Section 30 of 74 - Table of Contents
I too. Last of 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 owny 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. Say something. Make her hear. 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 that want
to, dying to, die. For all things dying, for 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! Castile. 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, 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. 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.
Ow. Bloom stood up. 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 the 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 cried. 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 Benaben 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.
Rrrrrrrsss.
--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. 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 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 stuns himself with it: kind of drunkenness. Better give
way only half way 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 pipy 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 bye 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 Simonlionel 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!
--'lldo! 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.
--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. That wonderworker if I
had. Twentyfour solicitors in that one house. Counted them. Litigation.
Love one another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power
of attorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward.
But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation:
Mickey Rooney's band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at home
after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsing his
band part. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses' skins. Welt them
through life, then wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be 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 streaming (but he couldn't see)
blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn't), mermaid, coolest whiff of all.
Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands, then blow. Even
comb and tissuepaper 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. Haw. Have you the? CLOCHE. SONNEZ LA.
Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle. Locks and keys!
Sweep! Four o'clock's all's well! Sleep! All is lost now. Drum? Pompedy.
Wait. I know. Towncrier, bumbailiff. Long John. Waken the dead. Pom.
Dignam. Poor little NOMINEDOMINE. Pom. It is music. I mean of course it's
all pom pom pom very much what they call DA CAPO. Still you can hear. As
we march, we march along, march along. Pom.
I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of
custom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the same he must
have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap. Muffled up.
Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown macin. O, the whore
of the lane!
A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the
day along the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form
endearing? Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Horn. Who
had the? Heehaw shesaw. 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. Appointment
we made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near to home
sweet home. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip.
Damn her. O, well, she has to live like the rest. Look in here.
In Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel
Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged
battered candlesticks melodeon 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. Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. Wanted
to charge me for the edge he gave it. She's passing now. Six bob.
Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.
Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked 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 Ormond hall.
Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert
Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is.
--True men like you men.
--Ay, ay, Ben.
--Will lift your glass with us.
They lifted.
Tschink. Tschunk.
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, greaseabloom viewed last words. Softly. WHEN MY COUNTRY
TAKES HER PLACE AMONG.
Prrprr.
Must be the bur.
Fff! Oo. Rrpr.
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 burgund. Yes. One, two. LET MY EPITAPH BE. Kraaaaaa.
WRITTEN. I HAVE.
Pprrpffrrppffff.
DONE.
* * * * * * *
I was just passing the time of day with old Troy of the D. M. P. at the
corner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloody sweep came along
and he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned around to let him have
the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony Batter
only Joe Hynes.
--Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see that bloody
chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush?
--Soot's luck, says Joe. Who's the old ballocks you were talking to?
--Old Troy, says I, was in the force. I'm on two minds not to give that
fellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and
ladders.
--What are you doing round those parts? says Joe.
--Devil a much, says I. There's a bloody big foxy thief beyond by the
garrison church at the corner of Chicken lane--old Troy was just giving
me a wrinkle about him--lifted any God's quantity of tea and sugar to pay
three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off a
hop-of-my-thumb by the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury
street.
--Circumcised? says Joe.
--Ay, says I. A bit off the top. An old plumber named Geraghty. I'm
hanging on to his taw now for the past fortnight and I can't get a penny
out of him.
--That the lay you're on now? says Joe.
--Ay, says I. How are the mighty fallen! Collector of bad and doubtful
debts. But that's the most notorious bloody robber you'd meet in a day's
walk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain. TELL
HIM, says he, I DARE HIM, says he, AND I DOUBLEDARE HIM TO SEND YOU ROUND
HERE AGAIN OR IF HE DOES, says he, I'LL HAVE HIM SUMMONSED UP BEFORE THE
COURT, SO I WILL, FOR TRADING WITHOUT A LICENCE. And he after stuffing
himself till he's fit to burst. Jesus, I had to laugh at the little jewy
getting his shirt out. HE DRINK ME MY TEAS. HE EAT ME MY SUGARS. BECAUSE
HE NO PAY ME MY MONEYS?
For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint
Kevin's parade in the city of Dublin, Wood quay ward, merchant,
hereinafter called the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael E.
Geraghty, esquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the city of Dublin, Arran quay
ward, gentleman, hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds
avoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and no pence per pound
avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed crystal, at
threepence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to the said
vendor of one pound five shillings and sixpence sterling for value
received which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in
weekly instalments every seven calendar days of three shillings and no
pence sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or
pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall be
and remain and be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the said
vendor to be disposed of at his good will and pleasure until the said
amount shall have been duly paid by the said purchaser to the said vendor
in the manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed between the said
vendor, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the one part and
the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the
other part.
--Are you a strict t.t.? says Joe.
--Not taking anything between drinks, says I.
--What about paying our respects to our friend? says Joe.
--Who? says I. Sure, he's out in John of God's off his head, poor man.
--Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.
--Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.
--Come around to Barney Kiernan's, says Joe. I want to see the citizen.
--Barney mavourneen's be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe?
--Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms.
---What was that, Joe? says I.
--Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want to
give the citizen the hard word about it.
So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the
courthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he has
it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn't get over that
bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a licence,
says he.
In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There
rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead as in
life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant land it
is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the gurnard,
the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse,
the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed coarse fish
generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be
enumerated. In the mild breezes of the west and of the east the lofty
trees wave in different directions their firstclass foliage, the wafty
sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted planetree, the eugenic
eucalyptus and other ornaments of the arboreal world with which that
region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovely maidens sit in close proximity
to the roots of the lovely trees singing the most lovely songs while they
play with all kinds of lovely objects as for example golden ingots,
silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings, creels of
fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. And heroes voyage from
afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless princes of
unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster
and of Cruahan's land and of Armagh the splendid and of the noble district
of Boyle, princes, the sons of kings.
And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen by
mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly for that
purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlings and firstfruits of that
land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain descended
from chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bring foison of the
fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach, pineapple chunks,
Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs, drills of Swedes,
spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and
trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of mushrooms and
custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red green yellow
brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples and chips of
strawberries and sieves of gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious, and
strawberries fit for princes and raspberries from their canes.
I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him. Come out here, Geraghty,
you notorious bloody hill and dale robber!
And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and
flushed ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium
steers and roaring mares and polled calves and longwoods and storesheep
and Cuffe's prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the
various different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus
heifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime
premiated milchcows and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling,
cackling, roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting,
champing, chewing, of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from
pasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy vales
of Thomond, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly
Shannon the unfathomable, and from the gentle declivities of the place of
the race of Kiar, their udders distended with superabundance of milk and
butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmer's firkins and targets of
lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs in great hundreds, various in
size, the agate with this dun.
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