Joyce J. Ulysses

my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey them in the grave. A dying scrawl.
He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men's dogs usually are.
A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an instant of shower
spray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a colander. I
thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now.
-- The weather is changing, he said quietly.
-- A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said.
-- Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There's the sun again coming
out.
Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled
a mute curse at the sky.
-- It's as uncertain as a child's bottom, he said.
-- We're off again.
The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed
gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.
-- Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking
him off to his face.
-- O draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear
him, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy.
-- Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His singing of that
simple ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the
whole course of my experience.
-- Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He's dead nuts on that. And the
retrospective arrangement.
-- Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Martin Cunningham asked.
-- I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it?
-- In the paper this morning.
Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change
for her.
-- No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on, please.
Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the
deaths. Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake
is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? no, Sexton, Urbright.
Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper. Thanks to the
Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief of his. Aged 88
after a long and tedious illness. Month's mind. Quinlan. On whose soul Sweet
Jesus have mercy.
It is now a month since dear Henry fled
To his home up above in the sky
While his family weeps and mourns his loss
Hoping some day to meet him on high.
I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it
in the bath? He patted his waistcoat pocket. There all right. Dear Henry
fled. Before my patience are exhausted.
National school. Meade's yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nodding.
Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round with
a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their hats.
A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a
tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window. Couldn't they invent something
automatic so that the wheel itself much handler? Well but that fellow would
lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job making the
new invention?
Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a
crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law,
perhaps.
They went past the bleak pulpit of Saint Mark's, under the railway
bridge, past the Queen's theatre: in silence. Hoardings. Eugene Stratton.
Mrs Bandman Palmer. Could I go to see Leah tonight, I wonder. I said I. Or
the Lily of Killarney? Elster Grimes Opera company. Big powerful change. Wet
bright bills for next week. Fun on the Bristol. Martin Cunningham could work
a pass for the Gaiety. Have to stand a drink or two. As broad as it's long.
He's coming in the afternoon. Her songs.
Plasto's. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Who was he?
-- How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow
in salute.
-- He doesn't see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How do you do?
-- Who? Mr Dedalus asked.
-- Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quiff.
Just that moment I was thinking.
Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the
white disc of a straw hat flashed reply: passed.
Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right
hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him that they she sees?
Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes feel
what a person Is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I am just
looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone. Body getting a bit
softy. I would notice that from remembering. What causes that I suppose the
skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off. But the shape
is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders. Hips. Plump. Night of the
dance dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind.
He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant
glance over their faces.
Mr Power asked:
-- How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?
-- O very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It's a good
idea, you see .
-- Are you going yourself?
-- Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to go down to the
county Clare on some private business. You see the idea is to tour the chief
towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other.
-- Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now.
-- Have you good artists?
-- Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes, we'll have all
topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in fact.
-- And Madame, Mr Power said, smiling. Last but not least.
Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and
clasped them. Smith O'Brien. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there.
Woman. Must be his deathday. For many happy returns. The carriage wheeling
by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.
Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his
mouth opening: oot.
-- Four bootlaces for a penny.
Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume street.
Same house as Molly's namesake. Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Has
that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning too. Terrible
comedown, poor wretch! kicked about like snuff at a wake. O'Callaghan on his
last legs.
And Madame. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. Doing
her hair, humming: voglio e non vorrei. No: vorrei e non. Looking at the
tips of her hairs to see if they are split. Mi trema un poco il. Beautiful
on that tre her voice is: weeping tone. A thrust. A throstle. There is a
word throstle that expressed that.
His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. Greyish over
the ears. Madame: smiling. I smiled back. A smile does a long way. Only
politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is that true about the woman he
keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it told me, there is
no carnal. You would imagine that would get played out pretty quick. Yes, it
was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak. What is
this she was? Barmaid in Jury's. Or the Moira, was it?
They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.
Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.
-- Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.
A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round the corner
of Elvery's elephant house showed them a curved hand open on his spine.
-- In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.
Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly:
-- The devil break the hasp of your back!
Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window as
the carriage passed Gray's statue.
-- We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly.
His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. He caressed his beard, adding:
-- Well, nearly all of us.
Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces.
-- That's an awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J. and
the son.
-- About the boatman? Mr Power asked.
-- Yes. Isn't it awfully good?
-- What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn't hear it.
-- There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined to
send him to the isle of Man out of harm's way but when they were both...
-- What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it?
-- Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat and he
tried to drown...
-- Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did!
Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.
-- No, Mr Bloom said the son himself...
Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely.
-- Reuben J. and the son were piking it down the quay next the river on
their way to the isle of Man boat and the young chiseller suddenly got loose
and over the wall with him into the Liffey.
-- For God's sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is he dead?
-- Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A boatman got a pole and
fished him out by the slack of the breeches and he was landed up to the
father on the quay. More dead than alive. Half the town was there.
-- Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is...
-- And Reuben J., Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for
saving his son's life.
A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power's hand.
-- O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a hero. A silver florin.
-- Isn't it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly.
-- One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said drily. Mr Power's
choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage. Nelson's pillar.
-- Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny!
-- We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said.
Mr Dedalus sighed.
-- And then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a
laugh. Many a good one he told himself.
-- The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his
fingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week ago when I saw him last and he
was in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like this. He's gone
from us.
-- As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said. He went
very suddenly.
-- Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.
He tapped his chest sadly.
Blazing face: redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red nose.
Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent
colouring it.
Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.
-- He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said.
-- The best death, Mr Bloom said.
Their wide open eyes looked at him.
-- No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like dying in
sleep.
No-one spoke.
Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land agents,
temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's,
catholic club, the industrious blind. Why? Some reason. Sun or wind. At
night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the late Father
Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart.
White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner,
galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A mourning coach.
Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for a nun.
-- Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.
A dwarf's face mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarf's body,
weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society pays. Penny
a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant nothing. Mistake
of nature. If it's healthy it's from the mother. If not the man. Better luck
next time.
-- Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It's well out of it.
The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his
bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.
-- In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.
-- But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own
life.
Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.
-- The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.
-- Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We
must take a charitable view of it.
-- They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said.
-- It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.
Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham's
large eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent. Like
Shakespeare's face. Always a good word to say. They have no mercy on that
here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive a stake of
wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn't broken already. Yet
sometimes they repent too late. Found in the riverbed clutching rushes. He
looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wife of his. Setting up house for
her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday
almost. Leading him the life of the damned. Wear the heart out of a stone,
that. Monday morning start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must
have looked a sight that night, Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about
the place and capering with Martin's umbrella:
And they call me the jewel of Asia,
Of Asia,
The geisha.
He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.
That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The
room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the
slats of the Venetian blinds. The coroner's ears, big and hairy. Boots
giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like yellow streaks
on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed. Verdict: overdose.
Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son Leopold.
No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.
The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.
-- We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said.
-- God grant he doesn't upset us on the road, Mr Power said.
-- I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race
tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.
-- Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith.
As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent
over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has anybody
here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead march from Saul. He's as bad as
old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The Mater Misericordiae.
Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for incurables there.
Very encouraging. Our Lady's Hospice for the dying. Deadhouse handy
underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look terrible the women. Her
feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her
bed for her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that bite the bee
gave me. He's gone over to the lying-in hospital they told me. From one
extreme to the other.
The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped.
-- What's wrong now?
A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching
by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony
croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear.
-- Emigrants, Mr Power said.
-- Huuuh! the drover's voice cried, his switch sounding on their
flanks. Huuuh! Out of that!
Thursday of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold them
about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roast beef for old
England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter is lost:
all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a year. Dead
meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap,
margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train
at Clonsilla.
The carriage moved on through the drove.
-- I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the
parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in
trucks down to the boats.
-- Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said.
Quite right. They ought to.
-- Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought is to have
municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line out
to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and all.
Don't you see what I mean?
-- O that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and
saloon diningroom.
-- A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.
-- Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn't it be more
decent than galloping two abreast?
-- Well, there's something in that, Mr Dedalus granted.
-- And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn't have scenes like that when
the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the road.
-- That was terrible, Mr Power's shocked face said, and the corpse fell
about the road. Terrible!
-- First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus aid, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.
-- Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.
Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy
Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too
large for him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what's up now.
Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose
quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The
sphincter loose. Seal up all.
-- Dunphy's, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.
Dunphy's corner. Mourning coaches drawn up drowning their grief. A
pause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up here
on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation. Elixir of
life.
But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in
the knocking about? He would and he wouldn't, I suppose. Depends on where.
The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery. It would be
better to bury them in red: a dark red.
In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted
by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.
Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.
Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his dropping
barge between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a slacktethered
horse. Aboard of the Bugabu.
Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on
his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of reeds,
over slime, mud-choked bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley,
I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or cycle down. Hire
some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day at the auction but a
lady's. Developing waterways. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry.
Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats. Camping out. Also hearses. To
heaven by water. Perhaps I will without writing. Come as a surprise,
Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down, lock by lock to Dublin. With turf from
the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his brown strawhat, saluting Paddy
Dignam.
They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it now.
-- I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said.
-- Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.
-- How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping I suppose.
-- Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory dear.
The carriage steered left for Finglas road.
The stonecutter's yard on the right. Last lap. Crowded on the spit of
land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands, knelt
in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white silence: appealing.
The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor.
Passed.
On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary the sexton's an old tramp sat,
grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of his huge dustbrown yawning
boot. After life's journey.
Gloomy gardens then went by, one by one: gloomy houses.
Mr Power pointed.
-- That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house.
-- So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got him
off. Murdered his brother. Or so they said.
-- The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said.
-- Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. That's the maxim of the
law. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person to
be wrongfully condemned.
They looked. Murderer's ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered,
tenantless, unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell. Wrongfully condemned.
Murder. The murderer's image in the eye of the murdered. They love reading
about it. Man's head found in a garden. Her clothing consisted of. How she
met her death. Recent outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still at large.
Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed. Murder will out.
Cramped in this carriage. She mightn't like me to come that way without
letting her know. Must be careful about women. Catch them once with their
pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen.
The high railings of Prospects rippled past their gaze. Dark poplars,
rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees,
white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on
the air.
The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin Cunningham put
out his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with his
knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed.
Change that soap now. Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly
and transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket. He
stepped out of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still
held.
Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. It's all the same.
Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Pomp of death.
Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit.
Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the dead. Dogbiscuits. Who
ate them? Mourners coming out.
He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert followed, Hynes
walking after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took out
the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy.
Where is that child's funeral disappeared to?
A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread,
dragging through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a
granite block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted.
Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse looking round at
it with his plume skeowways. Dull eye: collar tight on his neck, pressing on
a bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cart out here every day?
Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then Mount Jerome for the
protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shovelling
them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too many in
the world.
Mourners came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed harpy,
hard woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl's face stained with dirt and
tears, holding the woman's arm looking up at her for a sign to cry. Fish's
face, bloodless and livid.
The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So
much dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath. First the
stiff: then the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the boy followed
with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law.
All walked after.
Martin Cunningham whispered:
-- I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.
-- What? Mr Power whispered. How so?
-- His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had the
Queen's hotel in Ennis. You heard him say he was going to Clare.
Anniversary.
-- O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself!
He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed
towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Speaking.
-- Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.
-- I believe so, Mr Kernan answered, but the policy was heavily
mortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.
-- How many children did he leave?
-- Five. Ned Lambert says he'll try to get one of the girls into
Todd's.
-- A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young children.
-- A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added.
-- Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.
Has the laugh at him now.
He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had
outlived him, lost her husband. More dead for her than for me. One must
outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the world.
Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you'll soon follow him. For
Hindu widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet who knows after?
Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn on a guncarriage.
Victoria and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. But in the end she put a
few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her heart of hearts. All for a shadow.
Consort not even a king. Her son was the substance. Something new to hope
for not like the past she wanted back, waiting. It never comes. One must go
first: alone under the ground: and lie no more in her warm bed.
-- How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven't
seen you for a month of Sundays.
-- Never better. How are all in Cork's own town?
-- I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned
Lambert said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.
-- And how is Dick, the solid man?
-- Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.
-- By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?
-- Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert
said, pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep them going till the
insurance is cleared up.
-- Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in
front?
-- Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is
behind. He put down his name for a quid.
-- I'll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he
ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.
-- How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?
-- Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.
They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr Bloom stood
behind the boy with the wreath, looking down at his sleek combed hair and
the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he there
when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment and
recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe three shillings
to O'Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffin into the chapel.
Which end is his head.
After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened
light. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow
candles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a
wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners knelt
here and there in praying desks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and,
when all had knelt dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his pocket
and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on his left
knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.
A server, bearing a brass bucket with something in it, came out through
a door. The whitesmocked priest came after him tidying his stole with one
hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad's belly.
Who'll read the book? I, said the rook.
They halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book
with a fluent croak.
Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. Dominenamine. Bully
about the muzzle he looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe betide
anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Thou art Peter. Burst sideways
like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With a belly on him like a
poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn: burst sideways.
-- Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine.
Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem
mass. Crape weepers. Blackedged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist.
Chilly place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in
the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too.
What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of the
place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot of baa gas
round the place. Butchers for instance: they get like raw beefsteaks. Who
was telling me? Mervyn Brown. Down in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely
old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the coffins
sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it rushes: blue. One whiff
of that and you're a goner.
My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That's better.
The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's
bucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and
shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you were
before you rested. It's all written down: he has to do it.
-- Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.
The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be
better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that of course.
Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed
up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up. What
harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day a fresh
batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men
with beards, baldheaded business men, consumptive girls with little
sparrow's breasts. All the year round he prayed the same thing over them all
ad shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam now.
-- In paradisum.
Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over
everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.
The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Corny
Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the
coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny Kelleher
gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All followed them
out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last, folding his
paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the ground till the
coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the gravel with
a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed the barrow along a
lane of sepulchres.
The ree the ra the Fee the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.
-- The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.
Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone.
-- He's at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But
his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon!
-- Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I'Il soon be
stretched beside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.
Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little
in his walk. Mr Power took his arm.
-- She's better where she is, he said kindly.
-- I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp. I suppose she is in
heaven if there is a heaven.
Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to
plod by.
-- Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely.
Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head.
-- The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we
can do so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place.
They covered their heads.
-- The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you
think? Mr Kernan said with reproof.
Mr Bloom nodded gravely, looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret
eyes, secret searching eyes. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We
are the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say something else.
Mr Kernan added:
-- The service of the Irish church, used in Mount Jerome, is simpler,
more impressive, I must say.
Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course was another thing.
Mr Kernan said with solemnity:
-- I am the resurrection and the life. That touches a man's inmost
heart.
-- It does, Mr Bloom said.
Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two
with his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat of the affections.
Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every
day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are. Lots of them lying
around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else.
The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead. That last day
idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come forth, Lazarus! And he
came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day! Then every fellow mousing
around for his liver and his lights and the rest of his traps. Find damn all
of himself that morning. Pennyweight of powder in a skull. Twelve grammes
one pennyweight. Troy measure.
Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.
-- Everything went off A 1, he said. What?
He looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman's shoulders. With
your tooraloom tooraloom.
-- As it should be, Mr Kernan said.
-- What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.
Mr Kernan assured him.
-- Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I
know his face.
Ned Lambert glanced back.
-- Bloom, he said, Madam Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the
soprano. She's his wife.
-- O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven't seen her for some
time. She was a finelooking woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen
seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's, in Roundtown. And a good armful
she was.
He looked behind through the others.
-- What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn't he in the stationery
line? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at bowls.
Ned Lambert smiled.
-- Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hely's. A traveller for
blottingpaper.
-- In God's name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a coon
like that for? She had plenty of game in her then.
-- Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads.
John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead.
The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the
grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps.
-- John O'Connell, Mr Power said, pleased. He never forgets a friend.
Mr O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said:
-- I am come to pay you another visit.
-- My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don't want
your custom at all.
Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin
Cunningham's side, puzzling two keys at his back.
-- Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?
-- I did not, Martin Cunningham said.
They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The
caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watch chain and spoke in
a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.
-- They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one
foggy evening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for
Mulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was buried. After traipsing
about in the fog they found the grave, sure enough. One of the drunks spelt
out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking up at a statue
of our Saviour the widow had got put up.
The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He
resumed:
-- And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, Not a bloody bit like
the man, says he. That's not Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it.
Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher,
accepting the dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as he
walked.
-- That's all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to
Hynes.
-- I know, Hynes said, I know that.
-- To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure
goodheartedness: damn the thing else.
Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on
good terms with him. Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys:
like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out, no passout checks. Habeat
corpus. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I write Ballsbridge
on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha?
Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter office. Be the better of a shave.
Grey sprouting beard. That's the first sign when the hairs come out grey and
temper getting cross. Silver threads among the grey. Fancy being his wife.
Wonder how he had the gumption to propose to any girl. Come out and live in
the graveyard. Dangle that before her. It might thrill her first. Courting
death... Shades of night hovering here with all the dead stretched about.
The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be
a descendant I suppose who is this used to say he was a queer breedy man
great catholic all the same like a big giant in the dark. Will o'the wisp.
Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women
especially are so touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep.
Have you ever seen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a pitchdark night. The
clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they'd kiss all right if properly
keyed up. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken young. You
might pick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones.
Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both ends
meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of frilled beefsteaks to the
starving gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it
at the window. Eight children he has anyway.
He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field
after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing. Sitting or
kneeling you couldn't. Standing? His head might come up some day above
ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed the ground must
be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too, trim grass and edgings. His
garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well so it is. Ought to be flowers
of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best
opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic Gardens are just over there. It's the
blood sinking in the earth gives new life. Same idea those jews they said
killed the christian boy. Every man his price. Well preserved fat corpse
gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. A bargain. By carcass of
William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds
thirteen and six. With thanks.
I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpse manure, bones, flesh,
nails, charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink, decomposing. Rot
quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy
kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, treacle oozing out of them. Then
dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living.
Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing to feed on feed on
themselves.
But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply
swirling with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little seaside
gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of power seeing
all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life. Cracking his
jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one about the bulletin.
Spurgeon went to heaven 4 A.M. this morning. 11 P.M. (closing time). Not
arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear an
odd joke or the women to know what's in fashion. A juicy pear or ladies'
punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so
better do it that way. Gravediggers in Hamlet. Shows the profound knowledge
of the human heart. Daren't joke about the dead for two years at least. De
mortuis nil nisi prius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his
funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you
live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.
-- How many have you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.
-- Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.
The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to
trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping
with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its
nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.
Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June. He
doesn't know who is here nor care.
Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh? Now
who is he I'd like to know? Now, I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always
someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome
all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after
he died though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No
ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe
was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a
Thursday if you come to look at it.
O, poor Robinson Crusoe,
How could you possibly do so?
Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of
them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent
a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding let it down that way. Ay but
they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so
particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land. Only
a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what it
means. I see. To protect him as long as possible even in the earth. The
Irishman's house is his coffin. Enbalming in catacombs, mummies, the same
idea.
Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads.
Twelve. I'm thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death's
number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that
I'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.
Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I had
one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was
once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of mine
turned by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot he's not married or
his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.
The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the
gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.
Pause.
If we were all suddenly somebody else.
Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they
say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.
Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper. The
boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the
black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly caretaker. Well
cut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will go next. Well it
is a long rest. Feel no more. It's the moment you feel. Must be damned
unpleasant. Can't believe it at first. Mistake must be: someone else. Try
the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I haven't yet. Then darkened
deathchamber. Light they want. Whispering around you. Would you like to see
a priest? Then rambling and wandering. Delirium all you hid all your life.
The death struggle. His sleep is not natural. Press his lower eyelid.
Watching is his nose pointed is his jaw sinking are the soles of his feet
yellow. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the floor since he's
doomed. Devil in that picture of sinner's death showing him a woman. Dying
to embrace her in his shirt. Last act of Lucia. Shall I nevermore behold
thee? Bam! expires. Gone at last. People talk about you a bit: forget you.
Don't forget to pray for him. Remember him in your prayers. Even Parnell.