Martin
Cunningham, first, poked
his
silkhatted
head
into
the creaking
carriage
and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power stepped
in
after
him, curving
his
height
with
care. —Come on, Simon. —After you, Mr
Bloom
said. Mr Dedalus covered
himself
quickly
and
got in, saying: Yes, yes. —Are
we
all here now?
Martin
Cunningham asked.
Come
along, Bloom. Mr
Bloom
entered
and
sat
in
the
vacant
place.
He
pulled the
door
to
after
him
and
slammed
it
twice
till
it
shut
tight.
He
passed an
arm
through the armstrap
and
looked seriously
from
the
open
carriagewindow
at
the lowered blinds
of
the avenue.
One
dragged aside: an
old
woman
peeping.
Nose
whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars
she
was
passed over.
Extraordinary
the
interest
they
take
in
a
corpse.
Glad
to
see
us
go
we
give
them
such
trouble
coming. Job seems
to
suit them. Huggermugger
in
corners.
Slop
about
in
slipperslappers
for
fear
he'd wake.
Then
getting
it
ready. Laying
it
out.
Molly
and
Mrs Fleming making the bed.
Pull
it
more
to
your side.
Our
windingsheet.
Never
know
who
will
touch
you
dead.
Wash
and
shampoo. I
believe
they
clip
the nails
and
the hair.
Keep
a
bit
in
an envelope. Grows all the
same
after.
Unclean
job. All waited.
Nothing
was
said. Stowing
in
the wreaths probably. I
am
sitting
on
something
hard. Ah,
that
soap:
in
my
hip
pocket.
Better
shift
it
out
of
that.
Wait
for
an opportunity. All waited.
Then
wheels
were
heard
from
in
front, turning:
then
nearer:
then
horses' hoofs.
A
jolt.
Their
carriage
began
to
move, creaking
and
swaying.
Other
hoofs
and
creaking wheels started behind. The blinds
of
the
avenue
passed
and
number
nine
with
its craped knocker,
door
ajar.
At
walking pace.
They
waited still,
their
knees jogging,
till
they
had turned
and
were
passing
along
the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels rattled rolling
over
the cobbled
causeway
and
the crazy glasses shook rattling
in
the doorframes. —What
way
is
he
taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows. —Irishtown,
Martin
Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street. Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out. —That's
a
fine
old
custom,
he
said. I
am
glad
to
see
it
has not died out. All watched
awhile
through
their
windows caps
and
hats lifted
by
passers. Respect. The
carriage
swerved
from
the tramtrack
to
the smoother
road
past
Watery
lane. Mr
Bloom
at
gaze
saw
a
lithe
young
man,
clad
in
mourning,
a
wide
hat. —There's
a
friend
of
yours gone by, Dedalus,
he
said. —Who
is
that? —Your
son
and
heir. —Where
is
he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching
over
across. The carriage, passing the
open
drains
and
mounds
of
rippedup roadway before the
tenement
houses, lurched round the
corner
and, swerving
back
to
the tramtrack, rolled
on
noisily
with
chattering wheels. Mr Dedalus
fell
back, saying: —No, Mr
Bloom
said.
He
was
alone. —Down
with
his
aunt
Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding faction, the
drunken
little
costdrawer
and
Crissie, papa's
little
lump
of
dung, the
wise
child
that
knows her
own
father. Mr
Bloom
smiled joylessly
on
Ringsend road. Wallace Bros: the bottleworks:
Dodder
bridge. Richie Goulding
and
the
legal
bag. Goulding, Collis
and
Ward
he
calls the firm.
His
jokes
are
getting
a
bit
damp.
Great
card
he
was. Waltzing
in
Stamer
street
with
Ignatius Gallaher
on
a
Sunday morning, the landlady's
two
hats pinned
on
his
head.
Out
on
the rampage all night.
Beginning
to
tell
on
him
now:
that
backache
of
his, I fear.
Wife
ironing
his
back. Thinks he'll
cure
it
with
pills. All breadcrumbs
they
are.
About
six
hundred
per
cent
profit. —He's
in
with
a
lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled.
That
Mulligan
is
a
contaminated
bloody
doubledyed
ruffian
by
all accounts.
His
name
stinks all
over
Dublin. But
with
the
help
of
God
and
His
blessed mother I'll
make
it
my
business
to
write
a
letter
one
of
those
days
to
his
mother
or
his
aunt
or
whatever
she
is
that
will
open
her
eye
as
wide
as
a
gate. I'll
tickle
his
catastrophe,
believe
you
me.
He
cried
above
the
clatter
of
the wheels: —I won't
have
her
bastard
of
a
nephew
ruin my son.
A
counterjumper's son. Selling tapes
in
my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Not likely.
He
ceased. Mr
Bloom
glanced
from
his
angry
moustache
to
Mr Power's
mild
face
and
Martin
Cunningham's eyes
and
beard, gravely shaking. Noisy selfwilled man.
Full
of
his
son.
He
is
right.
Something
to
hand
on.
If
little
Rudy had lived.
See
him
grow
up.
Hear
his
voice
in
the house. Walking
beside
Molly
in
an Eton suit. My son.
Me
in
his
eyes.
Strange
feeling
it
would be.
From
me.
Just
a
chance.
Must
have
been
that
morning
in
Raymond
terrace
she
was
at
the
window
watching the
two
dogs
at
it
by
the
wall
of
the
cease
to
do
evil.
And
the
sergeant
grinning up.
She
had
that
cream
gown
on
with
the
rip
she
never
stitched.
Give
us
a
touch, Poldy. God, I'm dying
for
it.
How
life
begins. Got
big
then. Had
to
refuse
the Greystones concert. My
son
inside
her. I
could
have
helped
him
on
in
life. I could.
Make
him
independent.
Learn
German too. —Are
we
late? Mr Power asked. —Ten minutes,
Martin
Cunningham said, looking
at
his
watch. Molly. Milly.
Same
thing
watered down. Her tomboy oaths. O jumping Jupiter!
Ye
gods
and
little
fishes! Still, she's
a
dear
girl.
Soon
be
a
woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli.
Young
student. Yes, yes:
a
woman
too. Life, life. The
carriage
heeled
over
and
back,
their
four trunks swaying. —Corny
might
have
given
us
a
more
commodious
yoke, Mr Power said. —He might, Mr Dedalus said,
if
he
hadn't
that
squint troubling him.
Do
you
follow
me?
He
closed
his
left
eye.
Martin
Cunningham began
to
brush
away
crustcrumbs
from
under
his
thighs. —What
is
this,
he
said,
in
the
name
of
God? Crumbs? —Someone seems
to
have
been making
a
picnic
party
here lately, Mr Power said. All raised
their
thighs
and
eyed
with
disfavour the mildewed buttonless
leather
of
the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting
his
nose, frowned
downward
and
said: —Unless I'm
greatly
mistaken.
What
do
you
think, Martin? —It struck
me
too,
Martin
Cunningham said. Mr
Bloom
set
his
thigh
down.
Glad
I took
that
bath. Feel my feet
quite
clean. But I
wish
Mrs Fleming had darned
these
socks better. Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. —After all,
he
said, it's the
most
natural
thing
in
the world. —Did Tom Kernan
turn
up?
Martin
Cunningham asked, twirling the peak
of
his
beard
gently. —Yes, Mr
Bloom
answered. He's
behind
with
Ned Lambert
and
Hynes. —And
Corny
Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked. —At the cemetery,
Martin
Cunningham said. —I met M'Coy
this
morning, Mr
Bloom
said.
He
said he'd
try
to
come. The
carriage
halted short. —What's wrong? —We're stopped. —Where
are
we? Mr
Bloom
put
his
head
out
of
the window. —The
grand
canal,
he
said. Gasworks. Whooping
cough
they
say
it
cures.
Good
job Milly
never
got it.
Poor
children! Doubles
them
up
black
and
blue
in
convulsions.
Shame
really. Got
off
lightly
with
illnesses compared.
Only
measles. Flaxseed tea. Scarlatina,
influenza
epidemics. Canvassing
for
death. Don't
miss
this
chance. Dogs'
home
over
there.
Poor
old
Athos!
Be
good
to
Athos, Leopold,
is
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. —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. I tore
up
the envelope? Yes.
Where
did
I
put
her
letter
after
I read
it
in
the bath?
He
patted
his
waistcoatpocket. 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
handier?
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. 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:
spruce
figure: 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. 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.
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
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. —Ah
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
from
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.
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 blind. The coroner's sunlit 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. —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. Roastbeef
for
old
England.
They
buy
up
all the juicy ones.
And
then
the
fifth
quarter
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 said, 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.
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, mudchoked 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
straw
hat, 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 added. 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
Prospect
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
sleekcombed
hair
and
at
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
prayingdesks. 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. 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
bad
gas
round the place. Butchers,
for
instance:
they
get
like
raw
beefsteaks.
Who
was
telling me? Mervyn Browne.
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. 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 businessmen,
consumptive
girls
with
little
sparrows' breasts. All the
year
round
he
prayed the
same
thing
over
them
all
and
shook
water
on
top
of
them: sleep.
On
Dignam now. 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 trundled
barrow
along
a
lane
of
sepulchres. The ree the ra the ree 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'll
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, secretsearching. 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: —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
A1,
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, Madame 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.
He
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
long
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
watchchain
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: 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.
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
corpsemanure, 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,
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. —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.
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. Embalming
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.
We
are
praying
now
for
the
repose
of
his
soul. Hoping you're
well
and
not
in
hell.
Nice
change
of
air.
Out
of
the fryingpan
of
life
into
the
fire
of
purgatory. Does
he
ever
think
of
the
hole
waiting
for
himself?
They
say
you
do
when
you
shiver
in
the sun. Someone walking
over
it. Callboy's warning.
Near
you.
Mine
over
there
towards
Finglas, the
plot
I bought. Mamma,
poor
mamma,
and
little
Rudy. The gravediggers took
up
their
spades
and
flung heavy clods
of
clay
in
on
the coffin. Mr
Bloom
turned
away
his
face.
And
if
he
was
alive
all the time? Whew!
By
jingo,
that
would
be
awful! No, no:
he
is
dead,
of
course.
Of
course
he
is
dead. Monday
he
died.
They
ought
to
have
some
law
to
pierce
the
heart
and
make
sure
or
an
electric
clock
or
a
telephone
in
the
coffin
and
some
kind
of
a
canvas
airhole.
Flag
of
distress.
Three
days.
Rather
long
to
keep
them
in
summer.
Just
as
well
to
get
shut
of
them
as
soon
as
you
are
sure
there's no. The
clay
fell
softer.
Begin
to
be
forgotten.
Out
of
sight,
out
of
mind. The caretaker moved
away
a
few
paces
and
put
on
his
hat. Had
enough
of
it. The mourners took
heart
of
grace,
one
by
one, covering
themselves
without show. Mr
Bloom
put
on
his
hat
and
saw
the portly
figure
make
its
way
deftly through the
maze
of
graves. Quietly,
sure
of
his
ground,
he
traversed the
dismal
fields. Hynes jotting
down
something
in
his
notebook. Ah, the names. But
he
knows
them
all. No: coming
to
me. —I
am
just
taking the names, Hynes said
below
his
breath.
What
is
your christian name? I'm not sure. —L, Mr
Bloom
said. Leopold.
And
you
might
put
down
M'Coy's
name
too.
He
asked
me
to.
So
he
was
before
he
got the job
in
the
morgue
under Louis Byrne.
Good
idea
a
postmortem
for
doctors. Find
out
what
they
imagine
they
know.
He
died
of
a
Tuesday. Got the run. Levanted
with
the
cash
of
a
few
ads. Charley, you're my darling.
That
was
why
he
asked
me
to. O well, does no harm. I
saw
to
that, M'Coy. Thanks,
old
chap:
much
obliged.
Leave
him
under an obligation: costs nothing. —And
tell
us, Hynes said,
do
you
know
that
fellow
in
the,
fellow
was
over
there
in
the...
He
looked around. —Macintosh. Yes, I
saw
him, Mr
Bloom
said.
Where
is
he
now? —M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. I don't
know
who
he
is.
Is
that
his
name?
He
moved away, looking
about
him. —No, Mr
Bloom
began, turning
and
stopping. I say, Hynes! Didn't hear. What?
Where
has
he
disappeared to? Not
a
sign.
Well
of
all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee
double
ell.
Become
invisible.
Good
Lord,
what
became
of
him?
A
seventh gravedigger came
beside
Mr
Bloom
to
take
up
an idle spade. —O,
excuse
me!
He
stepped
aside
nimbly. Clay, brown, damp, began
to
be
seen
in
the hole.
It
rose. Nearly over.
A
mound
of
damp clods
rose
more, rose,
and
the gravediggers rested
their
spades. All uncovered
again
for
a
few
instants. The
boy
propped
his
wreath
against
a
corner: the
brother-in-law
his
on
a
lump. The gravediggers
put
on
their
caps
and
carried
their
earthy spades
towards
the barrow.
Then
knocked the blades
lightly
on
the turf: clean.
One
bent
to
pluck
from
the
haft
a
long
tuft
of
grass. One, leaving
his
mates, walked
slowly
on
with
shouldered weapon, its
blade
blueglancing. Silently
at
the gravehead
another
coiled the coffinband.
His
navelcord. The brother-in-law, turning away, placed
something
in
his
free
hand.
Thanks
in
silence. Sorry, sir: trouble. Headshake. I
know
that.
For
yourselves just. The mourners moved
away
slowly
without aim,
by
devious
paths, staying
at
whiles
to
read
a
name
on
a
tomb. —Let
us
go
round
by
the chief's grave, Hynes said.
We
have
time. —Let us, Mr Power said.
They
turned
to
the right,
following
their
slow
thoughts.
With
awe
Mr Power's
blank
voice spoke: —Some
say
he
is
not
in
that
grave
at
all.
That
the
coffin
was
filled
with
stones.
That
one
day
he
will
come
again. Hynes shook
his
head. —Parnell
will
never
come
again,
he
said. He's there, all
that
was
mortal
of
him.
Peace
to
his
ashes.
A
bird
sat tamely perched
on
a
poplar
branch.
Like
stuffed.
Like
the
wedding
present
alderman
Hooper gave us. Hoo! Not
a
budge
out
of
him. Knows there
are
no catapults
to
let
fly
at
him.
Dead
animal
even
sadder. Silly-Milly burying the
little
dead
bird
in
the
kitchen
matchbox,
a
daisychain
and
bits
of
broken
chainies
on
the grave. The
Sacred
Heart
that
is: showing it.
Heart
on
his
sleeve.
Ought
to
be
sideways
and
red
it
should
be
painted
like
a
real
heart. Ireland
was
dedicated
to
it
or
whatever that. Seems
anything
but pleased.
Why
this
infliction? Would birds
come
then
and
peck
like
the
boy
with
the
basket
of
fruit
but
he
said no
because
they
ought
to
have
been
afraid
of
the boy. Apollo
that
was.
How
many! All
these
here
once
walked round Dublin.
Faithful
departed.
As
you
are
now
so
once
were
we. Besides
how
could
you
remember
everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the voice, yes: gramophone.
Have
a
gramophone
in
every
grave
or
keep
it
in
the house.
After
dinner
on
a
Sunday.
Put
on
poor
old
greatgrandfather. Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind
you
of
the voice
like
the photograph reminds
you
of
the face.
Otherwise
you
couldn't
remember
the face
after
fifteen
years, say.
For
instance
who?
For
instance
some
fellow
that
died
when
I
was
in
Wisdom
Hely's. Rtststr!
A
rattle
of
pebbles. Wait. Stop!
He
looked
down
intently
into
a
stone
crypt.
Some
animal. Wait. There
he
goes. An
obese
grey
rat
toddled
along
the
side
of
the crypt, moving the pebbles. An
old
stager: greatgrandfather:
he
knows the ropes. The grey
alive
crushed
itself
in
under the plinth, wriggled
itself
in
under it.
Good
hidingplace
for
treasure.
Who
lives there?
Are
laid the remains
of
Robert Emery. Robert
Emmet
was
buried here
by
torchlight, wasn't he? Making
his
rounds. Tail gone now. The gates glimmered
in
front:
still
open.
Back
to
the
world
again.
Enough
of
this
place. Brings
you
a
bit
nearer
every
time.
Last
time
I
was
here
was
Mrs Sinico's funeral.
Poor
papa
too. The
love
that
kills.
And
even
scraping
up
the
earth
at
night
with
a
lantern
like
that
case
I read
of
to
get
at
fresh
buried females
or
even
putrefied
with
running gravesores.
Give
you
the creeps
after
a
bit. I
will
appear
to
you
after
death.
You
will
see
my
ghost
after
death. My
ghost
will
haunt
you
after
death. There
is
another
world
after
death
named hell. I
do
not
like
that
other
world
she
wrote. No
more
do
I.
Plenty
to
see
and
hear
and
feel yet. Feel
live
warm
beings
near
you.
Let
them
sleep
in
their
maggoty beds.
They
are
not going
to
get
me
this
innings.
Warm
beds:
warm
fullblooded life.
Martin
Cunningham emerged
from
a
sidepath, talking gravely. Solicitor, I think. I
know
his
face. Menton, John Henry, solicitor,
commissioner
for
oaths
and
affidavits. Dignam used
to
be
in
his
office.
Mat
Dillon's
long
ago.
Jolly
Mat.
Convivial
evenings. Cold fowl, cigars, the Tantalus glasses.
Heart
of
gold
really. Yes, Menton. Got
his
rag
out
that
evening
on
the bowlinggreen
because
I sailed
inside
him.
Pure
fluke
of
mine: the bias.
Why
he
took
such
a
rooted
dislike
to
me.
Hate
at
first sight.
Molly
and
Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree, laughing.
Fellow
always
like
that, mortified
if
women
are
by. Got
a
dinge
in
the
side
of
his
hat.
Carriage
probably. —Excuse me, sir, Mr
Bloom
said
beside
them.
They
stopped. —Your
hat
is
a
little
crushed, Mr
Bloom
said pointing. John Henry Menton stared
at
him
for
an
instant
without moving. —There,
Martin
Cunningham helped, pointing also. John Henry Menton took
off
his
hat, bulged
out
the dinge
and
smoothed the
nap
with
care
on
his
coatsleeve.
He
clapped the
hat
on
his
head
again. —It's all
right
now,
Martin
Cunningham said. John Henry Menton jerked
his
head
down
in
acknowledgment. —Thank you,
he
said shortly.
They
walked
on
towards
the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew
behind
a
few
paces
so
as
not
to
overhear.
Martin
laying
down
the law.
Martin
could
wind
a
sappyhead
like
that
round
his
little
finger, without
his
seeing
it.
Oyster
eyes.
Never
mind.
Be
sorry
after
perhaps
when
it
dawns
on
him.
Get
the
pull
over
him
that
way.
Thank
you.
How
grand
we
are
this
morning!