Section 28 of 74 - Table of Contents
--Fine goods in small parcels.
That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.
--Here's fortune, Blazes said.
He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.
--Hold on, said Lenehan, till I ...
--Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.
--Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.
--I plunged a bit, said Boylan winking and drinking. 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.
Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way (flower, wonder who
gave), bearing away teatray. Clock clacked.
Miss Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister. It
clanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in the till
and hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack. For me.
--What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four?
O'clock.
Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming,
tugged Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve.
--Let's hear the time, he said.
The bag of Goulding, Collis, 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.
Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's 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, miss Douce promised coyly.
--No, now, urged Lenehan. SONNEZLACLOCHE! O do! There's no-one.
She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot. 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!
Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted
them still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.
--SONNEZ!
Smack. She set free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic garter
smackwarm against her smackable a woman's warmhosed thigh.
--LA CLOCHE! cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No sawdust there.
She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren't men?), but, lightward
gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.
--You're the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said.
Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off 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, gilded
arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a spiky shell,
where it concerted, mirrored, bronze with sunnier bronze.
Yes, bronze from anearby.
-- ... SWEETHEART, GOODBYE!
--I'm off, said Boylan with impatience.
He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.
--Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted to tell you.
Tom Rochford ...
--Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going.
Lenehan gulped to go.
--Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I'm coming.
He followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the
threshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender.
--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 the long fellow. We'll put a barleystraw in that
Judas Iscariot's 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. Power for Richie.
And Bloom? Let me see. Not make him walk twice. His corns. Four now.
How warm this black is. Course nerves a bit. 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, 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 bluehued 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 when I?) about her bronze, over the bar
where bald stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast
inexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim 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
Collard grand.
There was.
--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. All trio 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, Richie and Poldy. 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. Tight trou. Brilliant ide.
--I knew he was on the rocks, he said. The wife was playing the piano in
the coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration and who
was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other business? Do you
remember? We had to search all Holles street to find them till the chap in
Keogh's gave us the number. Remember? Ben remembered, his broad visage
wondering.
--By God, she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there.
Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.
--Merrion square style. Balldresses, by God, and court dresses. He
wouldn't take any money either. What? Any God's quantity of cocked hats
and boleros and trunkhose. What?
--Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. 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 Marion. Met him pike hoses. Smell of burn. Of Paul de Kock. Nice
name he.
--What's this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion ...
--Tweedy.
--Yes. Is she alive?
--And kicking.
--She was a daughter of ...
--Daughter of the regiment.
--Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.
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, Dolores, silent.
Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he
ate with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods' roes while
Richie Goulding, Collis, 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 sun
in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding tyres:
sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Horn. Have you
the? Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn.
Over their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding
chords:
--WHEN LOVE ABSORBS MY ARDENT SOUL ...
Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roofpanes.
--War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior.
--So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking of your landlord. Love or
money.
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 bearded 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 steelhoofs ringhoof 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. O,
not in the least. Way he looked that. Lord lieutenant. Gold by bronze
heard iron steel.
-- ............ MY ARDENT SOUL
I CARE NOT FOROR 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 that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musical
porkers. 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 many!
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 solicitor, George
Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist
(a lady's) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back. To the
old dingdong again.
--Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.
George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.
Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. That chap in the
Burton, gummy with gristle. No-one 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, eye on the
bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her high long snore.
Night we were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus,
between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle.
Conductor's legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide
them.
Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of
a lovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that
once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their
harps. I. He. Old. Young.
--Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.
Strongly.
--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, wind around her.
Cowley sang:
--M'APPARI TUTT'AMOR:
IL MIO SGUARDO L'INCONTR ...
She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil, to one departing, dear one, to
wind, love, speeding sail, 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, 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: SONNAMBULA. He
heard Joe Maas sing that one night. Ah, what M'Guckin! Yes. In his way.
Choirboy style. Maas was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor if you like.
Never forget it. Never.
Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened features strain.
Backache he. Bright's bright eye. Next item on the programme. Paying the
piper. 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. Flaw in the glass, fresh Vartry water.
Fecking matches from counters to save. Then squander a sovereign in dribs
and drabs. And when he's wanted not a farthing. Screwed refusing to pay
his fare. 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. But want a good
memory.
--Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.
--ALL IS LOST NOW.
Richie cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet banshee 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. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he
twined and turned them. All most too new call is lost in all. Echo. How
sweet the answer. How is that done? All lost now. Mournful he whistled.
Fall, surrender, lost.
Bloom bent leopold 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. 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, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.
Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.
He knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his daughter. Wise
child that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?
Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. Rollicking
Richie once. Jokes old stale now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his eye.
Now begging letters he sends his son with. Crosseyed Walter sir I did sir.
Wouldn't trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise.
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: as in cool glaucous EAU DE NIL Mina
to tankards two 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 ...
Richie turned.
--Si Dedalus' voice, he said.
Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that flow
endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. 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, waiting
to hear, for he was 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 or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem
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 oftloved 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 a skein round four forkfingers, 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. Increase their flow. Throw flower at
his feet. When will we meet? My head it simply. 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. Jing. 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? Hands felt for the opulent.
Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud.
--BUT ALAS, 'TWAS IDLE DREAMING ...
Glorious tone he has still. Cork air softer also their brogue. Silly man!
Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out his
wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. If he doesn't
break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feet sing too.
Drink. Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. Jenny Lind soup:
stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy.
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 in
music out, in desire, dark to lick flow invading. Tipping her tepping her
tapping her topping her. 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, tupthrob. Now! Language of love.
-- ... RAY OF HOPE IS ...
Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse
unsqueaked a ray of hopk.
MARTHA it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song. Lovely
name you have. Can't write. Accept my little pres. Play on her
heartstrings pursestrings too. She's a. I called you naughty boy. Still
the name: Martha. How strange! Today.
The voice of Lionel 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 always looked my face when I spoke his face in the glass. Still
hear it better here than in the bar though farther.
--EACH GRACEFUL LOOK ...
First night when first I saw her at Mat Dillon's in Terenure. Yellow,
black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her.
Fate.
Round and round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt. Down she
sat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.
--CHARMED MY EYE ...
Singing. WAITING she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume
of what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full, throat
warbling. First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate. Spanishy
eyes. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in
shadow Dolores shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.
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