Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyringing.
Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips
You horrid! And gold flushed more.
A husky fifenote blew.
Blew. Blue Bloom is on the
A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, rose of Castile.
Trilling, trilling: Idolores.
Peep! Who's in the … peepofgold?
Tink cried to bronze in pity.
And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Long in dying call
Decoy. Soft word. But look: the bright stars fade. Notes chirruping answer.
O rose! Castile. 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 Smack thigh. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye.
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.
When first he saw. Alas!
Horn. Haw haw.
Full tup. Full throb.
Warbling. Ah lure! Alluring.
Clapclap. Clipclap. Clappyclap.
Goodgod Henev erheard inall
Bald deaf Pat brought pad knife took up.
A moonlit nightcall: far, far.
I feel so sad. P.S. So lonely blooming.
The spiked and winding cold seahorn. Have you the? Each, and for other, plash and silent roar.
Pearls of Liszt rhapsody. Hiss.
Did not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd: With a cock with a carra
Black. Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do.
Wait while you wait. Hee hee.
Low in dark middle earth. Embedded ore.
Namine Damini. Preacher is he.
All gone. All fallen.
Tiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.
Amen. He gnashed in fury.
Fro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding.
Lydiabronze and Minagold.
By bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow. Bloom. Old Bloom.
One rapped, one tapped,º with a carra, with a cock.
Pray for him! Pray, good people!
His gouty fingers nakkering.
Big Benaben. Big Benben.
Last rose Castile of summer left Bloom I feel so lone alone.
Pwee! Little wind piped wee.
True men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll. Ay, ay.º Like you men. Will lift Your tschink with tschuk.
Where bronze from anear? Where gold from afar? Where hoofs?
Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.
Then not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be pfrwritt.
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 he? asked Miss Kennedy
Miss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex, pearl grey and eau de Nil.
— Exquisite contrast, miss Kennedy said.
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 said, he wet lips laughing in the sun. He's looking. Mind till I see.
she darted Bronze to the backmost corner, flattening her face against the pane in a halo of hurried breath.
Her wet lips tittered:
— He's killed looking back.
— O wept! Aren't men frightful idiots?
Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose air behind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a hair. Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.
— It's them has the fine times, sadly then she said.
Mr Bloom went by Moulang's pipes bearing in his breast the sweets of sin, by Wine's antiques, in memory bearing sweet sinful words, by Carroll's dusky battered plate, for Raoul.
The boots to them from the hallway came, to them unheeding, and banged on
the counter his tray of chattering china. And.
— There's your teas, he said.
Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray to an upturned lithia crate, safe from eyes, low.
— What is it? unmannerly loud boots asked.
— Find out, Miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.
— Your beauº, is it?
She, haughty bronze, replied:
— I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I hear any more of your impertinent insolence.
— Imperthnthnthnthnthn, the boots's snout sniffed
rudely, as he retreated as he heard her as he had come.
On her flower frowning miss Douce said:
— Most aggravating that young brat is. If he doesn't conduct himself I'll wring his ear a yard long.
— Take no notice, Miss Kennedy rejoined.
She poured in a teacup tea, then back in the teapot tea. They cowered under the reef of the counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned, waiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, two and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and seven.
Yes bronze, from anear, by gold, from afar, heard steel, from anear, hoofs ring, from afar, and heard steel hoofs ringhoof, ringsteel.
— Am I awfully sunburnt?
Miss Douce unbloused her neck.
— No, said Miss Kennedy. It gets brown after. Did you try the borax with the cherry laurel water?
Miss Douce half stood to see her skin askance in the barmirror where hock and claret glasses shimmered and in their midst a shell.
— And leave it to my hands, she said.
— Try it with the glycerine, Miss Kennedy advised.
Bidding her neck and hands adieu Miss Douceº
— Those things only bring out a rash replied reseated. I asked that old blank in Boyd's for something for my skin.
Miss Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, grimaced and prayed:
— O don't remind me of him for mercy' sakeº.
— But wait till I tell you, Miss Douce entreated.
Sweet tea Miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears with little fingers.
— No, don't, she cried.
— I won't listen, she cried.
Miss Douce grunted in snuffy tone:
— For your what? says he.
Miss Kennedy unplugged her ear to hear, to speak but said, but prayed again:
— Don't let me think of him or I'll expire. The
awful old wretch. That night in the Antient Concert Rooms.
She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip, sipped, sweet tea.
— Here he was, Miss Douce said, cocking her bronze head three quarters, ruffling her nosewings. Huf! Huf!
A shrill shriek of laughter flew from Miss Kennedy's throat. Miss Douce huffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered like a snoutº in quest.
— O! shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever forget his goggle eyes?
Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, shouting:
— And your other eye!
Bloom's dark eye read Aaron Figatner's name. Why do I think always
Figather? Gathering figs, I think. And Prosper Loré's huguenot name.
By Bassi's blessed virgins his dark eyes went by. Comely and whiterobed,
come to me. God they believe she is, goddess I mean. Those I saw. That fellow
that spoke to me, student. That brings the fellows in, the rakes, he who he. By
went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the sweets.
In a giggling peal young voices blended, Douce with Kennedy. You other eye. They threw their heads back, bronze and gold, to let free fly their laughter, screaming, your other, signals to each other, high piercing notes.
Miss Kennedy touched her cup again, raised, drank a sip. Miss Douce, bending over the teatray, ruffled again her nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Miss Kennedy, stooping her fair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed, spluttered out of her mouth her tea, choking in tea and laughter, coughing, choking, crying:
— O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to a man like that! she cried. The bit of beard!
Douce gave full vent to a splendid yell, a full yell of a woman, delight, joy, indignation.
— Married to the greasy nose! she yelled.
Shrill, with deep laughter, after, gold after bronze, they urged each other to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze, shrill deep, to laughter after laughter. And then laughed more. Greasy I knows. Exhausted, breathless, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by glossycombed against the counterledge. All flushed (O!), panting, sweating (O!), all breathless.
Married to Bloom, to grea seabloom.
— O saints above! Miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. I wished I hadn't laughed so much. I feel all wet.
— O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing!
And flushed yet more, (you horrid!) more goldenly.
By Cantwell's offices walked roving Bloom, by Ceppi's virgins,
bright of oils. Nannetti's father hawked those things about, wheedling.
Religion pays. Must see him for that par. Eat first. I want. Not yet. At four,
she said. Time ever passing. Clockhands turning. On. Where eat? The Clarence,
Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I make five guineas with those ads. Not yet. The sweets of sin.
Flushed less, still less, goldenly paled.
Into the bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips off one of his rocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled.
— O, welcome back, miss Douce.
He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays?
He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor.
— Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am. Lying out on the strand all day.
Comely virgins. That brings the rakes in. Her whiteness.
— That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and shook his head indulgently. Tempting poor simple males.
Miss Douce of satin pulled her arm away.
— O go away! she said. I'm sure you're very simple.
— Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they christened me simple Simon.
— Yes, I don't think, miss Douce made answer. And what did the doctor order today?
— Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I'll trouble you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.
— With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed.
With grace of alacrity towards the mirror she turned herself, with grace she
tapped a measure of gold whisky from her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of
his coat Mr Dedalus brought pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky fifenotes.
— By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountainsº. Must be a great tonic in the air down there. But a long threatening comes at last, they say. Yes. Yes.
Yes. He fingered shreds into the bowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute.
None nought said nothing. Yes.
Gaily miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling:
— O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas.
— Was Mr Lidwell in today?
In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. Mr Bloom reached Essex Bridge. Yes, Yessex bridge. Mr Bloom crossed bridge To Martha I must write. Buy paper. Daly's. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue bloomº is on the rye.
— He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce said.
Lenehan came forward.
— Was Mr Boylan looking for me?
He asked. She answered:
— Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs?
She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, her teacup poised, her gaze upon her page:º
— No. He was not.
Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the sandwichbell wound his round body.
— Peep! Who's in the corner?
No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made overtures. To mind her stops. To read only the black ones. Round o and crooked ess.
Jingle jaunty jingle.
Girlgold she read and did not glance. Take no notice. She took no notice while he read by rote a solfa fable for her, plappering flatly:
— ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork will you put your bill down inn my throat and pull up ah bone?
He droned in vain. Miss Douce turned aside.
He sighed asideº:
— ah me! O my!
He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod.
— Greetings from the famous son of a famous father.
— Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked.
Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who?
— Can you ask? he asked. Stephen, the youthful bard.
Mr Dedalus laid by his dry filled pipe.
— I see, he said. I didn't recognise him for the moment. I hear he is keeping very select company. Have you seen him lately?
— I quaffed the nectar bowl with him this very day, said Lenehan. In Mooney's en ville and in Mooney's sur mer. He had received the rhino for the labour of his muse.
He smiled at miss bronze Douce's listening eyes and lips:
— The elite of Erin hung upon his lips. The ponderous pundit,º Hugh MacHugh, Dublin's most brilliant editor and the minstrel boy of the wild wet west who is known by the euphonious appellation of the O'Madden Burke.
After an interval Mr Dedalus lifted his glass and drank
— That must have been highly diverting, he said. I see.
He looked towards the door of the saloon.
— I see you have moved the piano.
— The tuner was in today, miss Douce replied, tuning it for the smoking concert and I never heard such an exquisite player.
— Is that a fact?
— Didn't he, miss Kennedy? The real classical, you know. And blind too, poor fellow. Not twenty I'm sure he was.
— Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said.
He drank and strayed away.
— So sad to look at his face, Miss Douce condoled.
God's curse. You bitch's bastard.
Tink to her pity cried a diner's bell. To the door of the bar and diningroom came bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter of Ormond. Lager for diner. Lager without alacrity she served.
Now in the saloon Mr Dedalus held up the piano lid and gazed in the coffin at the
oblique triple wires. He pressed, soft pedalling a triple of keys, to seeº the thicknesses of felt advancing, to hear the muffled hammerfall in action.
Two sheets cream vellum paper, one reserve, two envelopes Bloom bought in Daly's: and eyed a poster a swaying mermaid smoking mid the waves, smoke mermaids, the coolest whiff of all. Her hair astreaming. Lovelorn. Man. For men. He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a jaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence.
Jingling it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond quay. Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At four, she said. Out after.
— Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say.
— Aha … I was forgetting … Excuse.
— And four.
Winsomely she smiled on Bloom. Bloo smi qui go. Ternoon. Think you're the only pebble on the beach. Does that to all. For men.
In drowsy silence gold bent on her page.
From the saloon a call came, long in dying. A call again from the tuningfork Mr Dedalus struck and poised. Poised lightly on the pianocase it purely throbbed, softly and softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.
Pat paid for diner's popcorked bottle. And over tumbler,º tray and popcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald and bothered, with miss Douce.
— The bright stars fade …
Aº voiceless song sang from within, singing:
The morn is breaking
A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hands.
Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all
harpsichording, called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's leavetaking, life, love's morn.
— The dewdrops pearl …
Lenehan's lips over the counter blew a low whistle of decoy.
— But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.
Jingle jaunted by the curb and halted.
She rose and closed her reading, rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose.
— Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her.
She answered, slighting:
— Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.
Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor as he strode. Lenehan heard and knew and hailed him.
— See the conquering hero comes.
Between the car and window of the bar went Bloom, catwalker. See me he might. The seat he sat on. Warm. A hecat walked towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft,º saluting.
— And I from thee …
— I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.
He touched to fair miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw. She smiled on him. But bonze miss Douce outsmiled her, preening for him her richer hair, her bosom and a rose.
Smart Boylan bespoke potions.
— What's your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please, and a sloe gin for me. Wire in yet?
Not yet. At four she. Who said four?
Cowley's red lugs and bulging apple in the door of the sheriff's office. Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond. Car waiting. Wait.
Hello. Where off to? Something to eat? I too was just. In here. Best value in Dublin. Diningroom. Sit
tight there. See, not be seen. I'll join you. Best value in Dub. Is that so?
Bloom followed Goulding's legal bag.
Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her arm, her bust
— O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at easy stretch. O!
But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.
— Why don't you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.
Shebronze, dealing from her oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for his lips, looked as it flowed for him and syrupped with her voice:
— Fine goods in small parcels.
That is to say. You know she. She poured neatly slow syrupy sloe.
— Here's fortune, Blazes said.
He pitched a broad coin down.
— Hold on, said Lenehan, till I …
— Fortune, he said, lifting his bubbled ale.
— Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.
— I plunged a bit, said Boylan. Not on my own, you know. Fancy of a friend of mine.
Lenehan still drank and grinned at his tilted ale and at miss Douce's lips that all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips had trilled. Idolores. The eastern seas.
She took his crown and struck boldly the cashregister. It clanged. Clock clacked Fair one of Egypt, she teased and sorted in her till. Look to the west he hummed and handed Blazes Boylan ringing coins in change. For me. A clack
— What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four.
Lenehan, his eyes ahunger on her bronze humming bust tugged Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve.
— Let's hear the time, he said.
The bag of Goulding, Colles, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom
flowered tables. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table near the door. Be near. At four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps a trick. Not come: whet appetite. I couldn't do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited.
Bronze sparkling eyes eyed Blazes skyblue bow and eyes.
— Go on, pressed Lenehan. There's no-one. He never heard.
… to Flora's lips did hie
High, a high note pealed in the treble clear.
Bronzedouce communing with her rose that sank and rose sought Blazes Boylan's flower and eyes.
— Please, please.
He pleaded over returning phrases of avowal.
— I could not leave thee …
— Afterwits, said miss Douce coyly.
— No, now, urged Lenehan. Sonnez la cloche! O do! There's no-one.
She looked. Other out of earshot. And, sudden, bent. Two kindling faces watched her bend.
Quavering the chords strayed from the air, found it again, lost chord, and lost and found it, faltering.
— Go on! Do! Sonnez!
She nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted them still with wilful eyes.
Smack. She setº free sudden in rebound her elastic garter smack warm against her warm, a woman's, warmhosed thigh.
— La cloche! cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No sawdust there.
She smilesmirked supercilious, but, gliding lightward, mild on Blazes:
— You're the essence of vulgarity, she said.
Boylan, eyed, eying, tossed to fat lips his chalice tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops. His spellbound eyes went after, after her gliding head as it went down the bar by mirrors, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a spiky shell, where it concerted bronze with sunnier bronze.
… sweetheart,º goodbye!
— I'm off, said Boylan.
He slid his glass briskly away, gathered his change.
— Wait a shake, cried Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted to tell you Tom Rochford …
— Come on to blazes, Blazes Boylan.
Lenehan gulped to go.
— Got the horn or what? he said. Half a mo, I'm coming.
He followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the threshold, saluting a bulky and a slender form.
— How do you do, Mr Dollard?
— Eh? How do? How do? Ben Dollard's vague bass answered, turning an instant from Father Cowley's woe. He won't give you any trouble, Bob. Alf Bergan will speak to long John. We'll put a barleystraw in that Judas' ear this time.
Sighing Mr Dedalus came through the saloon, a finger soothing an eyelid.
— Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Come on, Simon. Give us a ditty. We heard the piano.
Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for drink
orders.º Power for Richie. And Bloom? Let
me see. Four. Warm this black is refracts (is it?) heat. Let me see. Cider. Yes, bottle of cider.
— What's that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only vamping, man.
— Come on, come on, Ben Dollard called. Begone dull care. Come, Bob.
He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them (hold that fellow with the: hold him now) into the saloon. He plumped him Dollard on the stool. His gouty paws plumped chords. Plumped,º stopped abrupt.
Bald Pat in the doorway met tealess gold returning. Bothered, he
wanted Power and cider. Bronze by the window, watched, bronze from afar.
Jingle a tinkle jaunted.
Bloom heard a jing, a little sound. He's off. Light sob of breath Bloom sighed on the silent flowers. Jingling. He's gone. Jingle. Hear.
— Love and War, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God be with old times.
Miss Douce's brave eyes, unregarded, turned from the crossblind, smitten by sunlight. Gone. Pensive (who knows?), smitten (the smiting light) she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She drew down pensive (why did he go so quick after I?) about her bronze, about the bar where bald stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, slow cool seagreen sliding depth of shadow, eau de Nil.
— Poor old Goodwin was the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded them. There was a slight difference of opinion between himself and the grand piano.
— A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said. The devil wouldn't stop him. He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of drink.
— God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from the punished keyboard. And, by Japers, I had no wedding garment.
They laughed all three. He had no wed. They all three laughed. No wedding garment.
— Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus said. Where's my pipe, by the way?
He wandered back to the bar to the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried two diners' drinks. And Father Cowley laughed again.
— I saved the situation, Ben, I think.
— You did, averred Ben Dollard. I remember those tight trousers too. That was a brilliant idea, Bob.
Father Cowley blushed to his brilliant purply lobes. He saved the situa.
— I knew he was on the rocks, he said. The wife was playing the piano
in the coffee palace on Saturdays and who was it told me she was doing the other business. Do you remember? We had to search half Holles street first till the chap in Keogh's gave us the number. Remember?
Ben remembered, his broad visage wondering.
— By God, she had some splendid opera cloaks and things there.
Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.
— Merrion square affairs. Balldresses, by God, and court dresses. He wouldn't take any money either. And costumes, by God. What? All kinds of … What? Doublets and trunk hose
Mr Dedalus nodded.
— Ay, ay, he said. Mrs Marion Bloom has left off clothes of all descriptions.
Jingle jaunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres.
Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right, sir. Right Pat.
Mrs Marionº. Met him pike hoses. Smell of burn. Of Paul de Kock. Nice name he.
— What's this her name was? A buxom piece. Marion …?
— Yes. Is she alive?
— And kicking.
— She was a daughter of …
— Daughter of the regiment.
— Yes, begad. I remember the old drum major.
Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after.
— Irish? I don't know, faith. Is she Simon?
Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury crackling.
— Buccinator muscle is. What? Bit rusty. O, she is. My Irish Molly, O.
He puffed a pungent plumy blast.
— From the rock of Gibraltar all the way.
They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the beerpull, bronze by
maraschino, thoughtful all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace, Drumcondra with Idolores, a queen, silent.
Pat served,º uncovered dishes.
Leopold cut liver slices, streaky bacon. As said before he ate with relish the
inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods'
roesº while Richie Goulding, Colles, Ward
ate steak and kidney, steak then kidney, bite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.
Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners fit for princes.
By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sunº in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip on bounding tyres: sprawled, warmseated, impatientsouled, boldsouled. Horn. Have you the? Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn.
Over their voices Dollard basooned attack, booming over bombarding chords:
— When love absorbs my ardent soul. …
— War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior.
— So I am, Ben Dollard laughed.
He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge.
— Sure, you'd burst the tympanum of her ear, man, Mr Dedalus said through smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.
In abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He would.
— Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time, Ben, Amoroso ma non troppo. Let me there.
Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen with tankards of cool stout. She passed a
remark. It was indeed, first gentleman said, beautiful weather. They drank cool
stout. Did she know where the lord lieutenant was going? And heard steel hoofs
ring hoof ring. No, she couldn't say. But it would be in the paper. O, she
need not trouble. No trouble. She waved about her outspread Independent,
searching, the lord lieutenant, her pinnacles of hair slowmoving, lord lieuten.
Too much trouble, first gentleman said it was. O, not at all. Way he looked
that. Lord lieutenant. Gold by bronze heard iron steel.
…………… my ardent soul
I care not for or the morrow.
In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and War someone is.
Ben Dollard's famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress suit for
the concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Molly did laugh when he went out.
Threw herself back across the bed, screaming, kicking. With all his belongings
on show. O saints above, I'm drenched! O, the women in the front row! O, I
never laughed so much! Well, of course that's what gives him the base
barreltone. For instance eunuchs. Wonder who's playing. Nice touch. Must be
Cowley. Musical. Knows whatever note you play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.
Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave George Lidwell, solicitor, gentleman, entering. Good afternoonº. She gave her moist (a lady's) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon.
— Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.
George Lidwell, solicited, held a Lydia's hand.
Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. That chap in the Burton, gummy with gristle. Not many here, Goulding and I. Clean tables, flowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and fro. Bald Pat. Nothing to do. Best value in Dub.
Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it, like one together, mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, sawing the celloº, remind you of toothache. Night we were in the box. Brasses under blowing like a grampus, unscrewing, emptying spittle. Conductor's legs too, bagstrousers jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide them.
Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
Only the harp. Lovely. Goldº
glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of a lovely. Gravy's rather good fit
for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that once. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the
rhododendrons. We are their harps. I. He. Old, young.
— Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy and listless.
— Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits.
— M'appari, Simon, Father Cowley said.
Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly he sang to a dusty seascape there: A Last Farewell. A headland, a ship, a sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon the headland,º wind around her.
— M'appari tutt'amor
Il mio sguardo …
She waved, unhearing him, her veil, to one departing, dear one, love, return.
— Go on, Simon.
— Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben … Well.
Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting, touched the obedient keys.
— No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat.
The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.
Up stage strode Father Cowley.
— Here, Simon, I'll accompany you, he said. Get up.
By Graham Lemon's pineapple rock, by Elvery's elephant jingly jogged.
Steak, kidney, liver, mashed,º at meat fit for princes sat princes Bloom and Goulding. Princes at meat they raised and drank, Power and cider.
Most beautiful tenor air ever written, Richie said: Sonambula. He heard Joe Maas sing that one night. That was a lyrical tenor if you like. Never forget it.
Bloom tenderly over liverless bacon saw the tigthened face before him.
Backache. Bright's bright eye. Next item on the programme.
Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Stave it off awhile. Sings too: Down among the dead men. Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to the. Not making much hand of it. Best value in. Characteristic of him. Power. Particular about his drink. Fecking matches from counters to save. Then squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs. And when he's wanted not a farthing. Curious types.
Never would Richie forget that night. As long as he lived: never. In the gods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the first note.
Speech paused on Richie's lips.
Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about damn all. Believes his own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar.
— Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.
— All is lost now.
Richie cocked his lips upout. A low incipient note sweet murmured: all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teeth he's proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Two notes in one there like that blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. How is that done? All lost now. Mournful he whistled. Fall, surrender, lost.
Leopold Bloom bent ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the vase.
Order. Yes, I remember. Lovely air. In sleep she went to him. Innocence in the
moon.º Brave. Don't know their
danger. Still hold her back. Call name.
Touch water. Jingle jaunty. Too late. She longed to go. That's why. Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost.
— A beautiful air, Bloom said. I know it well.
Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.
He knows it well too. Or he feels. Wise child that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?
Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. Rollicking Richie once. Old stale jokes now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his eye.
Piano again. Sounds better than last time I heard. Tuned probably. Stopped again.
Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it.
— With it, Simon.
— It, Simon.
— Ladies and gentlemen, I am most deeply obliged by your kind solicitations.
— It, Simon.
— I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shall endeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down.
By the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her bronze and rose, a lady's grace, gave and withheld: and in cool glaucous eau de Nil Mina to tankards her pinnacles of gold.
The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord, longdrawn, expectant, drew a voice away.
— When first I saw that form endearing,º
— Si Dedalus' voice, he said.
Bloom signed to Pat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajar the door of the bar. The door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited to hear hard of hear by the door.
— Sorrow from me seemed to depart.
Through the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves in
murmur, like no voice of strings orº
reeds or what do you call them dulcimers touching their still ears with words, still hearts of their each his remembered
lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to from both depart when first they heard. When first they saw, lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the least her first merciful lovesoft word.
Love that is singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the
elastic band of his packet. Love's old sweet sonnez la gold. Bloom
wound it in a skein round four forkfingers,º stretched it, relaxed, and wound it round his troubled double, fourfold, in octave: gyved them fast.
— Full of hope and all delighted.
Tenors get women by the score. Jingle all delighted. He can't sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him. What perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jingle. Stop. Knock. Last look at mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? How do you? I do well. There? What? Or? Phial of cachous kissing comfits in her satchel. Yes? Hand felt for the opulent.
Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud.
— But alas, 'twas idle dreaming …
Glorious tone he has still. Silly man! Could have made oceans of money. Wore out his wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. If he doesn't break down. Drink. Nerves overstrung. Singers must be abstemious.
Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full it throbbed. That's the chat. Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect.
Words? Music? No: it's what's behind.
Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.
Bloom. Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow out in music, in desire, dark to lick flow invading. Tup. Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the feel the warm the. Tup. To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush, flow, joygush, tupthrobº. Now! Language of love.
— … ray of hope is …
Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse unsqueaked a cork.
Martha it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song. Lovely
name you have. Can't write. Accept my little pres. She's a. I called you naughty boy. Still the name: Martha. How strange.
The voice returned, weaker but unwearied. It sang again to Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting to wait. How first he saw that form endearing, how sorrow seemed to part, how look, form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart.
Wish I could see his face, though. Explain better. Why the barber in Drago's alwaysº looked my face when I spoke his face in the glass.
— Each graceful look …
First night I met her at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. Yellow, black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. Fate. After her. Round and round. Slow. Quick. Round. We. All looked. Halt. She sat. Yellow knees.
— Charmed my eye …
Then singing. Waiting she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfumes of the lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full, throat warbling. When first I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Spanishy eyes. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.
— Martha! Ah, Martha!
Quitting all langour he cried in grief, in cry of passion to love to return with deepening and rising chords of harmony. In cry of loneliness that she should know, must feel. For her he waited. Where? Somewhere.
Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chestnote,º return!
— Come …!
It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it
leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don't spin it out too long
long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, crowned,
aflame, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the etherial
bosom high of
the vast irradiation, high, everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness.
— To me!
Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To me, to him, to her, you too, me, us.
— Bravo. Clapclap. Good manº, Simon. Clappyclapclap. Encore! Clapclipclap clap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon. Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said, cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell, Pat, Mina Kennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first gent with tank and bronze miss Douce and gold miss Mina.
Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor, said before. Jingle by monument of sir John Gray, Horatio Nelson, onehandled adulterer, reverend father Theobald Mathewº, jaunted, as said. Atrot, in heat, heatseated. Cloche. Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la. Slower the mare went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too slow for Boylan, Blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, jogged theº mare.
An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the air made richer.
And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two more tankards if she did not mind. She smirked, disserving, coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.
— Seven days in gaol, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you'd sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.
The singer Simon laughed. Father Cowley played. Mina Kennedy served. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in.º Lydia, admired, admired.
Richie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He remembed
one night. Never forget that night. Si sang 'Twas rank and fame: in
Ned Lambert's 'twas. Good God he never heard in all his life a note
like that he never did then false one we had better part
so clear so God he never heard since love lives not a clinking voice lives not ask Lambert he can tell you too.
Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the night, Si in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus house, sang 'Twas rank and fame.
He, Mr Bloom listened while he Richie Goulding told him, Mr Bloom,
of the night, he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus sing 'Twas rank and fame in his, Ned Lambert's,º house.
Brothers-in-law. Relations. Rift in the lute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all the more. The night Si sang. The human voice, two tiny silky chords, wonderful, more than all others.
That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It's in the silence after you feel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.
Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and, with slack fingers, plucked the slender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It twanged. While Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan, harking back in a retrospective arrangement talked to listening Father Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. While big Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he smoked, who smoked.
Thou lost one. All songs about that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his string. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure them on. Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head. Outtohelloutofthat. Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat's tail wriggling! Five bob I gave. Corpus paradisum. Corncrake croaker. Belly like a poisoned pup. Gone. They sing. Forgotten. And I. Or one day she with. Leave her: get tired. Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing. Hair uncombed.
Yet too much happy bores. He stretched yet more. Are you not happy in your? Twang. It snapped.
Jingle into Dorset street.
Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.
— Don't make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted.
George Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe.
First gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so. And second tankard told her so. That that was so.
Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: Miss Kennedy, Mina, did not believe: George Lidwell, no: miss Dou did not: the first, the first: gent with the tank: believe, no, no: did not miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the tank.
Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.
Bald Pat, at a sign, drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He went. A pad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.
— Yes, Mr Bloomº
said, teasing the curling catgut line. It certainly is.
Few lines will do. My present. All that Italian florid music is. Who is this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet notepaper, envelope. Unconcerned. It's so characteristic.
— Grandest number in the whole opera,º Goulding said.
— It is, Bloom said.
Numbers it is. All sounds when you come to think. Two multiplied by two divided by half. Two is twice one. Vibrations. Chords those are. One plus two plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures, juggle about. Always find out this equal to that. Symmetry under a cemetery wall. He doesn't see my mourning. Callous. All for his own gut. Musemathematics. And you think you're listening to the etherial. But suppose you said it like: Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite flat. It's on account of the sounds it is.
Instance he's playing now. Might be what you like, till you hear the
words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin: then hear chords a bit off: feel lost
a bit. Time makes the
tune. Question of mood you're in. Still always nice to hear. Except
scales up and
down, girls learning. Milly no taste. Queer because we both, I
mean.º Ought to invent dummy pianos for that.
Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quite flat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.
It was the only language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a boy in Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles. Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, in the moonlight with those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God, such music, Ben. Heard as a boy.
Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that sang a moonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.
Down the edge of his Freeman baton ranged Bloom's, your other eye, scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick A. Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking.
Hope he's not looking, cute as a rat. Holding his Freeman
unfurled he can't see now must write Greek ees remember. Bloom dipped,
Bloom mur: dear sir. Bloom wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett. and flower. Hell did
I put? Some pock or oth. It is utterly imposs. Underline. Imposs. To write today.
Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am just reflecting fingers on flat pad Pat brought.
On. Know what I mean. No, change that ee. Accep my poor litt. pres enclos. Hold on. Five Dig. Two here bout. Penny the birds. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne's. Is eight about. Say half a crown. My poor little pres. (P.O. 2/6) Write me a long. Do you despise? Jinglejingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught. You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her. Bye for today. Yes, yes, will tell you. Want to. Call me that other. Other world she wrote. My patience is exhaust. You must believe. Believe. The tank. It's true.
Folly am I writing. Husbands don't. That's marriage does. Their wives. Because I'm away from. Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young. If she found out. Card in my hat. High grade ha. No, never tell all. Only useless pain. Woman. Sauce for the gander.
A hackney car, number three hundred and twenty four, on
which sat a fare, a young stylishly dressed in blue gentleman wearing a straw hat of a bland complexion, age about thirty years. See? This is the jingle that joggled and jingled. Past Dlugacz' porkshop bright tubes of Agendath Netaim forcemeat, trotted a gallantbuttocked mare.
— Answering an ad? keen Richie's eye asked Bloom.
— Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect.
Bloom mur: best reference. But he wrote. It will excite me. You know howº. In haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better add postscriptº. What is he playing now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P.S. The rum tum tum. How will you pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I want to. Know. O. Course if I didn't I wouldn't ask. La la la ree. Trails off there sad in minor. Why minor sad. Sign H. They like sad tail at end. La la la ree dee. P.P.S. I feel so sad today. Ree dee. So lonely.
He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envelope. Address. Just copy out of paper. Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. And wrote:
Miss Martha Clifford
c/o Post Office
Dolphin's Barn Lane
Blot over the other so he can't read. There. Right. Idea for prize titbit. Something detective read off blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guinea per col. Matcham often thinks. Poor Mrs Purefoy. U. P: up.
Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that. Music hath
charms.º Done anyhow. Postal
order,º stamp. Post office lower down. Walk
now. Enough. Barney Kiernan's I promised to meet them. Dislike that job. Visiting house of mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn't hear.
About there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn't. Settling those napkins. Lot of ground he must cover in the day. Wish they'd sing more. Keep my mind off.
Bald Pat, who is bothered, settled the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of his hearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. He waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. He waits while you wait. While you wait. If you wait. He will wait. While you wait. Hee hee hee hee. Wait while you wait.
Miss Douce, requested, served the same again. She had a gorgeous time. Simply gorgeous. That lovely shell she brought. To the end of the bar to him she bore lightly the spiked and winding seahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor might hear:
— Listen! she bade him.
Under Tom Kernan's ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow. Authentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice. The husband took him by the throat. Scoundrel, said he, you'll sing no more lovesongs. He did, faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get wom. Cowley lay back.
Ah, now he heard, she holding it to his ear. Hear! He heard. Wonderful. She held it to her own. And through the sifted light pale gold in contrast glided. To hear.
Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell held at their ears. He heard more faintly that that they heard, each for herself alone, then each for other, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent roar.
Bronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, they listened.
Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there. Been to the seaside. Lovely
seaside girls. Skin all raw. Should have put on coldcream first make it brown.
Buttered toast. Fever
near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over, shell with seaweed.
Why do they hide their ears with hair. And
Turks the mouth, why. Her eyes over the sheet. Yashmak. Find the way in. A cave. No admittance except on business.
The sea they think they hear. Singing, a roar. The blood it is. Souse in the ears sometimes. Well, it's a sea. Corpuscleº islands.
Wonderful really. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur, hearing: then laid it by, gently.
— What are the wild wavesº saying? he asked her, smiled.
Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.
By Larry O'Rourke's, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylanº swayed and Boylan turned.
From the forsaken shell Miss Mina glided to her tankards waiting. no, she was not so lonely archly Miss Douce's head let Lidwell know. Walking in the moonlight by the sea. Not, not alone. With whom? She nobly answered: with a gentleman friend.
Bob Cowley's twinkling fingers in the treble played again. The landlord has the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben. Lightly he played a light bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and smiling, and for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one, one, one: two, one, three, four.
Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows, lowing, the cattle market, cocks, hens don't crow, snakes hissss. There's music everywhere. Ruttledge's door: ee creaking. No, that's noise. Minuet of Don Giovanni he's playing now. Court dresses in castle chamber dancing. Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces eating dockleaves. Nice that is. Look: look, look, look, look, look: you look at us.
That's joyful I can feel. Never have written it. Why? My joy is other joy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must be. Mere fact of music shows you are. Often thought she was in dumps till she began to lilt. Then know.
M'Coy valise. My wife has got. Squealing cat. Molly in quis est homo:
Mercadante. My ear against the wall to hear. Want a woman who can deliver the goods.
Jig jog stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan came to earth.
O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a pun of that. 'Tis kind of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that is. Tinkling. Because the acoustics the resonance changes according as the weight of the water is equal to the law of falling water. Like those rhapsodies of Liszt, Hungarian gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleoodle. Hissss. Now. Maybe now. Before.
One rapped on a door, one tapped with a knock, did he knock Paul de Kock with a loud proud knocker with a cock carracarracarra cock. Cockcock.
— Qui sdegno, Ben, said Father Cowley
— No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered.º The Croppy Boy. Our native Doric
— Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true.
— Do, do, they begged in one.
I'll go. Here, Pat. How much?
— What key? Six sharps?
— F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.
Bob Cowley's outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords.
Must go Bloom told Richie. No, Richie said. Yes, must. Got money somewhere. He's on for a razzle backache night. How much. One and nine. Here. Penny for yourself. Here. give him twopence tip. Deaf, bothered. Perhaps he has family waiting come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while they wait.
But wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of the dark middle earth. Embedded ore. Lumpmusic.
Ben Dollard's voice. Base barreltone. Doing his best to say it. Other
comedown. Big ships' chandler's business he had once. Remember:
ships' lanterns. Failed to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the
Iveagh home. Cubicle number so and so. Number one Bass did that for him.
The priest's at home. A false priest's servant bade him welcome. Step in. The holy father. With bows a traitor servant. Curleques of chords.
Ruin. Then build them cubicles to end their days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.
The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had entered a lonely hall, told them how solemn fell his footfalls there, told them the gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to hear.
Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he'll win in Answers Poets' competition. Bird sitting hatching in a nest. Lay of the Last Minstrel, he thought it was. Good voice he has still. No eunuch yet with all his belongings.
Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by the door deaf Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened.
The chords harped slower.
Latin again. That holds them fast. Priest with the communion corpus for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffin or coffey, corpus nomine. Wonder where that rat is now. Scrape.
They listened. Tankards and Miss Kennedy. George Lidwell, eyelid well expressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si.
The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since Easterº he had cursed three times. Once at masstime he had gone to play. Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother's rest he had not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.
Bronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed far away. Soulfully. Doesn't half know I'm. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.
Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best side of her face. They always know. Knock at the door. Last touch to titivate.
What do they think about when they hear music. Way to catch rattlesnakes.
Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah of Persia liked that best of
all. Wiped his nose in curtain too. Custom his country perhaps. That's music too. Tootling.
Brasses braying. Doublebassesº helpless gashes in their sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Woodwind like Goodwin's name.
She looked fine. Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on show. Clove her breath was always in theatre when she bent to ask a question. Told her what Spinoza says in that book of poor papa's. Hypnotised, listening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dress circle staring down into her with his opera glass. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy.
All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his brothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford, he would. Last of his name and race.
I too. Last of my race. Milly young student. Well, my fault perhaps. No son. Rudy gone. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still?
He bore no hate.
Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old.
Big Ben his voice unfolded. Great voice Richie Goulding said, a flush struggling in his pale, to Bloom soon old. But when was young?
Ireland comes now. My country above the king. She listens. Time to be going. Looked enough.
— Bless me, father, Ben Dollard the croppy cried. Bless me and let me go.
Bloom looked. Got up to kill. On eighteen bob a week. Fellows shell out the dibs. Moonlit walks by the sad sea waves. Want to keep your weather eye open. Those girls, those lovely. Chorusgirl's romance. Letters read out in court for breach of promise. From chickabiddy's owny Mumpsypum. Laughter in court. Henry. The lovely name you have.
Low sank the music, air and words. Then hastened. The false priest rustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman captain. They know it all before. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap.
Thrilled she listened, bending in sympathy to hear.
Blank face. Virgin
should say or fingered only. Write something on it: page. If not what
becomes of them: decline, despair. Keeps them young. Even admire themselves.
See. Play on her. Lip blow. Body of white woman, a flute alive. Blow gentle.
Loud. Three holes, all women. Goddess I didn't see.
They want it. Not too much polite. That's why he gets them. Gold in your pocket, brass in your face. Say something. Make her hear. With look to look. Songs without words. Molly, that hurdygurdy boy. She knew he meant the monkey was sick. Understand animals too that way. Gift of nature. ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in my stom. What?
Will? You? I. Want. You. To.
With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in apoplect. A good thought, boy, to come. One hour's your time to live, your last.
The thrill. Pity they feel. For all things dying, dead:
forº all things born. Poor Mrs Purefoy.
Hope she's over. Because their wombs.
A liquid of woman eyeball gazed under a fence of lashes, calmly, hearing. See real beauty of the eye when she not speaks. On yonder river. At each slow heaving satiny bosom's wave (her heaving embon) red rose rose slowly sank red rose. Heartbeats:º her breath: breath that is life. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair.
But look. The bright stars fade. O rose. Castile. The morn.º
On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave it to my hands. All lost in pity. Fro, to, to, fro, over the polished knob (she knows my eyes, his eyes, her eyes) her thumb and finger passed in pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, then slid so smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton protruding through their sliding ring.
With a cock with a carra
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing.
The chords consented. Sadly. It had to be.
Get out before the end. Pass by her. Letter I have. Suppose she were the? No. Walk, walk, walk somewhere.
Well, I must be. Are you off? Yes. Bloom stood up. Soap feeling rather
sticky behind. Well, so long. High grade. Card inside. Yes.
By deaf Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed.
At Geneva barrack that young man died. At Passage was his body laid. The voice of the mournful chanter called to prayer.
By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by slops, by empties, by
popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair,
bronze and faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel so lonely Bloom.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pray for him prayed the bass of Dollard. You who hear in peace. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good men, good people. He was the croppy boy.
Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond hallway heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslappingº, their boots all treading, boots not the boots the boy. All off for a swill to wash it down. Glad I avoided.
— Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus cried. By God, you're as good as ever you were.
— Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most masterly rendition of that ballad upon my soul and honour it is.
— Lablache, Bob Cowley said.
Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the bar, mightily praisefed and all big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes in the air.
Big Benaben Dollard. Big Benben. Big Benben.
And deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassion from his nose, all laughing they brought him forth, Ben Dollard, in right good cheer.
— You're looking rubicund, George Lidwell said.
Miss Douce composed her rose to wait.
— He is, said Mr Dedalus, clapping Ben's fat back shoulderblade. He has a lot of adipose tissue concealed about his person.
— Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growledº.
Richie alone sat. Goulding, Colles, Ward. Uncertainly he waited. Deaf Pat too.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Miss Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of tankard one.
— Mr Dollard, they murmured low.
— Dollard, murmured tankard.
He murmured that he knew the name. The name was familiar to him, that is to say. That was to say he had heard the name of.º Dollard, was it? Dollard, yes.
Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He sang that song lovely, Mina murmured. Mr Dollard. And The Last Rose of Summer was a lovely song. Mina loved that song. Tankard loved the song that Mina.
'Tis the last rose of summer dollard left bloomº felt wind wound round inside.
Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J's. Get shut of it. Dodge round by Greek street. Wish I hadn't promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on your nerves. Beerpull. Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth. That rules the world. Far. Far. Far. Far.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Leopold Bloom walked up the quay
Tap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone tapping tap by tap.
Cowley, he stuns himself with it: kind of drunkenness. Instance enthusiasts. All ears. Not lose a semidemiquaver. Eyes shut. Head nodding in time. Dotty. Daren't budge. Thinking strictly forbidden. Always talking shop. Fiddle faddle about notes.
All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when it stops because you
don't know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn. Queer up there in the
cockloft, alone, with stops and keys. Maunder on for hours. Blow the bellows. Growl angry, then
shriek cursing (want to have wadding or something in his ears) then all of a soft sudden wee little wee little pipey wind.
Pwee! A wee little wind piped eeee. In Bloom's little wee.
— Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returningº with fetched pipe. I was with him at poor little Paddy Dignam's funeral this morning.
— Ay, poor fellow.
— By the bye there's a tuning fork in there on the …
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
— The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What?
— O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said, that forgot it when he was here.
Blind he was she told George Lidwell. And played so exquisitely. Exquisity contrast: bronzelid, minagold.
— Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring.
— 'lldo, cried Father Cowley.
I feel I want …
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
— Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine.
Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier of bread one last, one lonely. Bloom alone.
— Very, he stared. The lower register for choice.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Bloom went by Barry's. Wish I could. Wait. Twentyfour solicitors in that house. Counted them. Goulding, Colles & Ward. Litigation. Love one another. Piles of parchment.
But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation. Mickeyº Rooney's band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at home in armchair nursing it after dinner. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses' skins. Welt them through life, then wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to me what you call yashmak or I mean kismet. Fate.
Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a tapping cane came taptaptapping
by Daly's window where a mermaid hair all streamingº blew whiffs of a mermaid, smoke mermaids, coolest whiffs of all.
Instruments. Even comb and tissue paper you can knock a tune out of. Molly
in her shift in Lombard street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade
made its own, don't you see. Hunter with a horn. Have you the? Haw haw.
Sonnez la. Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle. All is lost
now. Drum? Pompedy. Wait. I know. Towncrier or bum bailiff. Waken the dead. Dignam. Poor little Nomine Dominy.
It is music.º I mean, of course, it's all pom pom pompedy pom. But still.
I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Still it's question of custom. The shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the same he must have been a bit stupid not to see it was a yeoman cap. O, the whore of the lane!
A frowsy whore with black straw hat askew came glazily in the day towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form endearing? Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she. Psst! Any chance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be with you in the brown costume. Put you off your stroke that. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip. Damn her. O, well, she has to live. Look in here.
In Lionel Marks's antique window Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticksº melodeons oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain, six bob. Might learn to play. Cheap. Let her pass. Course everything is dear if you don't want it. That's what good salesman is. Make you buy what he wants to sell. She's passing now. Six bob.
Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.
Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they stossed their clinking glasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting last rose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth. Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard.
Tap. A youth entered a lonely hall.
Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyer beer that is.
— True men like you men.
— Ay, ay, Ben
— Will lift your glass with us.
Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He saw not
gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see.
Seabloom, greeseabloom viewed last words. Softly. When my country takes her place
Must be the burgund.
Fff! Oo. Rrpr.
The nations of the earth. No-one behind. She's passed. Then and not till then. Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I'm sure it's the bur. One, two. Let my epitaph be. Kraaaaaa. Written. I have.