me.
-- What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four?
O'clock.
Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming, tugged
Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve.
-- Let's hear the time, he said.
The bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom flowered
tables. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table near
the door. Be near. At four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps a trick. Not come:
whet appetite. I couldn't do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited.
Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes.
-- Go on, pressed Lenehan. There's no-one. He never heard.
-- ... to Flora's lips did hie.
High, a high note, pealed in the treble, clear.
Bronzedouce, communing with her rose that sank and rose, sought Blazes
Boylan's flower and eyes.
-- Please, please.
He pleaded over returning phrases of avowal.
-- I could not leave thee...
-- Afterwits, Miss Douce promised coyly.
-- No, now, urged Lenehan. Sonnezlacloche! O do! There's no-one.
She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two kindling
faces watched her bend.
Quavering the chords strayed from the air, found it again, lost chord,
and lost and found it faltering.
-- Go on! Do! Sonnez!
Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted
them still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.
-- Sonnez!
Smack. She let free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic garter
smackwarm against her smackable woman's warmhosed thigh.
-- La cloche! cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No sawdust
there.
She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren't men?), but, lightward
gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.
-- You're the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said.
Boyland, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drankoff his tiny
chalice, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops. He spellbound eyes went
after her gliding head as it went down the bar by mirrors, gilded arch for
ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a spiky shell, where it
concerted, mirrored, bronze with sunnier bronze.
Yes, bronze from anearby.
-- ... Sweetheart, goodbye!
-- I'm off, said Boylan with impatience.
He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.
-- Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted to tell
you. Tom Rochford...
-- Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going.
Lenehan gulped to go.
-- Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I'm coming.
He followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the
threshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender.
-- How do you do Mr Dollard?
-- Eh? How do? How do? Ben Dollard's vague bass answered, turning an
instant from Father Cowley's woe. He won't give you any trouble, Bob. All
Bergan will speak to the long fellow. We'll put a barleystraw in that Judas
Iscariot's ear this time.
Sighing, Mr Dedalus came through the saloon, a finger soothing an
eyelid.
-- Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Come on, Simon, give us a
ditty. We heard the piano.
Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for drink orders, Power for Richie.
And Bloom? Let me see. Not make him walk twice. His corns. Four now. How
warm this black is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?) heat. Let me see.
Cider. Yes, bottle of cider.
-- What's that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only vamping, man.
-- Come on, come on, Ben Dollar called. Begone, dull care. Come, Bob.
He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them (hold that fellow with the:
hold him now) into the saloon. He plumped him Dollard on the stool. His
gouty paws plumped chords. Plumped stopped abrupt.
Bald Pat in the doorway met tealess gold returning. Bothered he wanted
Power and cider. Bronze by the window watched, bronze from afar.
Jingle a tinkle jaunted.
Bloom heard a jing, a little sound. He's off. Light sob of breath Bloom
sighed on the silent bluehued flowers. Jingling. He's gone. Jingle. Hear.
-- Love and war, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God be with old times.
Miss Douce's brave eyes, unregarded, turned from the crossblind,
smitten by sunlight. Gone. Pensive (who knows?), smitten (the smiting
light), she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She drew down pensive
(why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze over the bar where bald
stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast inexquisite
nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of shadow, eau de Nil.
-- Poor old Goodwin was the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded
them. There was a slight difference of opinion between himself and the
Collard grand.
There was.
-- A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said. The devil wouldn't stop
him. He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of drink.
-- God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from the
punished keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment.
They laughed all three. He had no wed. All trio laughed. No wedding
garment.
-- Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus said.
Where's my pipe by the way?
He wandered back to the bar to the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried
two diners' drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowley laughed again.
-- I saved the situation, Ben, I think.
-- You did, averred Ben Dollard. I remember those tight trousers too.
That was a brilliant idea, Bob.
Father Cowley blushed to his brilliant purply lobes. He saved the
situa. Tight trou. Brilliant ide.
-- I knew he was on the rocks, he said. The wife was playing the piano
in the coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration and who
was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other business? Do you remember?
We had to search all Holles street to find them till the chap in Keogh's
gave us the number. Remember?
Ben remembered, his broad visage wondering.
-- By God she had some luxurious opera cloaks and things there.
Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.
-- Merrion square style. Balldresses, by God, and court dresses. He
wouldn't take any money either. What? Any God's quantity of cocked hats and
boleros and trunkhose. What?
-- Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion Bloom has left off clothes of
all descriptions.
Jingle haunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres.
Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right, sir. Right, Pat.
Mrs Marion met him pike hoses. Smell of burn of Paul de Kock. Nice name
he.
-- What's this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion.
-- Tweedy.
-- Yes. Is she alive?
-- And kicking.
-- She was a daughter of...
-- Daughter of the regiment.
-- Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.
Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after.
-- Irish? I don't know, faith. Is she, Simon?
Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.
-- Buccinator muscle is... What?... Bit rusty... O, she is... My Irish
Molly, O.
He puffed a pungent plumy blast.
-- From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.
They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the beerpull, bronze by
maraschino, thoughtful all two, Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace, Drumcondra
with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent.
Pat served uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he
ate with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods' roes while
Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, steak then kidney, bite
by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.
Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners fit for princes.
By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sun,
in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding tyres:
sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Horn. Have you the?
Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn.
Over their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding
chords:
-- When love absorbs my ardent soul...
Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roof-panes.
-- War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior.
-- So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking of your landlord. Love
or money.
He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge.
-- Sure, you'd burst the tympanum of her ear, man, Mr Dedalus said
through smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.
In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He would.
-- Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time,
Ben. Amoroso ma non troppo. Let me there.
Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen with tankards of cool stout. She
passed a remark. It was indeed, first gentleman said, beautiful weather.
They drank cool stout. Did she know where the lord lieutenant was going? And
heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldn't say. But it would be in the
paper. O, she needn't trouble. No trouble. She waved about her outspread
Independent, searching, the lord lieutenant, her pinnacles of hair
slowmoving, lord lieuten. Too much trouble, first gentleman said. O, not in
the least. Way he looked that. Lord lieutenant. Gold by bronze heard iron
steel.
-- ... my ardent soul
I care not foror the morrow.
In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and war someone is.
Ben Dollard's famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress suit for
that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musical porkers. Molly did
laugh when he went out. Threw herself back across the bed, screaming,
kicking. With all his belongings on show. O, saints above, I'm drenched! O,
the women in the front row! O, I never laughed so many! Well, of course,
that's what gives him the base barreltone. For instance eunuchs. Wonder
who's playing. Nice touch. Must be Cowley. Musical. Knows whatever note you
play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.
Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, George
Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist, a lady's,
hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back. To the old dingdong
again.
-- Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.
George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.
Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. That chap in the
Burton, gummy with gristle. No-one here: Goulding and I. Clean tables,
flowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and fro, bald Pat. Nothing to do. Best
value in Dub.
Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it, like one together,
mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the bowend,
sawing the 'cello, remind you of toothache. Her high long snore. Night we
were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus, between the acts,
other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. Conductor's legs too,
bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide them.
Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
Only the harp. Lovely gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of a
lovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that once
or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their harps. I.
He. Old. Young.
-- Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.
Strongly.
-- Go on, blast you, Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits
-- M'appari, Simon, Father Cowley said.
Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long
arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly he
sang to a dusty seascape there: A Last Farewell. A headland, a ship, a sail
upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon
the headland, wind around her.
Cowley sang:
-- M'appari tutt amor;
Il mio sguardo l'incontr...
She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil to one departing, dear one, to
wind, love, speeding sail, return.
-- Go on, Simon.
-- Ah, sure my dancing days are done, Ben... Well...
Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting,
touched the obedient keys.
-- No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original One flat.
The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.
Up stage strode Father Cowley.
-- Here, Simon. I'll accompany you, he said. Get up.
By Graham Lemon's pineapple rock, by Elvery's elephant jingle jogged.
Steak, kidney, liver, mashed at meat fit for princes sat princes Bloom and
Goulding. Princes at meat they raised and drank Power and cider.
Most beautiful tenor air ever written, Richie said: Sonnambula. He
heard Joe Maas sing that one night. Ah, that M'Guckin! Yes. In his way.
Choirboy style. Maas was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor if you like.
Never forget it. Never.
Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened features strain.
Backache he. Bright's bright eye. Next item on the programme. Paying the
piper. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Stave it off awhile.
Sings too: Down among the dead men. Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to the.
Not-making much hand of it. Best value in. Characteristic of him. Power.
Particular about his drink. Flaw in the glass, fresh Vartry water. Fecking
matches from counters to save. Then squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs.
And when he's wanted not a farthing. Screwed refusing to pay his fare.
Curious types.
Never would Richie forget that night. As long as he lived, never. In
the gods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the first note.
Speech paused on Richie's lips.
Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about damn all. Believes his
own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But want a good memory.
-- Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.
-- All is lost now...
Richie cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet banshee
murmured all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teeth he's
proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Two notes in one
there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he twined
and turned them. All most too new call is lost in all. Echo. How sweet the
answer. How is that done? All lost now. Mournful he whistled. Fall,
surrender, lost.
Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the vase.
Order. Yes, I remember. Lovely air. In sleep she went to him. Innocence in
the moon. Still hold her back. Brave, don't know their danger. Call name.
Touch water. Jingle jaunty. Too late. She longed to go. That's why. Woman.
As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost.
-- A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.
Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.
He knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his daughter. Wise
child that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?
Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. Rollicking
Richie once. Jokes old stale now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his eye.
Now begging letters he sends his son with. Crosseyed Walter sir I did sir.
Wouldn't trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise.
Piano again. Sounds better than last time I heard. Tuned probably.
Stopped again.
Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it.
-- With it, Simon.
-- It, Simon.
-- Ladies and gentlemen, I am most deeply obliged by your kind
solicitations.
-- It, Simon.
-- I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shall
endeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down.
By the sandwichbell in screening shadow, Lydia her bronze and rose, a
lady's grace, gave and withheld: as in cool glaucous eau de Nil Mina to
tankards two her pinnacles of gold.
The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord longdrawn, expectant drew
a voice away.
-- When first I saw that form endearing.
Richie turned.
-- Si Dedalus' voice, he said.
Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that flow
endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. Bloom signed to Pat,
bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajar the door of the bar. The
door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited, waiting to hear, for
he was hard of hear by the door.
-- Sorrow from me seemed to depart.
Through the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves
in murmur, like no voice of strings of reeds or what doyoucallthem
dulcimers, touching their still ears with words, still hearts of their each
his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to
from both depart when first they heard. When first they saw, lost Richie,
Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the least,
her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word.
Love that is singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the
elastic band of his packet. Love's old sweet sonnez la gold. Bloom wound a
skein round four forkfingers, stretched it, relaxed, and wound it round his
troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast.
-- Full of hope and all delighted...
Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at his
feet when will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle all delighted. He can't
sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him. What
perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jing. Stop. Knock. Last look at
mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? How do you? I do
well. There? What? Or? Phila of cachous, kissing comfits, in her satchel.
Yes? Hands felt for the opulent.
Alas! The voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud.
-- But alas, 'twas idle dreaming...
Glorious tone he has still. Cork air softer also their brogue. Silly
man! Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out his
wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. If he doesn't
break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feet sing too. Drink.
Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. Jenny Lind soup: stock, sage,
raw eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy.
Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling. Full it throbbed. That's the
chat. Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect.
Words? Music? No: it's what's behind.
Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.
Bloom. Flood of warm jimjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music
out, in desire, dark to lick flow, invading. Tipping her tepping her tapping
her topping her. Tup. Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the feel the
warm the. Tup. To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush, flow,
joygush, tupthrop. Now! Language of love.
-- ... ray of hope...
Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse
unsqueaked a ray of hope.
Martha it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song. Lovely
name you have. Can't write. Accept my little pres. Play on her heartstrings
pursestrings too. She's a. I called you naughty boy. Still the name: Martha.
How strange! Today.
The voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. It sang again to
Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting, to wait.
How first he saw that form endearing, how sorrow seemed to part, how look,
form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart.
Wish I could see his face, though. Explain better. Why the barber in
Drago's always looked my face when I spoke his face in the glass. Still hear
it better here than in the bar though farther.
-- Each graceful look...
First night when first I saw her at Mat Dillon's in Terenure. Yellow,
black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her. Fate.
Round and round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt. Down she sat.
All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.
-- Charmed my eye...
Singing. Waiting she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume of
what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full, throat warbling.
First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate. Spanishy eyes. Under a
peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in shadow Dolores
shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.
-- Martha! Ah, Martha!
Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant
to love to return with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony. In cry
of lionel loneliness that she should know, must Martha feel. For only her he
waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where. Somewhere.
-- Co-me, thou lost one!
Co-me thou dear one!
Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chest note, return.
-- Come!
It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver
orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don't spin it out too
long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent,
aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal
bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around
about the all, the endlessnessnessness...
-- To me!
Siopold!
Consumed.
Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To me, to him, to
her, you too, me, us.
-- Bravo! Clapclap. Goodman, Simon. Clappyclapclap. Encore!
Clapclipclap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap,
said, cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell, Pat,
Mina, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first gent with tank and
bronze Miss Douce and gold Miss Mina.
Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor, said before.
Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson, reverend
father Theobald Matthew, jaunted as said before just now. Atrot, in heat,
heatseated. Cloche. Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la. Slower the mare went up
the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too slow for Boylan, blazes Boylan,
impatience Boylan, joggled the mare.
An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the air made richer.
And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank,
Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two
tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips,
at first, at second. She did not mind.
-- Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you'd
sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.
Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played. Mina Kennedy
served. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in; Lydia, admired,
admired. But Bloom sang dumb.
Admiring.
Richie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He remembered
one night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang 'Twas rank and fame: in
Ned Lambert's 'twas. Good God he never heard in all his life a note like
that he never did then false one we had better part so clear so God he never
heard since love lives not a clinking voice ask Lambert he can tell you too.
Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the
night, Si in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus' house, sang 'Twas rank and fame...
He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie Goulding, told him, Mr Bloom of
the night he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus, sing 'Twas rank and fame in
his, Ned Lambert's house.
Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the
lute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all the more. The
nights Si sang. The human voice, two tiny silky cords. Wonderful, more than
all the others.
That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It's in the silence you feel
you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.
Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked the
slender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzzed, it twanged. While
Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan, harking
back in a retrospective sort of arrangement, talked to listening Father
Cowley who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. While big Ben
Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus lighting, who nodded as he smoked, who
smoked.
Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his
string. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure them on.
Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head. Outtohelloutofthat.
Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat's tail wriggling! Five bob I gave. Corpus
paradisum. Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup. Gone. They sing.
Forgotten. I too. And one day she with. Leave her: get tired. Suffer then.
Snivel. Big Spanishy eyes goggling at nothing. Her
wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevy hair un comb: 'd.
Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not happy in
your? Twang. It snapped.
Jingle into Dorset street.
Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.
-- Don't make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted.
George Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe.
First gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so. And
second tankard told her so. That that was so.
Miss Douce, Miss Lydia, did not believe: Miss Kennedy, Mina, did not
believe: George Lidwell, no: Miss Dou did not: the first, the first: gent
with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, Miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the tank.
Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.
Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He went. A
pad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.
-- Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing the curling catgut fine. It certainly
is. Few lines will do. My present. All that Italian florid music is. Who is
this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet notepaper,
envelope: unconcerned. It's so characteristic.
-- Grandest number in the whole opera, Goulding said.
-- It is, Bloom said.
Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two
divided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus two
plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling. Always find
out this equal to that, symmetry under a cemetery wall. He doesn't see my
mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics. And you think
you're listening to the ethereal. But suppose you said it like: Martha,
seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite flat. It's on
account of the sounds it is.
Instance he's playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like till you
hear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: then hear
chords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks over barrels, through
wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune. Question of mood you're in.
Still always nice to hear. Except scales up and down, girls learning. Two
together nextdoor neighbours. Ought to invent dummy pianos for that.
Blumenlied I bought for her. The name. Playing it slow, a girl, night I came
home, the girl. Door of the stables near Cecilia street. Milly no taste.
Queer because we both I mean.
Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quite
flat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.
It was the only language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a boy
in Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles. Queenstown
harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, in the moonlight with
those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God, such music, Ben. Heard as
a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.
Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed a
moonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.
Down the edge of his Freeman baton ranged Bloom's your other eye,
scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick. Heigho!
Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking...
Hope he's not looking, cute as a rat. He held unfurled his Freeman.
Can't see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear sir.
Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and flow. Hell did I put? Some
pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline imposs. To write today.
Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am just reflecting
fingers on flat pad Pat brought.
On. Know what I mean. No, change that ee. Accept my poor little pres
enclos. Ask her no answ. Hold on. Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the gulls.
Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne's. Is eight about. Say half a crown. My poor
little pres: p. o. two and six. Write me a long. Do you despise? Jingle,
have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught? You naughty too? O,
Mairy lost the pin of her. Bye for today. Yes, yes, will tell you. Want to.
To keep it up. Call me that other. Other world she wrote. My patience are
exhaust. To keep it up. You must believe. Believe. The tank. It. Is. True.
Folly am I writing? Husbands don't. That's marriage does, their wives.
Because I'm away from. Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young. If she found
out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless pain. If they don't
see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.
A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James
of number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a young
gentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by George
Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of number five Eden quay, and wearing a
straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one Great Brunswick
street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle that joggled and jingled. By Dlugacz'
porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a gallantbuttocked mare.
-- Answering an ad? keen Richie's eyes asked Bloom.
-- Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect.
Bloom mur: best references. But Henry wrote: it will excite me. You
know now. In haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better add postscript. What is he
playing now? Improvising intermezzo. P. S. The rum tum tum. How will you
pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I want to.
Know. O. Course if I didn't I wouldn't ask. La la la ree. Trails off there
sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like sad tail at end. P. P. S. La
la la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So lonely. Dee.
He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel. Address. Just copy out of paper.
Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. Henry wrote:
Miss Martha Clifford
c/o P. O.
Dolphin's barn lane
Dublin.
Blot over the other so he can't read. Right. Idea prize titbit.
Something detective read off blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guinea per
col. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs Purefoy. U. p.: up.
Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that. Music hath charms
Shakespeare said. Quotations every day in the year. To be or not to be.
Wisdom while you wait.
In Gerard's rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyed-auburn. One life is
all. One body. Do. But do.
Done anyhow. Postal order stamp. Postoffice lower down. Walk now.
Enough. Barney Kiernan's I promised to meet them. Dislike that job. House of
mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn't hear. Deaf beetle he is.
Car near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn't. Settling those napkins.
Lot of ground he must cover in the day. Paint face behind on him then he'd
be two. Wish they'd sing more. Keep my mind off.
Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of
his hearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. He
waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. He waits
while you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while you wait. Hee
hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait.
Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose.
She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. And look at the lovely shell
she brought.
To the end of the bar to him she bore lightly the spiked and winding
seahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor, might hear.
-- Listen! she bade him.
Under Tom Kernan's ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow.
Authentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice. Well, sir, the husband took
him by the throat. Scoundrel, said he. You'll sing no more lovesongs. He
did, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get wom. Cowley lay back.
Ah, now he heard, she holding it to his ear. Hear! He heard. Wonderful.
She held it to her own and through the sifted light pale gold in contrast
glided. To hear.
Tap.
Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell held at their ears. He heard more
faintly that that they heard, each for herself alone, then each for other,
hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent roar.
Bronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, they listened.
Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there. Been to the seaside.
Lovely seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should have put on coldcream first
make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn't forget. Fever near
her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shell with seaweed. Why
do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks their mouth, why? Her
eyes over the sheet, a yashmak. Find the way in. A cave. No admittance
except on business.
The sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood is it. Souse
in the ear sometimes. Well, it's a sea. Corpuscle islands.
Wonderful really. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur,
hearing: then laid it by, gently.
-- What are the wild waves saying? he asked her, smiled.
Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.
Tap.
By Larry O'Rourke's, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan swayed and Boylan
turned.
>From the forsaken shell Miss Mina glided to her tankard waiting. No,
she was not so lonely archly Miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know. Walks in
the moonlight by the sea. No, not alone. With whom? She nobly answered: with
a gentleman friend.
Bob Cowley's twinkling fingers in the treble played again. The landlord
has the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben Lightly he played a light
bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and smiling, and for their
gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one: two, one, three, four.
Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the cattle market,
cocks, hens don't crow, snakes hissss. There's music everywhere. Ruttledge's
door: ee creaking. No, that's noise. Minuet of Don Giovanni he's playing
now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle chambers dancing. Misery.
Peasants outside. Green starving faces eating dockleaves. Nice that is.
Look: look, look, look, look, look: you look at us.
That's joyful I can feel. Never have written it. Why? My joy is other
joy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must be. Mere fact of music shows you
are. Often thought she was in the dumps till she began to lilt. Then know.
M'Coy valise. My wife and your wife. Squealing eat. Like tearing silk.
When she talks like the clapper of a bellows. They can't manage men's
intervals. Gap in their voices too. Fill me. I'm warm, dark, open. Molly in
qui est homo: Mercadante. My ear against the wall to hear. Want a woman who
can deliver the goods.
Jog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boy Ian socks skyblue
clocks came light to earth.
O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on that. It
is a kind of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that is. Tinkling.
Empty vessels make most noise. Because the acoustics, the resonance changes
according as the weight of the water is equal to the law of falling water.
Like those rhapsodies of Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain.
Diddle iddle addle addle oodle oodle. Hiss. Now. Maybe now. Before.
One rapped on a door, one tapped with a knock, did he knock Paul de
Kock, with a loud proud knocker, with a cock carracarracarra cock. Cockcock.
Tap.
-- Qui sdegno, Ben, said Father Cowley.
-- No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered, The Croppy Boy. Our native Doric.
-- Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true.
-- Do, do, they begged in one.
I'll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not stay. To
me. How much?
-- What key? Six sharps?
-- F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.
Bob Cowley's outstretched talons gripped the black deep sounding
chords.
Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must.
Got money somewhere. He's on for a razzle backache spree. Much? He seehears
lipspeech. One and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Give him twopence tip.
Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family waiting, waiting Patty
come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while they wait.
But wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of the
dark middle earth. Embedded ore. Lumpmusic.
The voice of dark age, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach,
and painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good men and
true. The priest he sought, with him would he speak a word.
Tap.
Ben Dollard's voice barreltone. Doing his level best to say it. Croak
of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. Other comedown. Big ships'
chandler's business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships' lanterns.
Failed to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveagh home. Cubicle
number so and so. Number one Bass did that for him.
The priest's at home. A false priest's servant bade him welcome. Step
in. The holy father. Curlycues of chords.
Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them cubicles to end their
days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.
The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had entered a
lonely hall, told them how solemn fell his footstep there, told them the
gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive.
Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he'll win in Answers poets' picture
puzzle. We hand you crisp five pound note. Bird sitting hatching in a nest.
Lay of the last minstrel he thought it was. See blank tee what domestic
animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. Good voice he has still. No
eunuch yet with all his belongings.
Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by the door deaf
Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened.
The chords harped slower.
The voice of penance and of grief came slow, embellished, tremulous.
Ben's contrite beard confessed: in nomine Domini, in God's name. He knelt.
He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: mea culpa.
Latin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest with the communion
corpus for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffin or coffey,
corpusnomine. Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape.
Tap.
They listened: tankards and Miss Kennedy, George Lidwell eyelid well
expressive, fullbusted satin, Kernan, Si.
The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since easter he had cursed
three 'times. You bitch's bast. And once at masstime he had gone to play.
Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother's rest he had not
prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.
Bronze, listening by the beerpull, gazed far away. Soulfully. Doesn't
half know I'm. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.
Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best side of her face?
They always know. Knock at the door. Last tip to titivate.
Cockcarracarra.
What do they think when they hear music? Way to catch rattlesnakes.
Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah of Persia liked that
best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtain too. Custom
his country perhaps. That's music too. Not as bad as it sounds. Tootling.
Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasses, helpless, gashes in
their sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Semigrand open crocodile music hath
jaws. Woodwind like Goodwin's name.
She looked fine. Her crocus dress she wore, lowcut, belongings on show.
Clove her breath was always in theatre when she bent to ask a question. Told
her what Spinoza says in that book of poor papa's. Hypnotised, listening.
Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle, staring down into her with
his operaglass for all he was worth. Beauty of music you must hear twice.
Nature woman half a look. God made the country man the tune. Met him pike
hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!
All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his
brothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford, he would. Last of his
name and race.
I too, last my race. Milly young student. Well, my fault perhaps. No
son. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still?
He bore no hate.
Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old.
Big Ben his voice unfolded. Great voice, Richie Goulding said, a flush
struggling in his pale, to Bloom, soon old but when was young.
Ireland comes now. My country above the King. She listens. Who fears to
speak of nineteen four? Time to be shoving. Looked enough.
-- Bless me, father, Dollard the croppy cried. Bless me and let me go.
Tap.
Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week.
Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep your weathereye open. Those girls,
those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl's romance. Letters read out
for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy's own Mumpsypum. Laughter in court.
Henry. I never signed it. The lovely name you.
Low sank the music, air and words. Then hastened. The false priest
rustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman captain. They know it all by
heart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap.
Tap. Tap.
Thrilled, she listened, bending in sympathy to hear.
Blank face. Virgin should say: or fingered only. Write something on it:
page. If not what becomes of them? Decline, despair. Keeps them young. Even
admire themselves. See. Play on her. Lip blow. Body of white woman, a flute
alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes all women. Goddess I didn't see. They
want it: not too much polite. That's why he gets them. Gold in your pocket,
brass in your face. With look to look: songs without words. Molly that
hurdygurdy boy. She knew he meant the monkey was sick. Or because so like
the Spanish. Understand animals too that way. Solomon did. Gift of nature.
Ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in my stom. What?
Will? You? I. Want. You. To.
With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed. Swelling in apoplectic bitch's
bastard. A good thought, boy, to come. One hour's your time to live, your
last.
Tap. Tap.
Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for martyrs. For all
things dying, want to, dying to, die. For that all things born. Poor Mrs
Purefoy. Hope she's over. Because their wombs.
A liquid of womb of woman eyeball gazed under a fence of lashes,
calmly, hearing. See real beauty of the eye when she not speaks. On yonder
river. At each slow satiny heaving bosom's wave (her heaving embon) red rose
rose slowly, sank red rose. Heartbeats her breath: breath that is life. And
all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair.
But look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castille. The morn. Ha.
Lidwell. For him then not for. Infatuated. I like that? See her from here
though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.
On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand lightly, plumply, leave
it to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over the
polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and finger
passed in pity: passed, repassed and, gently touching, then slid so
smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton protruding through
their sliding ring.
With a cock with a carra.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing.
The chords consented. Very sad thing. But had to be.
Get out before the end. Thanks, that was heavenly. Where's my hat. Pass
by her. Can leave that Freeman. Letter I have. Suppose she were the? No.
Walk, walk, walk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall
Farrell, Waaaaaaalk.
Well, I must be. Are you off? Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup. O'er ryehigh blue.
Bloom stood up. Ow. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Must have sweated:
music. That lotion, remember. Well, so long. High grade. Card inside, yes.
By deaf Pat in the doorway, straining ear, Bloom passed.
At Geneva barrack that young man died. At Passage was his body laid.
Dolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the mournful chanter called to dolorous
prayer.
By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by slops, by empties,
by popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze and
faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel so lonely Bloom.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard. You who hear in peace.
Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good men, good people. He was the croppy boy.
Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond hallway
heard growls and roars of bravo, fat back-slapping, their boots all
treading, boots not the boots the boy. General chorus off for a swill to
wash it down. Glad I avoided.
-- Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus said. By God, you're as good as ever you
were.
-- Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchant rendition of that ballad,
upon my soul and honour it is.
-- Lablache, said Father Cowley.
Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the bar, mightily praisefed and
all big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkering
castagnettes in the air.
Big Benaden Dollard. Big Benben. Big Benben.
Rrr.
And deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn nose, all
laughing, they brought him forth, Ben Dollard, in right good cheer.
-- You're looking rubicund, George Lidwell said.
Miss Douce composed her rose to wait.
-- Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus, clapping Ben's fat back shoulderblade.
Fit as a fiddle, only he has a lot of adipose tissue concealed about his
person.
Rrrrrrsss.
-- Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growled.
Richie rift in the lute alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. Uncertainly
he waited. Unpaid Pat too.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Miss Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of tankardone.
-- Mr Dollard, they murmured low.
-- Dollard, murmured tankard.
Tank one believed: Miss Kenn when she: that doll he was: she doll: the
tank.
He murmured that he knew the name. The name was familiar to him, that
is to say. That was to say he had heard the name of Dollard, was it?
Dollard, yes.
Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He sang that song lovely,
murmured Mina. And The last rose of summer was a lovely song. Mina loved
that song. Tankard loved the song that Mina.
'Tis the last rose of summer Dollard left Bloom felt wind wound round
inside.
Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J's
one and eightpence too. Get shut of it. Dodge round by Greek street. Wish I
hadn't promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on your nerves. Beerpull.
Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth. That rules the world.
Far. Far. Far. Far.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for Mady,
with sweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met him pike hoses went
Poldy on.
Tap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone tapping, tap by tap.
Cowley, he stunts himself with it; kind of drunkenness. Better give way
only half way the way of a man with a maid. Instance enthusiasts. All ears.
Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes shut. Head nodding in time. Dotty. You
daren't budge. Thinking strictly prohibited. Always talking shop.
Fiddlefaddle about notes.
All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when it stops because you
never know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn fifty quid a year.
Queer up there in the cockloft alone with stops and locks and keys. Seated
all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himself or the other
fellow blowing the bellows. Growl angry, then shriek cursing (want to have
wadding or something in his no don't she cried), then all of a soft sudden
wee little wee little pippy wind.
Pwee! A wee little wind piped eeee. In Bloom's little wee.
Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returning, with fetched pipe. I was with him
this morning at poor little Paddy Dignam's...
-- Ay, the Lord have mercy on him.
-- By the by there's a tuningfork in there on the...
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
-- The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What? Lidwell asked.
-- O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw,
forgot it when he was here.
Blind he was she told George Lidwell second I saw. And played so
exquisitely, treat to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid minagold.
-- Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out!
-- 'lldo! cried Father Cowley.
Rrrrrr.
I feel I want...
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
-- Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine.
Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier of bread one last, one lonely,
last sardine of summer. Bloom alone.
-- Very, he stared. The lower register, for choice.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Bloom went by Barry's. Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if I had.
Twentyfour solicitors in that one house. Litigation. Love one another. Piles
of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power of attorney. Goulding,
Collis, Ward.
But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation: Micky
Rooney's band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at home after pig's
cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsing his band part. Pom.
Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses' skins. Welt them through life, then
wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what you call yashmak or I mean
kismet. Fate.
Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a tapping cane, came taptaptapping
by Daly's window where a mermaid, hair all streaming (but he couldn't see),
blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn't), mermaid coolest whiff of all.
Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands, then blow. Even comb
and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly in her shift in Lombard
street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade made its own, don't you
see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? Cloche. Sonnez la! Shepherd his
pipe. Policeman a whistle. Locks and keys! Sweep! Four o'clock's all's well!
Sleep! All is lost now. Drum? Pompedy. Wait, I know. Towncrier, bumbailiff.
Long John. Waken the dead. Pom. Dignam. Poor little nominedomine. Pom. It is
music, I mean of course it's all pom pom pom very much what they call da
capo. Still you can hear. As we march we march along, march along. Pom.
I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of
custom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the same he must
have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap. Muffled up.
Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown mackin. O, the whore of
the lane!
A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the
day along the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form endearing.
Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Horn. Who had the?
Heehaw. Shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she. Psst! Any chance
of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be with you in the
brown costume. Put you off your stroke. That appointment we made. Knowing
we'd never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near to home sweet home. Sees me,
does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip. Damn her! O, well, she
has to live like the rest. Look in here.
In Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold
dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged candlestick melodeon
oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain: six bob. Might learn to play. Cheap. Let
her pass. Course everything is dear if you don't want it. That's what good
salesman is. Make you buy what he wants to sell. Chap sold me the Swedish
razor he shaved me with. Wanted to charge me for the edge he gave it. She's
passing now. Six bob.
Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.
Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked their clinking
glasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting last
rose of summer, rose of Castille. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth:
Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and Big Ben Dollard.
Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.
Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert
Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is.
-- True men like you men.
-- Ay, ay, Ben.
-- Will lift your glass with us.
They lifted.
Tschink. Tschunk.
Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He saw
not gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor
Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see.
Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Softly. When my country takes
her place among.
Prrprr.
Must be the bur.
Fff. Oo. Rrpr.
Nations of the earth. No-one behind. She's passed. Then and not till
then. Tram. Kran, kran, kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I'm sure
it's the burgund. Yes. One, two. Let my epitaph be. Karaaaaaaa. Written. I
have.
Pprrpffrrppfff.
Done.
Ulysses 12: Cyclops
I WAS JUST PASSING THE TIME OF DAY WITH OLD TROY O THE D.M.P. at the
corner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloody sweep came along and
he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned around to let him have the
weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony Batter only
Joe Hynes.
-- Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see that bloody
chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush?
-- Soot's luck, says Joe. Who's the old ballocks you were talking to?
-- Old Troy, says I, was in the force. I'm on two minds not to give
that fellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and
ladders.
-- What are you doing round those parts? says Joe.
-- Devil a much, says I. There is a bloody big foxy thief beyond by the
garrison church at the corner of Chicken Lane - old Troy was just giving me
a wrinkle about him - lifted any God's quantity of tea and sugar to pay
three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off a hop of my thumb
by the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury street.
-- Circumcised! says Joe.
-- Ay, says I. A bit off the top. An old plumber named Geraghty. I'm
hanging on to his taw now for the past fortnight and I can't get a penny out
of him.
-- That the lay you're on now? says Joe.
-- Ay, says I . How are the mighty fallen! Collector of bad and
doubtful debts. But that's the most notorious bloody robber you'd meet in a
day's walk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain.
Tell him, says he, I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him to send you
round here again or if he does, says he, I'll have him summonsed up before
the court, so will I, for trading without a licence. And he after stuffing
himself till he's fit to burst! Jesus, I had to laugh at the little jewy
getting his shirt out. He drink me my teas. He eat me my sugars. Because he
no pay me my moneys?
For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin's
parade, Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter called the vendor, and sold
and delivered to Michael E. Geraghty, Esquire, of 29 Arbour Hill in the city
of Dublin, Arran quay ward, gentleman, hereinafter called the purchaser,
videlicet, five pounds avoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings
per pound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed crystal,
at three pence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to the said
vendor of one pound five shillings and six pence sterling for value received
which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in weekly
instalments every seven calendar days of three shillings and no pence
sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or pledged or
sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall be and remain
and be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the said vendor to be
disposed of at his good will and pleasure until the said amount shall have
been duly paid by the said purchaser to the said vendor in the manner herein
set forth as this day hereby agreed between the said vendor his heirs,
successors, trustees and assigns of the one part and the said purchaser, his
heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part.
-- Are you a strict t. t.? says Joe.
-- Not taking anything between drinks, says I.
-- What about paying our respects to our friend? says foe.
-- Who? says I. Sure, he's in John of God's off his head, poor man.
-- Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.
-- Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.
-- Come around to Barney Kiernan's, says Joe. I want to see the
citizen.
-- Barney mavourneen's be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful,
Joe?
-- Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms.
-- What was that, Joe? says I.
-- Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want
to give the citizen the hard word about it.
So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the
courthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he has it
but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn't get over that bloody
foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a licence, says he.
In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There
rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead as in
life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant land it is
in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the gunnard, the
plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse, the dab, the
brill, the flounder, the mixed coarse fish generally and other denizens of
the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be enumerated. In the mild breezes of
the west and of the east the lofty trees wave in different directions their
first class foliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted
planetree, the eugenic eucalyptus and other ornaments of the arboreal world
with which that region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovely maidens sit in
close proximity to the roots of the lovely trees singing the most lovely
songs while they play with all kinds of lovely objects as for example golden
ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings, creels
of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. And heroes voyage from
afar to woo them, from Elbana to Slievemargy, the peerless princes of
unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster and
of Cruachan's land and of Armagh the splendid and of the noble district of
Boyle, princes, the sons of kings.
And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen
by mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly for that
purpose and thither come all herds and fatlings and first fruits of that
land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain descended from
chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bring foison of the fields,
flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach, pineapple chunks, Rangoon
beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs, drills of Swedes, spherical
potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and trays of
onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of mushrooms and custard marrows
and fat vetches and bere and rape and red green yellow brown russet sweet
big bitter ripe pomellated apples and chips of strawberries and sieves of
gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious, and strawberries fit for princes and
raspberries from their canes.
-- I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him. Come out here, Geraghty,
you notorious bloody hill and dale robber!
And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed
ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and
roaring mares and polled calves and longwools and storesheep and Cuffe's
prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the various
different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus heifers and
polly bullocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime premiated
milchcows and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling, cackling,
roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting, champing, chewing,
of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from pasturelands of Lush and Rush
and Carrickmines and from the streamy vales of Thomond, from M'Gillicuddy's
reeks the inaccessible and lordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from the
gentle declivities of the place of the race of Kiar, their udders distended
with superabundance of milk and butts of butter and rennets of cheese and
farmer's firkins and targets of lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs,
in great hundreds, various in size, the agate with the dun.
So we turned into Barney Kiernan's and there sure enough was the
citizen up in the corner having a great confab with himself and that bloody
mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he waiting for what the sky would drop in the
way of drink.
There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his
load of papers, working for the cause.
The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him would give you the creeps.
Be a corporal work of mercy if someone would take the life of that bloody
dog. I'm told for a fact he ate a good part of the breeches off a
constabulary man in Santry that came round one time with a blue paper about
a licence.
-- Stand and deliver, says he.
-- That's all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here.
-- Pass, friends, says he.
Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he:
-- What's your opinion of the times?
Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But, begob, Joe was equal to
the occasion.
-- I think the markets are on a rise, says he, sliding his hand down
his fork.
So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says:
-- Foreign wars is the cause of it.
And says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket:
-- It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.
-- Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I, I've a thirst on
me I wouldn't sell for half a crown.
-- Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.
-- Wine of the country, says he.
-- What's yours? says Joe.
-- Ditto MacAnaspey, says I...
-- Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how's the o