arey. No,  Peter Claver  I am  thinking of. Denis
Carey. And just imagine that.  Wife and six children  at  home. And plotting
that murder all the time.  Those  crawthumpers, now  that's a  good name for
them,  there's  always  something  shiftylooking  about  them.  They're  not
straight men of business either. O no she's not here: the flower: no, no. By
the way did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.
     The priest was  rinsing out the chalice:  then he tossed  off the dregs
smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank  what
they  are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance  beverage  Wheatley's
Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale (aromatic). Doesn't
give  them  any of it: shew  wine: only the other. Cold comfort. Pious fraud
but  quite right: otherwise they'd  have one  old booser worse than  another
coming  along, cadging for a drink. Queer the whole atmosphere of the. Quite
right. Perfectly right that is.
     Mr Bloom  looked  back towards the choir. Not  going  to be  any music.
Pity. Who has the organ  here I  wonder? Old Glynn he  knew how to make that
instrument  talk,  the  <i>vibrato</i>:  fifty  pounds a year  they say  he  had in
Gardiner  street.  Molly  was in fine voice that  day, the  <i>Stabat  Mater</i> of
Rossini. Father  Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or  Pilate?  Christ,
but  don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted.  Footdrill stopped.
Could hear a pin  drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I
could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up:
     <i>Quis est homo!</i>
     Some  of that old  sacred music  is  splendid.  Mercadante:  seven last
words.  Mozart's twelfth mass: the <i>Gloria</i> in that. Those old popes were keen
on  music,  on art  and statues and pictures of  all  kinds.  Palestrina for
example too. They  had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too chanting,
regular  hours,  then brew  liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse.  Still,
having eunuchs in  their choir that was  coming it a bit thick. What kind of
voice  is  it?  Must  be curious  to hear  after their  own  strong  basses.
Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after.  Kind of  a placid.
No worry. Fall into flesh don't they?  Gluttons, tall, long legs. Who knows?
Eunuch. One way out of it.
     He saw the priest  bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and
bless all the  people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glanced
about  him  and then  stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up at the
gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat back
quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar, holding the thing
out from him, and he and the massboy answered  each other in Latin. Then the
priest knelt down and began to read off a card:
     -- O God, our refuge and our strength.
     Mr Bloom put his face forward  to catch the words.  English. Throw them
the bone. I  remember slightly. How long  since your  last  mass? Gloria and
immaculate  virgin. Joseph her spouse. Peter and  Paul. More  interesting if
you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes
like  clockwork.  Confession. Everyone wants  to. Then I  will tell you all.
Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon In their hands. More than doctor or
solicitor.  Woman  dying   to.   And   I  schschschschschsch.  And  did  you
chachachachacha? And why did  you? Look down at her  ring to find an excuse.
Whispering  gallery walls have ears. Husband learn  to his  surprise.  God's
little  joke. Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at
an altar.  Hail Mary and Holy Mary.  Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide
her  blushes. Salvation  army blatant  imitation.  Reformed prostitute  will
address the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps  those must be
in Rome:  they work the  whole  show. And don't they  rake in the money too?
Bequests also: to the P. P.  for the time being  in his absolute discretion.
Masses for the  repose  of  my soul  to  be  said publicly with open  doors.
Monasteries and  convents. The  priest in  the Fermanagh  will case  in  the
witness  box. No  browbeating  him. He had  his answer  pat for  everything.
Liberty and exaltation of our  holy mother  the church.  The  doctors of the
church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.
     The priest prayed:
     -- Blessed  Michael, archangel, defend us  in the hour of  conflict. Be
our safeguard against  the  wickedness and  snares  of  the  devil (may  God
restrain  him, we  humbly pray): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host,
by  the  power of God thrust Satan down  to hell  and  with him those  other
wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.
     The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women
remained behind: thanksgiving.
     Better  be shoving  along.  Brother  Buzz. Come  around  with the plate
perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.
     He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the
time. Women enjoy it. Annoyed  if you don't. Why-didn't  you tell me before.
Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a  (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff.
Or their skirt  behind,  placket unhooked. Glimpses of the  moon. Still like
you  better untidy.  Good job it wasn't farther south. He passed, discreetly
buttoning, down the aisle and out through the  main door into the  light. He
stood a  moment unseeing  by the cold black marble bowl while before him and
behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands  in the  low tide of holy water.
Trams: a  car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow  in  her weeds. Notice because
I'm in mourning myself. He covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter past.
Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up. Where  is this? Ah yes, the
last  time. Sweny's in Lincoln  place. Chemists rarely move. Their green and
gold beaconjars too heavy  to stir. Hamilton Long's, founded in  the year of
the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.
     He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe  is in the other
trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey  too.  Bore  this  funeral affair. O
well, poor  fellow, it's not  his fault. When was it I got it  made up last?
Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been
or the second. O he can look it up in the prescriptions book.
     The chemist turned back page  after  page.  Sandy  shrivelled smell  he
seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the  philosopher's  stone.
The  alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy  then. Why?
Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes  your  character.  Living
all  the  day  among  herbs,  ointments,  disinfectants. All  his  alabaster
lilypots.  Mortar and pestle.  Aq. Dist. Fol.  Laur. Te Virid.  Smell almost
cure you like the dentist's  doorbell.  Doctor  whack. He  ought  to  physic
himself a bit.  Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow  that picked an herb
to  cure himself  had a bit  of pluck. Simples. Want to be  careful.  Enough
stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform.
Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts.  Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup
bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy
where you least expect it. Clever of nature.
     -- About a fortnight ago, sir?
     -- Yes, Mr Bloom said.
     He waited by the  counter, inhaling the keen  reek  of drugs, the dusty
dry smell  of  sponges and loofahs. Lot  of time taken up telling your aches
and pains.
     --  Sweet almond oil and tincture  of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and  then
orangeflower water...
     It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.
     -- And white wax also, he said.
     Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to her
eyes, Spanish,  smelling herself, when I was  fixing the links in  my cuffs.
Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles
and  rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. Skinfood. One of the
old  queen's  sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin.  Leopold  yes.
Three we have. Warts, bunions  and pimples to make it worse. But you want  a
perfume too. What perfume does your? <i>Peau d'Espagne</i>. That orangeflower. Pure
curd  soap. Water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps  have.  Time  to get a
bath round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your
navel. Nicer if  a nice girl  did  it. Also I think  I. Yes I. Do  it in the
bath. Curious longing I.  Water  to water. Combine  business  with pleasure.
Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all day. Funeral be rather glum.
     -- Yes, sir,  the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought
a bottle?
     --  No, Mr Bloom said. Make it  up, please. I'll  call later in the day
and I'll take one of those soaps. How much are they?
     -- Fourpence, sir.
     Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.
     -- I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.
     -- Yes, sir,  the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you
come back.
     -- Good, Mr Bloom said.
     He  strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the
coolwrappered soap in his left hand.
     At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:
     -- Hello,  Bloom, what's  the  best news?  Is  that today's? Show us  a
minute.
     Shaved off  his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To  look
younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.
     Bantam Lyons' yellow blacknailed fingers  unrolled the  baton. Wants  a
wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good  morning, have you used Pears' soap?
Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.
     -- I want to see about that French  horse that's running  today, Bantam
Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?
     He  rustled the pleated pages,  jerking his  chin  on his  high collar.
Barber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair.  Better leave him the paper
and get shut of him.
     -- You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.
     -- Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the
second.
     -- I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.
     Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.
     -- What's that? his sharp voice said.
     -- I say you  can keep it, Mr  Bloom answered. I was going  to throw it
away that moment.
     Bantam Lyons doubted  an instant,  leering: then thrust  the  outspread
sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.
     -- I'Il risk it, he said. Here, thanks.
     He sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut.
     Mr  Bloom folded the  sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap
in  it,  smiling.  Silly lips of  that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed  of  it
lately. Messenger boys stealing to put  on sixpence. Raffle for large tender
turkey.  Your  Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack  Fleming  embezzling to
gamble  then smuggled off  to  America. Keeps a hotel  now.  They never come
back. Fleshpots of Egypt.
     He walked cheerfully  towards  the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a
mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports  today I see. He  eyed
the  horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like
a cod in a  pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had  made it  round like a  wheel.
Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college. Something
to catch the eye.
     There's Hornblower standing at  the porter's lodge. Keep  him on hands:
might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr  Hornblower? How do
you do, sir?
     Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.
Sit around under  sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't  play it here.
Duck for six wickets. Still  Captain Buller broke  a window in  the  Kildare
street club with a slog  to  square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line.
And the skulls  we were  acracking  when M'Carthy took  the floor. Heatwave.
Won't last. Always passing, the  stream of life, which in the stream of life
we trace is dearer than them all.
     Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool  enamel, the gentle tepid
stream. This is my body.
     He foresaw his  pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in  a  womb of
warmth,  oiled by  scented melting  soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and
limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his
navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled  curls  of his bush  floating,
floating hair of the stream around  the limp father of  thousands, a languid
floating flower.


        Ulysses 6: Hades

     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 tight till it shut tight. He passed an  arm through
the  armstrap and  looked seriously from  the  open carriage  window  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  slipper-slappers 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. Grow 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:
     -- Was that Mulligan cad with him? His <i>fidus Achates?</i>
     -- No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.
     -- Down with his aunt  Sally,  I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding
faction, the drunken little  cost-drawer 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'Il 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 `Il 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 counter-jumper'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, 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 illness 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.
     --  O draw him out,  Martin, Mr Power said  eagerly. Wait till you hear
him, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of <i>The Croppy Boy</i>.
     -- Immense,  Martin Cunningham said  pompously.  <i>His  singing  of  that
simple ballad, Martin, is  the most  trenchant rendering I ever heard in the
whole course of my experience</i>.
     --  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 <i>Leah</i> tonight, I wonder. I said I. Or
the <i>Lily of Killarney?</i> Elster Grimes Opera company. Big powerful change. Wet
bright bills for next week. <i>Fun on the Bristol</i>. 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 <i>Madame</i>, 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 <i>Madame</i>. Twenty past eleven. Up.  Mrs Fleming is in to  clean. Doing
her hair,  humming:  <i>voglio e non vorrei</i>.  No: <i>vorrei e  non</i>. Looking at the
tips of her hairs to see if they are  split. <i>Mi trema un  poco il</i>. Beautiful
on  that  <i>tre</i> 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. <i>Madame</i>: 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 <i>Saul</i>. He's as bad as
old Antonio.  He left  me on  my ownio.  Pirouette! The <i>Mater Misericordiae</i>.
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 <i>Bugabu</i>.
     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'