6. Hades
Link every word (may take a few seconds)
[3888][ 6 ]
[3889]
[3890]Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking
[3891]carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power stepped in after
[3892]him, curving his height with care.
[3893]
[3894]—Come on, Simon.
[3895]
[3896]—After you, Mr Bloom said.
[3897]
[3898]Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying:
[3899]
[3900]—Yes, yes.
[3901]
[3902]—Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.
[3903]
[3904]Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to
[3905]after him and slammed it twice till it shut tight. He passed an arm
[3906]through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriagewindow
[3907]at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an old woman
[3908]peeping. Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she
[3909]was passed over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad
[3910]to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them.
[3911]Huggermugger in corners. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he’d
[3912]wake. Then getting it ready. Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making
[3913]the bed. Pull it more to your side. Our windingsheet. Never know who
[3914]will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails and
[3915]the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grows all the same after. Unclean
[3916]job.
[3917]
[3918]All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am
[3919]sitting on something hard. Ah, that soap: in my hip pocket. Better shift
[3920]it out of that. Wait for an opportunity.
[3921]
[3922]All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front, turning: then nearer:
[3923]then horses’ hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking and
[3924]swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds of
[3925]the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At
[3926]walking pace.
[3927]
[3928]They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were
[3929]passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels
[3930]rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook
[3931]rattling in the doorframes.
[3932]
[3933]—What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.
[3934]
[3935]—Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.
[3936]
[3937]Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.
[3938]
[3939]—That’s a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died
[3940]out.
[3941]
[3942]All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by
[3943]passers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the
[3944]smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man,
[3945]clad in mourning, a wide hat.
[3946]
[3947]—There’s a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said.
[3948]
[3949]—Who is that?
[3950]
[3951]—Your son and heir.
[3952]
[3953]—Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.
[3954]
[3955]The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway
[3956]before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving back
[3957]to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. Mr Dedalus
[3958]fell back, saying:
[3959]
[3960]—Was that Mulligan cad with him? His fidus Achates!
[3961]
[3962]—No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.
[3963]
[3964]—Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding
[3965]faction, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa’s little lump
[3966]of dung, the wise child that knows her own father.
[3967]
[3968]Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros: the
[3969]bottleworks: Dodder bridge.
[3970]
[3971]Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding, Collis and Ward he calls
[3972]the firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great card he was. Waltzing
[3973]in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the
[3974]landlady’s two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night.
[3975]Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing
[3976]his back. Thinks he’ll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are.
[3977]About six hundred per cent profit.
[3978]
[3979]—He’s in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan
[3980]is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name
[3981]stinks all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother
[3982]I’ll make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his
[3983]mother or his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as
[3984]a gate. I’ll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.
[3985]
[3986]He cried above the clatter of the wheels:
[3987]
[3988]—I won’t have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A
[3989]counterjumper’s son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul
[3990]M’Swiney’s. Not likely.
[3991]
[3992]He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power’s
[3993]mild face and Martin Cunningham’s eyes and beard, gravely shaking.
[3994]Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to hand
[3995]on. If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the
[3996]house. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes.
[3997]Strange feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance. Must have been that
[3998]morning in Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the two dogs
[3999]at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up.
[4000]She had that cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a
[4001]touch, Poldy. God, I’m dying for it. How life begins.
[4002]
[4003]Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her.
[4004]I could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent. Learn
[4005]German too.
[4006]
[4007]—Are we late? Mr Power asked.
[4008]
[4009]—Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch.
[4010]
[4011]Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy oaths. O jumping
[4012]Jupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, she’s a dear girl. Soon be
[4013]a woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman too.
[4014]Life, life.
[4015]
[4016]The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying.
[4017]
[4018]—Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said.
[4019]
[4020]—He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn’t that squint troubling him.
[4021]Do you follow me?
[4022]
[4023]He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away
[4024]crustcrumbs from under his thighs.
[4025]
[4026]—What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs?
[4027]
[4028]—Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr
[4029]Power said.
[4030]
[4031]All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless
[4032]leather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward
[4033]and said:
[4034]
[4035]—Unless I’m greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin?
[4036]
[4037]—It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said.
[4038]
[4039]Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet quite
[4040]clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.
[4041]
[4042]Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.
[4043]
[4044]—After all, he said, it’s the most natural thing in the world.
[4045]
[4046]—Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of
[4047]his beard gently.
[4048]
[4049]—Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He’s behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes.
[4050]
[4051]—And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked.
[4052]
[4053]—At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said.
[4054]
[4055]—I met M’Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he’d try to
[4056]come.
[4057]
[4058]The carriage halted short.
[4059]
[4060]—What’s wrong?
[4061]
[4062]—We’re stopped.
[4063]
[4064]—Where are we?
[4065]
[4066]Mr Bloom put his head out of the window.
[4067]
[4068]—The grand canal, he said.
[4069]
[4070]Gasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good job Milly never got
[4071]it. Poor children! Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. Shame
[4072]really. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Only measles. Flaxseed
[4073]tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. Don’t miss
[4074]this chance. Dogs’ home over there. Poor old Athos! Be good to Athos,
[4075]Leopold, is my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey them in the grave. A
[4076]dying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men’s
[4077]dogs usually are.
[4078]
[4079]A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an instant of shower
[4080]spray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a colander.
[4081]I thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now.
[4082]
[4083]—The weather is changing, he said quietly.
[4084]
[4085]—A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said.
[4086]
[4087]—Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There’s the sun again coming
[4088]out.
[4089]
[4090]Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a
[4091]mute curse at the sky.
[4092]
[4093]—It’s as uncertain as a child’s bottom, he said.
[4094]
[4095]—We’re off again.
[4096]
[4097]The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed
[4098]gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.
[4099]
[4100]—Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking
[4101]him off to his face.
[4102]
[4103]—O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear
[4104]him, Simon, on Ben Dollard’s singing of The Croppy Boy.
[4105]
[4106]—Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His singing of that simple
[4107]ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the
[4108]whole course of my experience.
[4109]
[4110]—Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He’s dead nuts on that. And the
[4111]retrospective arrangement.
[4112]
[4113]—Did you read Dan Dawson’s speech? Martin Cunningham asked.
[4114]
[4115]—I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it?
[4116]
[4117]—In the paper this morning.
[4118]
[4119]Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change
[4120]for her.
[4121]
[4122]—No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on please.
[4123]
[4124]Mr Bloom’s glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the
[4125]deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what
[4126]Peake is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne’s? no,
[4127]Sexton, Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking
[4128]paper. Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible
[4129]grief of his. Aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Month’s mind:
[4130]Quinlan. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.
[4131]
[4132] It is now a month since dear Henry fled
[4133] To his home up above in the sky
[4134] While his family weeps and mourns his loss
[4135] Hoping some day to meet him on high.
[4136]I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it
[4137]in the bath? He patted his waistcoatpocket. There all right. Dear Henry
[4138]fled. Before my patience are exhausted.
[4139]
[4140]National school. Meade’s yard. The hazard. Only two there now.
[4141]Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other
[4142]trotting round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies
[4143]raised their hats.
[4144]
[4145]A pointsman’s back straightened itself upright suddenly against
[4146]a tramway standard by Mr Bloom’s window. Couldn’t they invent
[4147]something automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that
[4148]fellow would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a
[4149]job making the new invention?
[4150]
[4151]Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a
[4152]crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law
[4153]perhaps.
[4154]
[4155]They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark’s, under the railway
[4156]bridge, past the Queen’s theatre: in silence. Hoardings: Eugene
[4157]Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Could I go to see Leah tonight, I wonder.
[4158]I said I. Or the Lily of Killarney? Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big
[4159]powerful change. Wet bright bills for next week. Fun on the Bristol.
[4160]Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the Gaiety. Have to stand a
[4161]drink or two. As broad as it’s long.
[4162]
[4163]He’s coming in the afternoon. Her songs.
[4164]
[4165]Plasto’s. Sir Philip Crampton’s memorial fountain bust. Who was he?
[4166]
[4167]—How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow
[4168]in salute.
[4169]
[4170]—He doesn’t see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How do you do?
[4171]
[4172]—Who? Mr Dedalus asked.
[4173]
[4174]—Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quiff.
[4175]
[4176]Just that moment I was thinking.
[4177]
[4178]Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the
[4179]white disc of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed.
[4180]
[4181]Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right
[4182]hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him that they she sees?
[4183]Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes
[4184]feel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I
[4185]am just looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone. Body
[4186]getting a bit softy. I would notice that: from remembering. What causes
[4187]that? I suppose the skin can’t contract quickly enough when the flesh
[4188]falls off. But the shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders.
[4189]Hips. Plump. Night of the dance dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks
[4190]behind.
[4191]
[4192]He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant
[4193]glance over their faces.
[4194]
[4195]Mr Power asked:
[4196]
[4197]—How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?
[4198]
[4199]—O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It’s a
[4200]good idea, you see...
[4201]
[4202]—Are you going yourself?
[4203]
[4204]—Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to go down to the
[4205]county Clare on some private business. You see the idea is to tour the
[4206]chief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other.
[4207]
[4208]—Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now.
[4209]
[4210]Have you good artists?
[4211]
[4212]—Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes, we’ll have all
[4213]topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in
[4214]fact.
[4215]
[4216]—And Madame, Mr Power said smiling. Last but not least.
[4217]
[4218]Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped
[4219]them. Smith O’Brien. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. Woman.
[4220]Must be his deathday. For many happy returns. The carriage wheeling by
[4221]Farrell’s statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.
[4222]
[4223]Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his
[4224]mouth opening: oot.
[4225]
[4226]—Four bootlaces for a penny.
[4227]
[4228]Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume street.
[4229]Same house as Molly’s namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford.
[4230]Has that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning too.
[4231]Terrible comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at a wake.
[4232]O’Callaghan on his last legs.
[4233]
[4234]And Madame. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. Doing
[4235]her hair, humming: voglio e non vorrei. No: vorrei e non. Looking at
[4236]the tips of her hairs to see if they are split. Mi trema un poco il.
[4237]Beautiful on that tre her voice is: weeping tone. A thrush. A throstle.
[4238]There is a word throstle that expresses that.
[4239]
[4240]His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power’s goodlooking face. Greyish over
[4241]the ears. Madame: smiling. I smiled back. A smile goes a long way. Only
[4242]politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is that true about the woman
[4243]he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it told me,
[4244]there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played out pretty
[4245]quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of
[4246]rumpsteak. What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury’s. Or the Moira, was
[4247]it?
[4248]
[4249]They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator’s form.
[4250]
[4251]Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.
[4252]
[4253]—Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.
[4254]
[4255]A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round the corner
[4256]of Elvery’s Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his
[4257]spine.
[4258]
[4259]—In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.
[4260]
[4261]Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly:
[4262]
[4263]—The devil break the hasp of your back!
[4264]
[4265]Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window as the
[4266]carriage passed Gray’s statue.
[4267]
[4268]—We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly.
[4269]
[4270]His eyes met Mr Bloom’s eyes. He caressed his beard, adding:
[4271]
[4272]—Well, nearly all of us.
[4273]
[4274]Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions’
[4275]faces.
[4276]
[4277]—That’s an awfully good one that’s going the rounds about Reuben J
[4278]and the son.
[4279]
[4280]—About the boatman? Mr Power asked.
[4281]
[4282]—Yes. Isn’t it awfully good?
[4283]
[4284]—What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn’t hear it.
[4285]
[4286]—There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined
[4287]to send him to the Isle of Man out of harm’s way but when they were
[4288]both.....
[4289]
[4290]—What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it?
[4291]
[4292]—Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat and he
[4293]tried to drown.....
[4294]
[4295]—Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did!
[4296]
[4297]Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.
[4298]
[4299]—No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself.....
[4300]
[4301]Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely:
[4302]
[4303]—Reuben J and the son were piking it down the quay next the river on
[4304]their way to the Isle of Man boat and the young chiseller suddenly got
[4305]loose and over the wall with him into the Liffey.
[4306]
[4307]—For God’s sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is he dead?
[4308]
[4309]—Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A boatman got a pole and
[4310]fished him out by the slack of the breeches and he was landed up to the
[4311]father on the quay more dead than alive. Half the town was there.
[4312]
[4313]—Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is.....
[4314]
[4315]—And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for
[4316]saving his son’s life.
[4317]
[4318]A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power’s hand.
[4319]
[4320]—O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a hero. A silver florin.
[4321]
[4322]—Isn’t it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly.
[4323]
[4324]—One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said drily.
[4325]
[4326]Mr Power’s choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage.
[4327]
[4328]Nelson’s pillar.
[4329]
[4330]—Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny!
[4331]
[4332]—We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said.
[4333]
[4334]Mr Dedalus sighed.
[4335]
[4336]—Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn’t grudge us a
[4337]laugh. Many a good one he told himself.
[4338]
[4339]—The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his
[4340]fingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week ago when I saw him last and
[4341]he was in his usual health that I’d be driving after him like this.
[4342]He’s gone from us.
[4343]
[4344]—As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said. He went
[4345]very suddenly.
[4346]
[4347]—Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.
[4348]
[4349]He tapped his chest sadly.
[4350]
[4351]Blazing face: redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red nose.
[4352]Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent
[4353]colouring it.
[4354]
[4355]Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.
[4356]
[4357]—He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said.
[4358]
[4359]—The best death, Mr Bloom said.
[4360]
[4361]Their wide open eyes looked at him.
[4362]
[4363]—No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like dying in sleep.
[4364]
[4365]No-one spoke.
[4366]
[4367]Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land agents,
[4368]temperance hotel, Falconer’s railway guide, civil service college,
[4369]Gill’s, catholic club, the industrious blind. Why? Some reason. Sun
[4370]or wind. At night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the
[4371]late Father Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart.
[4372]
[4373]White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner,
[4374]galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A mourning
[4375]coach. Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for
[4376]a nun.
[4377]
[4378]—Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.
[4379]
[4380]A dwarf’s face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy’s was. Dwarf’s
[4381]body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society
[4382]pays. Penny a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant
[4383]nothing. Mistake of nature. If it’s healthy it’s from the mother. If
[4384]not from the man. Better luck next time.
[4385]
[4386]—Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It’s well out of it.
[4387]
[4388]The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his
[4389]bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.
[4390]
[4391]—In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.
[4392]
[4393]—But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own
[4394]life.
[4395]
[4396]Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.
[4397]
[4398]—The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.
[4399]
[4400]—Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We
[4401]must take a charitable view of it.
[4402]
[4403]—They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said.
[4404]
[4405]—It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.
[4406]
[4407]Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham’s
[4408]large eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent.
[4409]Like Shakespeare’s face. Always a good word to say. They have no mercy
[4410]on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive
[4411]a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn’t broken
[4412]already. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Found in the riverbed
[4413]clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wife
[4414]of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the
[4415]furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the
[4416]damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning. Start
[4417]afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight
[4418]that night Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and
[4419]capering with Martin’s umbrella.
[4420]
[4421] And they call me the jewel of Asia,
[4422] Of Asia,
[4423] The geisha.
[4424]He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.
[4425]
[4426]That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The
[4427]room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through
[4428]the slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner’s sunlit ears, big and
[4429]hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like
[4430]yellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed.
[4431]Verdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son
[4432]Leopold.
[4433]
[4434]No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.
[4435]
[4436]The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.
[4437]
[4438]—We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said.
[4439]
[4440]—God grant he doesn’t upset us on the road, Mr Power said.
[4441]
[4442]—I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race
[4443]tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.
[4444]
[4445]—Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith.
[4446]
[4447]As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent
[4448]over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has anybody
[4449]here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead March from Saul. He’s
[4450]as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The Mater
[4451]Misericordiae. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for
[4452]incurables there. Very encouraging. Our Lady’s Hospice for the dying.
[4453]Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look
[4454]terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the
[4455]spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student
[4456]that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. He’s gone over to the
[4457]lying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other.
[4458]
[4459]The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped.
[4460]
[4461]—What’s wrong now?
[4462]
[4463]A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching
[4464]by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony
[4465]croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their
[4466]fear.
[4467]
[4468]—Emigrants, Mr Power said.
[4469]
[4470]—Huuuh! the drover’s voice cried, his switch sounding on their
[4471]flanks. Huuuh! out of that!
[4472]
[4473]Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold them
[4474]about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for old
[4475]England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter
[4476]lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a
[4477]year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries,
[4478]soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off
[4479]the train at Clonsilla.
[4480]
[4481]The carriage moved on through the drove.
[4482]
[4483]—I can’t make out why the corporation doesn’t run a tramline from
[4484]the parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be
[4485]taken in trucks down to the boats.
[4486]
[4487]—Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said.
[4488]Quite right. They ought to.
[4489]
[4490]—Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought, is to have
[4491]municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line
[4492]out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage
[4493]and all. Don’t you see what I mean?
[4494]
[4495]—O, that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and
[4496]saloon diningroom.
[4497]
[4498]—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.
[4499]
[4500]—Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn’t it be more
[4501]decent than galloping two abreast?
[4502]
[4503]—Well, there’s something in that, Mr Dedalus granted.
[4504]
[4505]—And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn’t have scenes like that
[4506]when the hearse capsized round Dunphy’s and upset the coffin on to the
[4507]road.
[4508]
[4509]—That was terrible, Mr Power’s shocked face said, and the corpse
[4510]fell about the road. Terrible!
[4511]
[4512]—First round Dunphy’s, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.
[4513]
[4514]—Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.
[4515]
[4516]Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy Dignam
[4517]shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large
[4518]for him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what’s up now.
[4519]Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose
[4520]quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax.
[4521]The sphincter loose. Seal up all.
[4522]
[4523]—Dunphy’s, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.
[4524]
[4525]Dunphy’s corner. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. A
[4526]pause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we’ll pull up
[4527]here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation.
[4528]Elixir of life.
[4529]
[4530]But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in
[4531]the knocking about? He would and he wouldn’t, I suppose. Depends on
[4532]where. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery. It
[4533]would be better to bury them in red: a dark red.
[4534]
[4535]In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted
[4536]by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.
[4537]
[4538]Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.
[4539]
[4540]Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his
[4541]dropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a
[4542]slacktethered horse. Aboard of the Bugabu.
[4543]
[4544]Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his
[4545]raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of
[4546]reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar,
[4547]Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or
[4548]cycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day at
[4549]the auction but a lady’s. Developing waterways. James M’Cann’s
[4550]hobby to row me o’er the ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages.
[4551]Houseboats. Camping out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I
[4552]will without writing. Come as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping
[4553]down lock by lock to Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He
[4554]lifted his brown straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam.
[4555]
[4556]They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it now.
[4557]
[4558]—I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said.
[4559]
[4560]—Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.
[4561]
[4562]—How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping, I suppose?
[4563]
[4564]—Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory dear.
[4565]
[4566]The carriage steered left for Finglas road.
[4567]
[4568]The stonecutter’s yard on the right. Last lap. Crowded on the spit of
[4569]land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands,
[4570]knelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white silence:
[4571]appealing. The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and
[4572]sculptor.
[4573]
[4574]Passed.
[4575]
[4576]On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the sexton’s, an old tramp
[4577]sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of his huge dustbrown
[4578]yawning boot. After life’s journey.
[4579]
[4580]Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses.
[4581]
[4582]Mr Power pointed.
[4583]
[4584]—That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house.
[4585]
[4586]—So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got him
[4587]off. Murdered his brother. Or so they said.
[4588]
[4589]—The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said.
[4590]
[4591]—Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham added. That’s the maxim of
[4592]the law. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent
[4593]person to be wrongfully condemned.
[4594]
[4595]They looked. Murderer’s ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered,
[4596]tenantless, unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell. Wrongfully
[4597]condemned. Murder. The murderer’s image in the eye of the murdered.
[4598]They love reading about it. Man’s head found in a garden. Her clothing
[4599]consisted of. How she met her death. Recent outrage. The weapon used.
[4600]Murderer is still at large. Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed.
[4601]Murder will out.
[4602]
[4603]Cramped in this carriage. She mightn’t like me to come that way
[4604]without letting her know. Must be careful about women. Catch them once
[4605]with their pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen.
[4606]
[4607]The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Dark poplars,
[4608]rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the
[4609]trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain
[4610]gestures on the air.
[4611]
[4612]The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin Cunningham put
[4613]out his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with
[4614]his knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed.
[4615]
[4616]Change that soap now. Mr Bloom’s hand unbuttoned his hip pocket
[4617]swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief
[4618]pocket. He stepped out of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his
[4619]other hand still held.
[4620]
[4621]Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. It’s all the same.
[4622]Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Pomp of death.
[4623]Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and
[4624]fruit. Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the dead.
[4625]Dogbiscuits. Who ate them? Mourners coming out.
[4626]
[4627]He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert followed, Hynes
[4628]walking after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took
[4629]out the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy.
[4630]
[4631]Where is that child’s funeral disappeared to?
[4632]
[4633]A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread,
[4634]dragging through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a
[4635]granite block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted.
[4636]
[4637]Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse looking round at it
[4638]with his plume skeowways. Dull eye: collar tight on his neck, pressing
[4639]on a bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cart out here
[4640]every day? Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then Mount
[4641]Jerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every
[4642]minute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands
[4643]every hour. Too many in the world.
[4644]
[4645]Mourners came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed harpy,
[4646]hard woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl’s face stained with
[4647]dirt and tears, holding the woman’s arm, looking up at her for a sign
[4648]to cry. Fish’s face, bloodless and livid.
[4649]
[4650]The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So
[4651]much dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath. First
[4652]the stiff: then the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the
[4653]boy followed with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the
[4654]brother-in-law.
[4655]
[4656]All walked after.
[4657]
[4658]Martin Cunningham whispered:
[4659]
[4660]—I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.
[4661]
[4662]—What? Mr Power whispered. How so?
[4663]
[4664]—His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had the
[4665]Queen’s hotel in Ennis. You heard him say he was going to Clare.
[4666]Anniversary.
[4667]
[4668]—O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself?
[4669]
[4670]He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed
[4671]towards the cardinal’s mausoleum. Speaking.
[4672]
[4673]—Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.
[4674]
[4675]—I believe so, Mr Kernan answered. But the policy was heavily
[4676]mortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.
[4677]
[4678]—How many children did he leave?
[4679]
[4680]—Five. Ned Lambert says he’ll try to get one of the girls into
[4681]Todd’s.
[4682]
[4683]—A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young children.
[4684]
[4685]—A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added.
[4686]
[4687]—Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.
[4688]
[4689]Has the laugh at him now.
[4690]
[4691]He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had
[4692]outlived him. Lost her husband. More dead for her than for me. One must
[4693]outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the
[4694]world. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you’ll soon follow
[4695]him. For Hindu widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet who
[4696]knows after. Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn on
[4697]a guncarriage. Victoria and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. But
[4698]in the end she put a few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her heart of
[4699]hearts. All for a shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the
[4700]substance. Something new to hope for not like the past she wanted back,
[4701]waiting. It never comes. One must go first: alone, under the ground: and
[4702]lie no more in her warm bed.
[4703]
[4704]—How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands.
[4705]Haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays.
[4706]
[4707]—Never better. How are all in Cork’s own town?
[4708]
[4709]—I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned
[4710]Lambert said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.
[4711]
[4712]—And how is Dick, the solid man?
[4713]
[4714]—Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.
[4715]
[4716]—By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?
[4717]
[4718]—Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert
[4719]said, pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep them going till
[4720]the insurance is cleared up.
[4721]
[4722]—Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front?
[4723]
[4724]—Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife’s brother. John Henry Menton
[4725]is behind. He put down his name for a quid.
[4726]
[4727]—I’ll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he
[4728]ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.
[4729]
[4730]—How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?
[4731]
[4732]—Many a good man’s fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.
[4733]
[4734]They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr Bloom stood behind
[4735]the boy with the wreath looking down at his sleekcombed hair and at the
[4736]slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he there
[4737]when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment
[4738]and recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe three
[4739]shillings to O’Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffin
[4740]into the chapel. Which end is his head?
[4741]
[4742]After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened
[4743]light. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow
[4744]candles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a
[4745]wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners
[4746]knelt here and there in prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the
[4747]font and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper
[4748]from his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black
[4749]hat gently on his left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.
[4750]
[4751]A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out through a
[4752]door. The whitesmocked priest came after him, tidying his stole with one
[4753]hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad’s belly.
[4754]Who’ll read the book? I, said the rook.
[4755]
[4756]They halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book
[4757]with a fluent croak.
[4758]
[4759]Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. Dominenamine. Bully
[4760]about the muzzle he looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe
[4761]betide anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Thou art Peter. Burst
[4762]sideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With a belly on
[4763]him like a poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn:
[4764]burst sideways.
[4765]
[4766]—Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine.
[4767]
[4768]Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem mass.
[4769]Crape weepers. Blackedged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist. Chilly
[4770]place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in the
[4771]gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too.
[4772]What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of
[4773]the place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot
[4774]of bad gas round the place. Butchers, for instance: they get like raw
[4775]beefsteaks. Who was telling me? Mervyn Browne. Down in the vaults of
[4776]saint Werburgh’s lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore
[4777]a hole in the coffins sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out
[4778]it rushes: blue. One whiff of that and you’re a goner.
[4779]
[4780]My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That’s better.
[4781]
[4782]The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy’s
[4783]bucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and
[4784]shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you
[4785]were before you rested. It’s all written down: he has to do it.
[4786]
[4787]—Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.
[4788]
[4789]The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be
[4790]better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that, of course
[4791]...
[4792]
[4793]Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed
[4794]up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up.
[4795]What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal
[4796]day a fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in
[4797]childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls
[4798]with little sparrows’ breasts. All the year round he prayed the same
[4799]thing over them all and shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam
[4800]now.
[4801]
[4802]—In paradisum.
[4803]
[4804]Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over
[4805]everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.
[4806]
[4807]The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Corny
[4808]Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the
[4809]coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny Kelleher
[4810]gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All followed
[4811]them out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last
[4812]folding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the ground
[4813]till the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the
[4814]gravel with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed the
[4815]trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres.
[4816]
[4817]The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn’t lilt here.
[4818]
[4819]—The O’Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.
[4820]
[4821]Mr Power’s soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone.
[4822]
[4823]—He’s at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O’.
[4824]But his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here,
[4825]Simon!
[4826]
[4827]—Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I’ll soon be
[4828]stretched beside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.
[4829]
[4830]Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little
[4831]in his walk. Mr Power took his arm.
[4832]
[4833]—She’s better where she is, he said kindly.
[4834]
[4835]—I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp. I suppose she is in
[4836]heaven if there is a heaven.
[4837]
[4838]Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to
[4839]plod by.
[4840]
[4841]—Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely.
[4842]
[4843]Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head.
[4844]
[4845]—The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we
[4846]can do so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place.
[4847]
[4848]They covered their heads.
[4849]
[4850]—The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don’t you
[4851]think? Mr Kernan said with reproof.
[4852]
[4853]Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret
[4854]eyes, secretsearching. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We
[4855]are the last. In the same boat. Hope he’ll say something else.
[4856]
[4857]Mr Kernan added:
[4858]
[4859]—The service of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more
[4860]impressive I must say.
[4861]
[4862]Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course was another thing.
[4863]
[4864]Mr Kernan said with solemnity:
[4865]
[4866]—I am the resurrection and the life. That touches a man’s inmost
[4867]heart.
[4868]
[4869]—It does, Mr Bloom said.
[4870]
[4871]Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two
[4872]with his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat of the affections.
[4873]Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood
[4874]every day. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots of
[4875]them lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damn
[4876]the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are
[4877]dead. That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come
[4878]forth, Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day!
[4879]Then every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and the
[4880]rest of his traps. Find damn all of himself that morning. Pennyweight of
[4881]powder in a skull. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure.
[4882]
[4883]Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.
[4884]
[4885]—Everything went off A1, he said. What?
[4886]
[4887]He looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman’s shoulders. With
[4888]your tooraloom tooraloom.
[4889]
[4890]—As it should be, Mr Kernan said.
[4891]
[4892]—What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.
[4893]
[4894]Mr Kernan assured him.
[4895]
[4896]—Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I
[4897]know his face.
[4898]
[4899]Ned Lambert glanced back.
[4900]
[4901]—Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the
[4902]soprano. She’s his wife.
[4903]
[4904]—O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven’t seen her for some
[4905]time. She was a finelooking woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen
[4906]seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon’s in Roundtown. And a good
[4907]armful she was.
[4908]
[4909]He looked behind through the others.
[4910]
[4911]—What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn’t he in the stationery
[4912]line? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at bowls.
[4913]
[4914]Ned Lambert smiled.
[4915]
[4916]—Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hely’s. A traveller for
[4917]blottingpaper.
[4918]
[4919]—In God’s name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a coon
[4920]like that for? She had plenty of game in her then.
[4921]
[4922]—Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads.
[4923]
[4924]John Henry Menton’s large eyes stared ahead.
[4925]
[4926]The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the
[4927]grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps.
[4928]
[4929]—John O’Connell, Mr Power said pleased. He never forgets a friend.
[4930]
[4931]Mr O’Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said:
[4932]
[4933]—I am come to pay you another visit.
[4934]
[4935]—My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don’t want
[4936]your custom at all.
[4937]
[4938]Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin
[4939]Cunningham’s side puzzling two long keys at his back.
[4940]
[4941]—Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?
[4942]
[4943]—I did not, Martin Cunningham said.
[4944]
[4945]They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The
[4946]caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watchchain and spoke
[4947]in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.
[4948]
[4949]—They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy
[4950]evening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for
[4951]Mulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was buried. After
[4952]traipsing about in the fog they found the grave sure enough. One of the
[4953]drunks spelt out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking
[4954]up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up.
[4955]
[4956]The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He
[4957]resumed:
[4958]
[4959]—And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, Not a bloody bit like
[4960]the man, says he. That’s not Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it.
[4961]
[4962]Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting
[4963]the dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as he walked.
[4964]
[4965]—That’s all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to
[4966]Hynes.
[4967]
[4968]—I know, Hynes said. I know that.
[4969]
[4970]—To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It’s pure
[4971]goodheartedness: damn the thing else.
[4972]
[4973]Mr Bloom admired the caretaker’s prosperous bulk. All want to be on
[4974]good terms with him. Decent fellow, John O’Connell, real good sort.
[4975]Keys: like Keyes’s ad: no fear of anyone getting out. No passout
[4976]checks. Habeas corpus. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I
[4977]write Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me
[4978]writing to Martha? Hope it’s not chucked in the dead letter office.
[4979]Be the better of a shave. Grey sprouting beard. That’s the first sign
[4980]when the hairs come out grey. And temper getting cross. Silver threads
[4981]among the grey. Fancy being his wife. Wonder he had the gumption to
[4982]propose to any girl. Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that
[4983]before her. It might thrill her first. Courting death. Shades of night
[4984]hovering here with all the dead stretched about. The shadows of the
[4985]tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O’Connell must be a descendant
[4986]I suppose who is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great
[4987]catholic all the same like a big giant in the dark. Will o’ the wisp.
[4988]Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women
[4989]especially are so touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her
[4990]sleep. Have you ever seen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a pitchdark
[4991]night. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they’d kiss all
[4992]right if properly keyed up. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything
[4993]if taken young. You might pick up a young widow here. Men like that.
[4994]Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of
[4995]death we are in life. Both ends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead.
[4996]Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the starving. Gnawing their vitals.
[4997]Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it at the window. Eight
[4998]children he has anyway.
[4999]
[5000]He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field
[5001]after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing.
[5002]Sitting or kneeling you couldn’t. Standing? His head might come
[5003]up some day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All
[5004]honeycombed the ground must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it
[5005]too: trim grass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome.
[5006]Well, so it is. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with
[5007]giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The
[5008]Botanic Gardens are just over there. It’s the blood sinking in
[5009]the earth gives new life. Same idea those jews they said killed
[5010]the christian boy. Every man his price. Well preserved fat corpse,
[5011]gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. A bargain. By carcass
[5012]of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three
[5013]pounds thirteen and six. With thanks.
[5014]
[5015]I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh,
[5016]nails. Charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink decomposing. Rot
[5017]quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy
[5018]kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, black treacle oozing out of
[5019]them. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they
[5020]are go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing to
[5021]feed on feed on themselves.
[5022]
[5023]But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply
[5024]swirling with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little
[5025]seaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of
[5026]power seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life.
[5027]Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one about
[5028]the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 11 p.m.
[5029](closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men
[5030]anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what’s in
[5031]fashion. A juicy pear or ladies’ punch, hot, strong and sweet.
[5032]Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way.
[5033]Gravediggers in Hamlet. Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart.
[5034]Daren’t joke about the dead for two years at least. De mortuis nil
[5035]nisi prius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral.
[5036]Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you live
[5037]longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.
[5038]
[5039]—How many have you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.
[5040]
[5041]—Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.
[5042]
[5043]The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to
[5044]trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping
[5045]with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its
[5046]nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.
[5047]
[5048]Burying him. We come to bury Cæsar. His ides of March or June. He
[5049]doesn’t know who is here nor care. Now who is that lankylooking galoot
[5050]over there in the macintosh? Now who is he I’d like to know? Now
[5051]I’d give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never
[5052]dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he
[5053]could. Still he’d have to get someone to sod him after he died though
[5054]he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No, ants too.
[5055]First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true
[5056]to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if
[5057]you come to look at it.
[5058]
[5059] O, poor Robinson Crusoe!
[5060] How could you possibly do so?
[5061]Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of
[5062]them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could
[5063]invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let it down that
[5064]way. Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow’s.
[5065]They’re so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from
[5066]the holy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one
[5067]coffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible
[5068]even in the earth. The Irishman’s house is his coffin. Embalming in
[5069]catacombs, mummies the same idea.
[5070]
[5071]Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads.
[5072]Twelve. I’m thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen.
[5073]Death’s number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn’t in the
[5074]chapel, that I’ll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.
[5075]
[5076]Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I had
[5077]one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was
[5078]once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of
[5079]mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It’s dyed. His wife I forgot he’s not
[5080]married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.
[5081]
[5082]The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the
[5083]gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.
[5084]
[5085]Pause.
[5086]
[5087]If we were all suddenly somebody else.
[5088]
[5089]Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they
[5090]say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.
[5091]
[5092]Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper. The
[5093]boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in
[5094]the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly caretaker.
[5095]Wellcut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will go next.
[5096]Well, it is a long rest. Feel no more. It’s the moment you feel. Must
[5097]be damned unpleasant. Can’t believe it at first. Mistake must be:
[5098]someone else. Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I haven’t
[5099]yet. Then darkened deathchamber. Light they want. Whispering around you.
[5100]Would you like to see a priest? Then rambling and wandering. Delirium
[5101]all you hid all your life. The death struggle. His sleep is not natural.
[5102]Press his lower eyelid. Watching is his nose pointed is his jaw sinking
[5103]are the soles of his feet yellow. Pull the pillow away and finish it off
[5104]on the floor since he’s doomed. Devil in that picture of sinner’s
[5105]death showing him a woman. Dying to embrace her in his shirt. Last act
[5106]of Lucia. Shall I nevermore behold thee? Bam! He expires. Gone at last.
[5107]People talk about you a bit: forget you. Don’t forget to pray for him.
[5108]Remember him in your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy day dying out. Then they
[5109]follow: dropping into a hole, one after the other.
[5110]
[5111]We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you’re well and
[5112]not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the fryingpan of life into the
[5113]fire of purgatory.
[5114]
[5115]Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself? They say you do when
[5116]you shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it. Callboy’s warning.
[5117]Near you. Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma,
[5118]poor mamma, and little Rudy.
[5119]
[5120]The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in
[5121]on the coffin. Mr Bloom turned away his face. And if he was alive all
[5122]the time? Whew! By jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of
[5123]course. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have
[5124]some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or
[5125]a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of
[5126]distress. Three days. Rather long to keep them in summer. Just as well
[5127]to get shut of them as soon as you are sure there’s no.
[5128]
[5129]The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.
[5130]
[5131]The caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had enough of
[5132]it. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one, covering themselves
[5133]without show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its
[5134]way deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he
[5135]traversed the dismal fields.
[5136]
[5137]Hynes jotting down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he
[5138]knows them all. No: coming to me.
[5139]
[5140]—I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his breath. What is your
[5141]christian name? I’m not sure.
[5142]
[5143]—L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might put down M’Coy’s name
[5144]too. He asked me to.
[5145]
[5146]—Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the Freeman once.
[5147]
[5148]So he was before he got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good
[5149]idea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know.
[5150]He died of a Tuesday. Got the run. Levanted with the cash of a few ads.
[5151]Charley, you’re my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well, does
[5152]no harm. I saw to that, M’Coy. Thanks, old chap: much obliged. Leave
[5153]him under an obligation: costs nothing.
[5154]
[5155]—And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in the, fellow was
[5156]over there in the...
[5157]
[5158]He looked around.
[5159]
[5160]—Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now?
[5161]
[5162]—M’Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. I don’t know who he is. Is that
[5163]his name?
[5164]
[5165]He moved away, looking about him.
[5166]
[5167]—No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes!
[5168]
[5169]Didn’t hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of
[5170]all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become invisible.
[5171]Good Lord, what became of him?
[5172]
[5173]A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade.
[5174]
[5175]—O, excuse me!
[5176]
[5177]He stepped aside nimbly.
[5178]
[5179]Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It rose. Nearly over.
[5180]A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested their
[5181]spades. All uncovered again for a few instants. The boy propped
[5182]his wreath against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The
[5183]gravediggers put on their caps and carried their earthy spades towards
[5184]the barrow. Then knocked the blades lightly on the turf: clean. One bent
[5185]to pluck from the haft a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates,
[5186]walked slowly on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing.
[5187]Silently at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. His navelcord.
[5188]The brother-in-law, turning away, placed something in his free hand.
[5189]Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir: trouble. Headshake. I know that. For
[5190]yourselves just.
[5191]
[5192]The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at
[5193]whiles to read a name on a tomb.
[5194]
[5195]—Let us go round by the chief’s grave, Hynes said. We have time.
[5196]
[5197]—Let us, Mr Power said.
[5198]
[5199]They turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr
[5200]Power’s blank voice spoke:
[5201]
[5202]—Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled
[5203]with stones. That one day he will come again.
[5204]
[5205]Hynes shook his head.
[5206]
[5207]—Parnell will never come again, he said. He’s there, all that was
[5208]mortal of him. Peace to his ashes.
[5209]
[5210]Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses,
[5211]broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, old
[5212]Ireland’s hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some
[5213]charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does anybody
[5214]really? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a coalshoot. Then
[5215]lump them together to save time. All souls’ day. Twentyseventh I’ll
[5216]be at his grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of
[5217]weeds. Old man himself. Bent down double with his shears clipping. Near
[5218]death’s door. Who passed away. Who departed this life. As if they
[5219]did it of their own accord. Got the shove, all of them. Who kicked the
[5220]bucket. More interesting if they told you what they were. So and So,
[5221]wheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I paid five shillings in the
[5222]pound. Or a woman’s with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish stew.
[5223]Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose is it
[5224]Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Entered into rest the protestants put
[5225]it. Old Dr Murren’s. The great physician called him home. Well it’s
[5226]God’s acre for them. Nice country residence. Newly plastered and
[5227]painted. Ideal spot to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times.
[5228]Marriage ads they never try to beautify. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs,
[5229]garlands of bronzefoil. Better value that for the money. Still, the
[5230]flowers are more poetical. The other gets rather tiresome, never
[5231]withering. Expresses nothing. Immortelles.
[5232]
[5233]A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. Like stuffed. Like the
[5234]wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Hoo! Not a budge out of him.
[5235]Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal even sadder.
[5236]Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox, a
[5237]daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.
[5238]
[5239]The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his sleeve. Ought to be
[5240]sideways and red it should be painted like a real heart. Ireland was
[5241]dedicated to it or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased. Why this
[5242]infliction? Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the basket
[5243]of fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the
[5244]boy. Apollo that was.
[5245]
[5246]How many! All these here once walked round Dublin. Faithful departed. As
[5247]you are now so once were we.
[5248]
[5249]Besides how could you remember everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the
[5250]voice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in
[5251]the house. After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather.
[5252]Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain
[5253]hellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind you of the voice like the photograph
[5254]reminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldn’t remember the face
[5255]after fifteen years, say. For instance who? For instance some fellow
[5256]that died when I was in Wisdom Hely’s.
[5257]
[5258]Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop!
[5259]
[5260]He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait. There he
[5261]goes.
[5262]
[5263]An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the crypt, moving the
[5264]pebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes. The grey
[5265]alive crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it.
[5266]Good hidingplace for treasure.
[5267]
[5268]Who lives there? Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. Robert Emmet was
[5269]buried here by torchlight, wasn’t he? Making his rounds.
[5270]
[5271]Tail gone now.
[5272]
[5273]One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. Pick the bones
[5274]clean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. A corpse is meat
[5275]gone bad. Well and what’s cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that
[5276]Voyages in China that the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse.
[5277]Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm.
[5278]Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the plague. Quicklime
[5279]feverpits to eat them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea.
[5280]Where is that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth, fire,
[5281]water. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. See your whole life in
[5282]a flash. But being brought back to life no. Can’t bury in the air
[5283]however. Out of a flying machine. Wonder does the news go about whenever
[5284]a fresh one is let down. Underground communication. We learned that from
[5285]them. Wouldn’t be surprised. Regular square feed for them. Flies come
[5286]before he’s well dead. Got wind of Dignam. They wouldn’t care about
[5287]the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like
[5288]raw white turnips.
[5289]
[5290]The gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the world again.
[5291]Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I
[5292]was here was Mrs Sinico’s funeral. Poor papa too. The love that kills.
[5293]And even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case
[5294]I read of to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running
[5295]gravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after
[5296]death. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after
[5297]death. There is another world after death named hell. I do not like that
[5298]other world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feel
[5299]yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty
[5300]beds. They are not going to get me this innings. Warm beds: warm
[5301]fullblooded life.
[5302]
[5303]Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.
[5304]
[5305]Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton, John Henry, solicitor,
[5306]commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be in his office.
[5307]Mat Dillon’s long ago. Jolly Mat. Convivial evenings. Cold fowl,
[5308]cigars, the Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got his
[5309]rag out that evening on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him.
[5310]Pure fluke of mine: the bias. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me.
[5311]Hate at first sight. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree,
[5312]laughing. Fellow always like that, mortified if women are by.
[5313]
[5314]Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.
[5315]
[5316]—Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.
[5317]
[5318]They stopped.
[5319]
[5320]—Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said pointing.
[5321]
[5322]John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.
[5323]
[5324]—There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also.
[5325]
[5326]John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed
[5327]the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head
[5328]again.
[5329]
[5330]—It’s all right now, Martin Cunningham said.
[5331]
[5332]John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.
[5333]
[5334]—Thank you, he said shortly.
[5335]
[5336]They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind
[5337]a few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying down the law. Martin
[5338]could wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger, without his
[5339]seeing it.
[5340]
[5341]Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him.
[5342]Get the pull over him that way.
[5343]
[5344]Thank you. How grand we are this morning!
[5345]
[5346]
[5347]
[5348]
[5349]
[5350]