Ulysses

  Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that. Music hath charms Shakespeare said. Quotations every day in the year. To be or not to be. Wisdom while you wait.

  In Gerard’s rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyed-auburn. One life is all. One body. Do. But do.

  Done anyhow. Postal order stamp. Postoffice lower down. Walk now. Enough. Barney Kiernan’s I promised to meet them. Dislike that job. House of mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn’t hear. Deaf beetle he is.

  Car near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn’t. Settling those napkins. Lot of ground he must cover in the day. Paint face behind on him then he’d be two. Wish they’d sing more. Keep my mind off.

  Bald Pat who is bothered mitred 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. Hoh. Wait while you wait.

  Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose.

  She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. And look at the 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. Well, sir, the husband took him by the throat. Scoundrel, said he. You’ll sing no more lovesongs. He did, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get worn. 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.

  Tap.

  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 tanned raw. Should have put on coldcream first make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn’t forget. Fever near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shell with seaweed. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks their mouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet, a yashmak. Find the way in. A cave. No admittance except on business.

  The sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood is it. Souse in the ear sometimes. Well, it’s a sea. Corpuscle islands.

  Wonderful really. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur, hearing: then laid it by, gently.

  —What are the wild waves saying? he asked her, smiled.

  Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.

  Tap.

  By Larry O’Rourke’s, by Larry, bold Larry O’, Boylan swayed and Boylan turned.

  From the forsaken shell Miss Mina glided to her tankard waiting. No, she was not so lonely archly Miss Douce’s head let Mr Lidwell know. Walks in the moonlight by the sea. No, 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: 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 of all descriptions in castle chambers 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 the dumps till she began to lilt. Then know.

  M‘Coy valise. My wife and your wife. Squealing cat. Like tearing silk. When she talks like the clapper of a bellows. They can’t manage men’s intervals. Gap in their voices too Fill me. I’m warm, dark, open. Molly in quis est homo: Mercadante. My ear against the wall to hear. Want a woman who can deliver the goods.

  Jog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblue clocks came light to earth.

  O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on that. It is a kind of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that is. Tinkling. Empty vessels make most noise. 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’s, Hungarian, gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddle iddle addle addle oodle oodle. Hiss. 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.

  Tap.

  —Qui sdegno, Ben, said Father Cowley.

  —No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered, 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, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not stay. To me. How much?

  —What key? Six sharps?

  —F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.

  Bob Cowley’s outstretched talons gripped the black deepsounding chords.

  Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must. Got money somewhere. He’s on for a razzle backache spree. Much? He seehears lipspeech. One and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Give him twopence tip. Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family waiting, waiting Patty 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.

  The voice of dark age, of unlove, earth’s fatigue made grave approach, and painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good men and true. The priest he sought, with him would he speak a word.

  Tap.

  Ben Dollard’s voice barreltone. Doing his level best to say it. Croak of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. Other comedown. Big ships’ chandler’s business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships’ lanterns. Failed to the tune often 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 fake priest’s servant bade him welcome. Step in. The holy father. Curlycues of chords.

  Ruin them. Wreck their lives. 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 footstep there, told them the gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive.

  Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he’ll win in Answers poets’ picture puzzle. We hand you crisp five pound note. Bird sitting hatching in a nest. Lay of the last minstrel he thought it was. See blank tee what domestic animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. 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.

  The voice of penance and of grief came slow, embellished, tremulous. Ben’s contrite beard confessed: in nomine Domini, in God’s name. He knelt. He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: mea culpa.

  Latin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest with the communion corpus for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffin or coffey, corpusnomine. Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape.

  Tap.

  They listened: tankards and Miss Kennedy, George Lidwell eyelid well expressive, fullbusted satin, Kernan, Si.

  The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His
sins. Since easter he had cursed three times. You bitch’s bast. And 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 tip to titivate.

  Cockcarracarra.

  What do they think when they hear music? Way to catch rattlesnakes. Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah of Persia liked that best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtain too. Custom his country perhaps. That’s music too. Not as bad as it sounds. Tootling. Brasses braying asses through up trunks. Doublebasses, helpless, gashes in their sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Semigrand open crocodile music hath jaws. 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 dresscircle, staring down into her with his operaglass for all he was worth. Beauty of music you must hear twice. Nature woman half a look. God made the country man the tune. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!

  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 my race. Milly young student. Well, my fault perhaps. No son. Rudy. 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. Who fears to speak of nineteen four? Time to be shoving. Looked enough.

  —Bless me, father, Dollard the croppy cried. Bless me and let me go.

  Tap.

  Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week. Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep your weathereye open. Those girls, those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl’s romance. Letters read out for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy’s own Mumpsypum. Laughter in court. Henry. I never signed it. The lovely name you.

  Low sank the music, air and words. Then hastened. The false priest rustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman captain. They know it all by heart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap.

  Tap. Tap.

  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. With look to look: songs without words. Molly that hurdygurdy boy. She knew he meant the monkey was sick. Or because so like the Spanish. Understand animals too that way. Solomon did. 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 apoplectic bitch’s bastard. A good thought, boy, to come. One hour’s your time to live, your last.

  Tap. Tap.

  Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for martyrs. For all things dying, want to, dying to, die. For that all things born. Poor Mrs Purefoy. Hope she’s over. Because their wombs.

  A liquid of womb 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 satiny heaving bosom’s wave (her heaving embon) red rose rose slowly, sank red rose. Heartbeats her breath: breath that is life. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair.

  But look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castille. The morn. Ha. Lidwell. For him then not for. Infatuated. I like that? See her from here though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.

  On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand lightly, plumply, leave it to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over the polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and finger passed in pity: passed, repassed 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. Very sad thing. But had to be.

  Get out before the end. Thanks, that was heavenly. Where’s my hat. Pass by her. Can leave that Freeman. Letter I have. Suppose she were the? No. Walk, walk, walk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall Farrell, Waaaaaaalk.

  Well, I must be. Are you off? Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup. O’er ryehigh blue. Bloom stood up. Ow. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Must have sweated: music. That lotion, remember. 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. Dolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the mournful chanter called to dolorous 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 growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their boots all treading, boots not the boots the boy. General chorus off for a swill to wash it down. Glad I avoided.

  —Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus said. By God, you’re as good as ever you were.

  —Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchant rendition of that ballad, upon my soul and honour it is.

  —Lablache, said Father Cowley.

  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 Benaden Dollard. Big Benben. Big Benben.

  Rrr.

  And deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn 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.

  —Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus, clapping Ben’s fat back shoulderblade. Fit as a fiddle, only he has a lot of adipose tissue concealed about his person.

  Rrrrrrsss.

  —Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growled.

  Richie rift in the lute alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. Uncertainly he waited. Unpaid 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.

  Tank one believed: Miss Kenn when she: that doll he was: she doll: the tank.

  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 Dollard, was it? Dollard, yes.

  Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He sang that song lovely, murmured Mina. 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 Bloom felt wind wound round inside.

  Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J’s one and eightpence too. 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.

  Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for Mady, with sweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met him pike hoses went Poldy on.

  Tap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone tapping, tap by tap.

  Cowley, he stunts himself with it; kind of drunkenness. Better give way only halfway the way of a man with a maid. Instance enthusiasts. All ears. Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes shut. Head nodding in time. Dotty. You daren’t budge. Thinking strictly prohibited. Always talking shop. Fiddlefaddle about notes.

  All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when it stops because you never know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn fifty quid a year. Queer up there in the cockloft alone with stops and locks and keys. Seated all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himself or the other fellow blowing the bellows. Growl angry, then shriek cursing (want to have wadding or something in his no don’t she cried), then all of a soft sudden wee little wee little pippy wind.

  Pwee! A wee little wind piped eeee. In Bloom’s little wee.

  —Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returning, with fetched pipe. I was with him this morning at poor little Paddy Dignam’s …

  —Ay, the Lord have mercy on him.

  —By the by there’s a tuningfork in there on the …

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  —The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What? Lidwell asked.

  —O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simon-lionel first I saw, forgot it when he was here.

  Blind he was she told George Lidwell second I saw. And played so exquisitely, treat to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid minagold.

  —Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out!

  —’lido! cried Father Cowley.

  Rrrrrr.

  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, last sardine of summer. Bloom alone.