Joyce J. Ulysses

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.