ngue in his cheek.
Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked, walked boldly along
James's street.
-- I know you did, Dilly answered. Were you in the Scotch house now?
-- I was not then, Mr Dedalus said, smiling. Was it the little nuns
taught you to be so saucy? Here.
He handed her a shilling.
-- See if you can do anything with that, he said.
-- I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give me more than that.
-- Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said threateningly. You're like the rest of
them, are you? An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor mother
died. But wait awhile. You'll all get a short shrift and a long day from me.
Low blackguardism! I'm going to get rid of you. Wouldn't care if I was
stretched out stiff. He's dead. The man upstairs is dead.
He left her and walked on. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat.
-- Well, what is it? he said, stopping.
The lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.
-- Barang!
-- Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him.
The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his bell
but feebly:
-- Bang!
Mr Dedalus stared at him.
-- Watch him, he said. It's instructive. I wonder will he allow us to
talk.
-- You got more than that, father, Dilly said.
-- I'm going to show you a little trick, Mr Dedalus said. I'll leave
you all where Jesus left the jews. Look, that's all I have. I got two
shillings from Jack Power and I spent twopence for a shave for the funeral.
He drew forth a handful of copper coins nervously.
-- Can't you look for some money somewhere? Dilly said.
Mr Dedalus thought and nodded.
-- I will, he said gravely. I looked all along the gutter in O'Connell
street. I'll try this one now.
-- You're very funny, Dilly said, grinning.
-- Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies. Get a glass of milk
for yourself and a bun or a something. I'll be home shortly.
He put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on.
The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out of
Parkgate.
-- I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.
The lacquey banged loudly.
Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a pursing
mincing mouth:
-- The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they wouldn't do
anything! O, sure they wouldn't really! Is it little sister Monica!
>From the sundial towards James's Gate walked Mr Kernan pleased with
the order he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson boldly along James's street,
past Shackleton's offices. Got round him all right. How do you do, Mr
Crimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be up in your other
establishment in Pimlico. How are things going? Just keeping alive. Lovely
weather we are having. Yes, indeed. Good for the country. Those farmers are
always grumbling. I'll just take a thimbleful of your best gin, Mr Crimmins.
A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion.
Terrible, terrible! A thousand casualties. And heartrending scenes. Men
trampling down women and children. Most brutal thing. What do they say was
the cause? Spontaneous combustion: most scandalous revelation. Not a single
lifeboat would float and the firehose all burst. What I can't understand is
how the inspectors ever allowed a boat like that... Now you are talking
straight, Mr Crimmins. You know why? Palmoil. Is that a fact? Without a
doubt. Well now, look at that. And America they say is the land of the free.
I thought we were bad here.
I smiled at him. America, I said, quietly, just like that. What is it?
The sweepings of every country including our own. Isn't that true? That's a
fact.
Graft, my dear sir. Well, of course, where there's money going there's
always someone to pick it up.
Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress does it. Nothing like a dressy
appearance. Bowls them over.
-- Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?
-- Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered stopping.
Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter
Kennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson street.
Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Never built under three
guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some Kildare street club toff had it
probably. John Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernian bank, gave me a very
sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he remembered me.
Aham! Must dress the character for those fellows. Knight of the road.
Gentleman. And now, Mr Crimmins, may we have the honour of your custom
again, sir. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as the old saying has
it.
North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with hulls and anchorchains,
sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on the
ferry-wash, Elijah is coming.
Mr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image. High colour, of course.
Grizzled moustache. Returned Indian officer. Bravely he bore his stumpy body
forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Is that Lambert's brother
over the way, Sam? What? Yes. He's as like it as damn it. No. The windscreen
of that motorcar in the sun there. Just a flash like that. Damn like him.
Aham! Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath.
Good drop of gin, that was. His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his
fat strut.
Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Greasy black rope.
Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant's wife drove
by in her noddy.
Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michan's? Or no, there was a midnight
burial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through a secret door in the wall.
Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well. Better turn down here.
Make a detour.
Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling street by the
corner of Guinness's visitors' waitingroom. Outside the Dublin Distillers
Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the reins
knotted to the wheel. Damn dangerous thing. Some Tipperary bosthoon
endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway horse.
Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John
Henry Menton's office, led his wife over O'Connell bridge, bound for the
office of Messrs Collis and Ward.
Mr Kernan approached Island street.
Times of the troubles. Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those
reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. When you look back on it all now in a
kind of retrospective arrangement. Gaming at Daly's. No cardsharping then.
One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the table by a dagger. Somewhere
here Lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major Sirr. Stables behind Moira
house.
Damn good gin that was.
Fine dashing young nobleman. Good stock, of course. That ruffian, that
sham squire, with his violet gloves, gave him away. Course they were on the
wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days. Fine poem that is: Ingram. They
were gentlemen. Ben Dollard does sing that ballad touchingly. Masterly
rendition.
At the siege of Ross did my father fall.
A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping,
leaping in their, in their saddles. Frockcoats. Cream sunshades.
Mr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily.
His Excellency! Too bad! Just missed that by a hair. Damn it! What a
pity!
Stephen Dedalus watched through the webbed window the lapidary's
fingers prove a timedulled chain. Dust webbed the window and the showtrays.
Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust slept on
dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous
and winedark stones.
Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil lights
shining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their
brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them.
She dances in a foul gloom where gum burns with garlic. A sailorman,
rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. A long and seafed silent
rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her hips, on her
gross belly flapping a ruby egg.
Old Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned
it and held it at the point of his Moses' beard. Grandfather ape gloating on
a stolen hoard.
And you who wrest old images from the burial earth! The brainsick words
of sophists: Antisthenes. A lore of drugs. Orient and immortal wheat
standing from everlasting to everlasting.
Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged through
Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a sanded umbrella, one with a
midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled.
The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the
powerhouse urged Stephen to be on. Beingless beings. Stop! Throb always
without you and the throb always within. Your heart you sing of. I between
them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I. Shatter them,
one and both. But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter me you who can. Bawd
and butcher, were the words. I say! Not yet awhile. A look around.
Yes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. You
say right, sir. A Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed.
Stephen went down Bedford row, the handle of the ash clacking against
his shoulderblade. In Clohissey's window a faded 1860 print of Heenan boxing
Sayers held his eye. Staring backers with square hats stood round the roped
prizering. The heavyweights in light loincloths proposed gently each to
other his bulbous fists. And they are throbbing: heroes' hearts.
He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.
-- Twopence each, the huckster said. Four for sixpence.
Tattered pages. The Irish Beekeeper. Life and Miracles of the Curè of
Ars. Pocket Guide to Killarney.
I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. Stephano Dedalo,
alumno optimo, palmam ferenti.
Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the hamlet
of Donnycarney, murmuring vespers.
Binding too good probably, what is this? Eighth and ninth book of
Moses. Secret of all secrets. Seal of King David. Thumbed pages: read and
read. Who has passed here before me? How to soften chapped hands. Recipe for
white wine vinegar. How to win a woman's love. For me this. Say the
following talisman three times with hands folded:
-- Se et yilo nebrakada femininum! Amor me solo! Sanktus! Amen.
Who wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most blessed abbot Peter
Salanka to all true believers divulged. As good as any other abbot's charms,
as mumbling Joachim's. Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool.
-- What are you doing here, Stephen.
Dilly's high shoulders and shabby dress.
Shut the book quick. Don't let see.
-- What are you doing? Stephen said.
A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. It
glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. I told her of
Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck
bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. Nebrakada femininum.
-- What have you there? Stephen asked.
-- I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing
nervously. Is it any good?
My eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? Quick, far and daring.
Shadow of my mind.
He took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal's French primer.
-- What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French?
She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips.
Show no surprise. Quite natural.
-- Here, Stephen said. It's all right. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on
you. I suppose all my books are gone.
-- Some, Dilly said. We had to.
She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will
drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, my
heart, my soul. Salt green death.
We.
Agenbite of inwit. Inwit's agenbite.
Misery! Misery!
-- Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?
-- Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.
They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's. Father Cowley
brushed his moustache often downward with a scooping hand.
-- What's the best news? Mr Dedalus said.
-- Why then not much, Father Cowley said. I'm barricaded up, Simon,
with two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance.
-- Jolly, Mr Dedalus said. Who is it?
-- O, Father Cowley said. A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance.
-- With a broken back, is it? Mr Dedalus asked.
-- The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben of that ilk. I'm
just waiting for Ben Dollard. He's going to say a word to Long John to get
him to take those two men off. All I want is a little time.
He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in
his neck.
-- I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He's always
doing a good turn for someone. Hold hard!
He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.
-- There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.
Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops
crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came towards them at
an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails.
As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted:
-- Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.
-- Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.
Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben
Dollard's figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered
sneeringly:
-- That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day?
-- Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I
threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.
He stood beside them beaming on them first and on his roomy clothes
from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying:
-- They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow.
-- Bad luck to the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be
to God he's not paid yet.
-- And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked.
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring,
glasseyed, strode past the Kildare street club.
Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave forth
a deep note.
-- Aw! he said.
-- That's the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone.
-- What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty? What? He turned to
both.
-- That'll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also.
The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old Chapterhouse of saint
Mary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended by
Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the Ford of
Hurdles.
Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them forward,
his joyful fingers in the air.
-- Come along with me to the subsheriff's office, he said. I want to
show you the new beauty Rock has for a bailiff. He's a cross between
Lobengula and Lynchehaun. He's well worth seeing, mind you. Come along. I
saw John Henry Menton casually in the Bodega just now and it will cost me a
fall if I don't... wait awhile... We're on the right lay, Bob, believe you
me.
-- For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said anxiously.
Ben Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a dangling button
of his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he wiped away the heavy
shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright.
-- What few days? he boomed. Hasn't your landlord distrained for rent?
-- He has, Father Cowley said.
-- Then our friend's writ is not worth the paper it's printed on, Ben
Dollard said. The landlord has the prior claim. I gave him all the
particulars. 29 Windsor avenue. Love is the name?
-- That's right, Father Cowley said. The reverend Mr Love. He's a
minister in the country somewhere. But are you sure of that?
-- You can tell Barabbas from me, Ben Dollard said, that he can put
that writ where Jacko put the nuts.
He led Father Cowley boldly forward linked to his bulk.
-- Filberts I believe they were, Mr Dedalus said, as he dropped his
glasses on his coatfront, following them.
-- The youngster will be all right, Martin Cunningham said, as they
passed out of the Castleyard gate.
The policeman touched his forehead.
-- God bless you, Martin Cunningham said, cheerily.
He signed to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the reins and set on
towards Lord Edward street.
Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head, appeared
above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel.
Yes, Martin Cunningham said, fingering his beard. I wrote to Father
Conmee and laid the whole case before him.
-- You could try our friend, Mr Power suggested backward.
-- Boyd? Martin Cunningham said shortly. Touch me not.
John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them
quickly down Cork hill.
On the steps of the City hall Councillor Nannetti, descending, hailed
Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending.
The castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street.
-- Look here Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them at the Mail
office. I see Bloom put his name down for five shillings.
-- Quite right, Martin Cunningham said, taking the list. And put down
the five shillings too.
-- Without a second word either, Mr Power said.
-- Strange but true, Martin Cunningham added.
John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.
-- I'll say there is much kindness in the jew, he quoted elegantly.
They went down Parliament street.
-- There's Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said, just heading for Kavanagh's.
-- Righto, Martin Cunningham said. Here goes.
Outside la Maison Claire Blazes Boylan waylaid Jack Mooney's
brother-in-law, humpy, tight, making for the liberties.
John Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power, while Martin Cunningham took
the elbow of a dapper little man in a shower of hail suit who walked
uncertainly with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches.
-- The assistant town clerk's corns are giving him some trouble, John
Wyse Nolan told Mr Power.
They followed round the corner towards James Kavanagh's winerooms. The
empty castle car fronted them at rest in Essex gate. Martin Cunningham,
speaking always, showed often the list at which Jimmy Henry did not glance.
-- And Long John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, as large as
life.
The tall form of Long John Fanning filled the doorway where he stood.
-- Good day, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said, as all halted and
greeted.
Long John Fanning made no way for them. He removed his large Henry Clay
decisively and his large fierce eyes scowled intelligently over all their
faces.
-- Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations? he
said, with rich acrid utterance to the assistant town clerk.
Hell open to christians they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly,
about their damned Irish language. Where was the marshal, he wanted to know,
to keep order in the council chamber. And old Barlow the macebearer laid up
with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in order, no quorum even and
Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little Lorcan Sherlock doing
locum tenens for him. Damned Irish language, of our forefathers.
Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips.
Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his beard, to
the assistant town clerk and the subsheriff, while John Wyse Nolan held his
peace.
-- What Dignam was that? Long John Fanning asked.
Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot.
-- O, my corns! he said plaintively. Come upstairs for goodness' sake
till I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!
Testily he made room for himself beside Long John Fanning's flank and
passed in and up the stairs.
-- Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff. I don't think
you knew him or perhaps you did, though.
With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.
-- Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said to the stalwart back of
Long John Fanning ascending towards Long John Fanning in the mirror.
-- Rather lowsized, Dignam of Menton's office that was, Martin
Cunningham said.
Long John Fanning could not remember him.
Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.
-- What's that? Martin Cunningham said.
All turned where they stood; John Wyse Nolan came down again. From the
cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street, harness
and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. Gaily they went past before his
cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of the leaders, leaping
leaders, rode outriders.
-- What was it? Martin Cunningham asked, as they went on up the
staircase.
-- The lord lieutenant general and general governor of Ireland, John
Wyse Nolan answered from the stairfoot.
As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his
panama to Haines.
-- Parnell's brother. There in the corner.
They chose a small table near the window opposite a long-faced man
whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard.
-- Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.
-- Yes, Mulligan said. That's John Howard, his brother, our city
marshal.
John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey claw
went up again to his forehead whereat it rested.
An instant after, under its screen, his eyes looked quickly,
ghostbright, at his foe and fell once more upon a working corner.
-- I'll take a mèlange, Haines said to the waitress.
-- Two mèlanges, Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some scones and
butter and some cakes as well.
When she had gone he said, laughing:
-- We call it D. B. C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you
missed Dedalus on Hamlet.
Haines opened his newbought book.
-- I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all
minds that have lost their balance.
The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street:
-- England expects...
Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.
-- You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance.
Wandering &Aelig;ngus I call him.
-- I am sure he has an idèe fixe, Haines said, pinching his chin
thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I am speculating what it would
be likely to be. Such persons always have.
Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.
-- They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell. He will
never capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white
death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet. The
joy of creation.
-- Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled
him this morning on belief. There was something on his mind, I saw. It's
rather interesting because Professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting
point out of that.
Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to
unload her tray.
-- He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said,
amid the cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny,
of retribution. Rather strange he should have just that fixed idea. Does he
write anything for your movement?
He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream.
Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its
smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.
-- Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write
something in ten years.
-- Seems a long way off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon.
Still, I shouldn't wonder if he did after all.
He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.
-- This is real Irish cream I take it, he said with forbearance. I
don't want to be imposed on.
Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by flanks of
ships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping street
past Benson's ferry, and by the three-masted schooner Rosevean from
Bridgwater with bricks.
Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street, past Sewell's yard. Behind
him Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell with
stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house
and, crossing, walked along Merrion square. Distantly behind him a blind
stripling tapped his way by the wall of College Park.
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as Mr
Lewis Werner's cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along Merrion
square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.
At the corner of Wilde's he halted, frowned at Elijah's name announced
on the Metropolitan Hall, frowned at the distant pleasance of duke's lawn.
His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. With ratsteeth bared he muttered:
-- Coactus volui.
He strode on for Clare street, grinding his fierce word.
As he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway of his dustcoat
brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept onwards,
having buffeted a thewless body. The blind stripling turned his sickly face
after the striding form.
-- God's curse on you, he said sourly, whoever you are! You're blinder
nor I am, you bitch's bastard!
Opposite Ruggy O'Donohoe's Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the
pound and half of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, porksteaks he had been sent
for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling. It was too blooming dull
sitting in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and Mrs MacDowell and
the blind down and they all at their sniffles and sipping sups of the
superior tawny sherry uncle Barney brought from Tunney's. And they eating
crumbs of the cottage fruit cake jawing the whole blooming time and sighing.
After Wicklow lane the window of Madame Doyle, court dress milliner,
stopped him. He stood looking in at the two puckers stripped to their pelts
and putting up their props. From the sidemirrors two mourning Masters Dignam
gaped silently. Myler Keogh, Dublin's pet lamb, will meet sergeant-major
Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of fifty sovereigns, God,
that'd be a good pucking match to see. Myler Keogh, that's the chap sparring
out to him with the green sash. Two bar entrance, soldiers half price. I
could easy do a bunk on ma. Master Dignam on his left turned as he turned.
That's me in mourning. When is it? May the twenty-second. Sure, the blooming
thing is all over. He turned to the right and on his right Master Dignam
turned, his cap awry, his collar sticking up. Buttoning it down, his chin
lifted, he saw the image of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, beside the
two puckers. One of them mots that do be in the packets of fags Stoer smokes
that his old fellow welted hell out of him for one time he found out.
Master Dignam got his collar down and dawdled on. The best pucker going
for strength was Fitzsimons. One puck in the wind from that fellow would
knock you into the middle of next week, man. But the best pucker for science
was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of him, dodging
and all.
In Grafton street Master Dignam saw a red flower in a toff's mouth and
a swell pair of kicks on him and he listening to what the drunk was telling
him and grinning all the time.
No Sandymount tram.
Master Dignam walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to his
other hand. His collar sprang up again and he tugged it down. The blooming
stud was too small for the buttonhole of the shirt, blooming end to it. He
met schoolboys with satchels. I'm not going tomorrow either, stay away till
Monday. He met other schoolboys. Do they notice I'm in mourning? Uncle
Barney said he'd get it into the paper tonight. Then they'll all see it in
the paper and read my name printed and pa's name.
His face got all grey instead of being red like it was and there was a
fly walking over it up to his eye. The scrunch that was when they were
screwing the screws into the coffin: and the bumps when they were bringing
it downstairs.
Pa was inside it and ma crying in the parlour and uncle Barney telling
the men how to get it round the bend. A big coffin it was, and high and
heavylooking. How was that? The last night pa was boosed he was standing on
the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out to Tunney's for to
boose more and he looked butty and short in his shirt. Never see him again.
Death, that is. Pa is dead. My father is dead. He told me to be a good son
to ma. I couldn't hear the other things he said but I saw his tongue and his
teeth trying to say it better. Poor pa. That was Mr Dignam, my father. I
hope he is in purgatory now because he went to confession to father Conroy
on Saturday night.
William Humble, earl of Dudley, and Lady Dudley, accompanied by
lieutenantcolonel Hesseltine, drove out after luncheon from the viceregal
lodge. In the following carriage were the honourable Mrs Paget, Miss de
Courcy and the honourable Gerald Ward, A. D. C. in attendance.
The cavalcade passed out by the lower gate of Phoenix Park saluted by
obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern
quays. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his way through the
metropolis. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him
vainly from afar. Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges Lord Dudley's
viceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B. L., M.
A., who stood on Arran Quay outside Mrs M. E. White's, the pawnbroker's, at
the corner of Arran street west stroking his nose with his forefinger,
undecided whether he should arrive at Phibsborough more quickly by a triple
change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot through Smithfield,
Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. In the porch of Four Courts
Richie Goulding with the costsbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward saw him with
surprise. Past Richmond bridge at the doorstep of the office of Reuben J.
Dodd, solicitor, agent for the Patriotic Insurance Company, an elderly
female about to enter changed her plan and retracing her steps by King's
windows smiled credulously on the representative of His Majesty. From its
sluice in Wood quay wall under Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in
fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. Above the crossblind of the Ormond Hotel,
gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and
admired. On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way from the
greenhouse for the subsheriff's office, stood still in midstreet and brought
his hat low. His Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus' greeting. From
Cahill's corner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M. A., made obeisance
unperceived, mindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant had held of
yore rich advowsons. On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M'Coy, taking leave of
each other, watched the carriages go by. Passing by Roger Greene's office
and Dollard's big red printing house Gerty MacDowell, carrying the Catesby's
cork lino letters for her father who was laid up, knew by the style it was
the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her Excellency had on
because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to stop in front
of her on account of its being the lord lieutenant. Beyond Lundy Foot's from
the shaded door of Kavanagh's winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen
coldness towards the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland.
The Right Honourable William Humble, earl of Dudley, G. C. V. O., passed
Micky Anderson's all times ticking watches and Henry and James's wax
smartsuited freshcheeked models, the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James.
Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of
the cavalcade. Tom Rochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley on him, took his
thumbs quickly out of the pockets of his claret waistcoat and doffed his cap
to her. A charming soubrette, great Marie Kendall, with dauby cheeks and
lifted skirt, smiled daubily from her poster upon William Humble, earl of
Dudley, and upon lieutenantcolonel H. G. Hesseltine and also upon the
honourable Gerald Ward A. D. C. From the window of the D. B. C. Buck
Mulligan gaily, and Haines gravely, gazed down on the viceregal equipage
over the shoulders of eager guests, whose mass of forms darkened the
chessboard whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently. In Fownes's street,
Dilly Dedalus, straining her sight upward from Chardenal's first French
primer, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the glare John
Henry Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from
winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his
fat left hand not feeling it. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed
the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the hoofs of
the outriders. She shouted in his ear the tidings. Understanding, he shifted
his tomes to his left breast and saluted the second carriage. The honourable
Gerald Ward A. D. C., agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. At
Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white
flagons halted behind him, E. L. Y.'S., while outriders pranced past and
carriages. Opposite Pigott's music warerooms Mr Denis J. Maginni professor
of dancing &c, gaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and
unobserved. By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in
tan shoes and socks with skyblue clocks to the refrain of My girl's a
Yorkshire girl.
Blazes Boylan presented to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high
action a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit
of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets forgot to salute but he
offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and the red
flower between his lips. As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency
drew the attention of his bowing consort to the programme of music which was
being discoursed in College park. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and
drumthumped after the cortège:
But though she's a factory lass
And wears no fancy clothes.
Baraabum.
Yet I've a sort of a
Yorkshire relish for
My little Yorkshire rose.
Baraabum.
Thither of the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M. C. Green, H.
Thrift, T. M. Patey, C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C.
Adderly, and W. C. Huggard started in pursuit. Striding past Finn's hotel,
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce
eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr E. M. Solomons in the window
of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. Deep in Leinster street, by Trinity's
postern, a loyal king's man, Horn-blower, touched his tallyho cap. As the
glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam,
waiting, saw salutes being given to the gent with the topper and raised also
his new black cap with fingers greased by porksteak paper. His collar too
sprang up. The viceroy, on his way to inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of
funds for Mercer's hospital, drove with his following towards Lower Mount
street. He passed a blind stripling Opposite Broadbent's. In Lower Mount
street a pedestrian in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly
and unscathed across the viceroy's path. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his
hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome
to Pembroke township. At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted
themselves, an umbrella and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to view
with wonder the lord mayor and lady mayoress without his golden chain. On
Northumberland and Landsdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually
salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two small schoolboys at the
garden gate of the house said to have been admired by the late queen when
visiting the Irish capital with her husband, the prince consort, in 1849,
and the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a closing
door.
Ulysses 11: Sirens
BRONZE BY GOLD HEARD THE HOOFIRONS, STEELYRINING IMPERthnthn thnthnthn.
Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips. Horrid! And gold
flushed more.
A husky fifenote blew.
Blew. Blue bloom is on the
Gold pinnacled hair.
A jumping rose on satiny breasts of satin, rose of Castille.
Trilling, trilling: I dolores.
Peep! Who's in the... peepofgold?
Tink cried to bronze in pity.
And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying call.
Decoy. Soft word. But look! The bright stars fade. O rose! Notes
chirruping answer. Castille. The morn is breaking.
Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.
Coin rang. Clock clacked.
Avowal. Sonnez. I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. La
cloche! Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye!
Jingle. Bloo.
Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs. War! War! The tympanum.
A sail! A veil awave upon the waves.
Lost. Throstle fluted. All is lost now.
Horn. Hawhorn.
When first he saw. Alas!
Full tup. Full throb.
Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring.
Martha! Come!
Clapclop. Clipclap. Clappyclap.
Goodgod henev erheard inall.
Deaf bald Pat brought pad knife took up.
A moonlight nightcall: far: far.
I feel so sad. P. S. So lonely blooming.
Listen!
The spiked and winding cold seahorn. Have you the? Each and for other
plash and silent roar.
Pearls: when she. Liszt's rhapsodies. Hissss.
You don't?
Did not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd. With a cock with a carra.
Black.
Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do.
Wait while you wait. Hee hee. Wait while you hee.
But wait!
Low in dark middle earth. Embedded ore.
Naminedamine. All gone. All fallen.
Tiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.
Amen! He gnashed in fury.
Fro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding.
Bronzelydia by Minagold.
By bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow. Bloom. Old Bloom.
One rapped, one tapped with a carra, with a cock.
Pray for him! Pray, good people!
His gouty fingers nakkering.
Big Benaben. Big Benben.
Last rose Castille of summer left bloom I feel so sad alone. Pwee!
Little wind piped wee.
True men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll. Ay, ay. Like you men. Will lift your
tschink with tschunk.
Fff! Oo!
Where bronze from anear? Where gold from afar? Where hoofs?
Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.
Then, not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be pfrwritt.
Done.
Begin!
Bronze by gold, Miss Douce's head by Miss Kennedy's head, over the
crossblind of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofs go by, ringing steel.
-- Is that her? asked Miss Kennedy.
Miss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex, pearl grey and eau de Nil.
-- Exquisite contrast, Miss Kennedy said.
When all agog Miss Douce said eagerly:
-- Look at the fellow in the tall silk.
-- Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly.
-- In the second carriage, Miss Douce's wet lips said, laughing in the
sun. He's looking. Mind till I see.
She darted, bronze, to the backmost corner, flatteni