Section 40 of 74 - Table of Contents
Lord!
Did me good all the same. Off colour after Kiernan's, Dignam's. For
this relief much thanks. In HAMLET, that is. Lord! It was all things
combined. Excitement. When she leaned back, felt an ache at the butt of my
tongue. Your head it simply swirls. He's right. Might have made a worse
fool of myself however. Instead of talking about nothing. Then I will tell
you all. Still it was a kind of language between us. It couldn't be? No,
Gerty they called her. Might be false name however like my name and the
address Dolphin's barn a blind.
HER MAIDEN NAME WAS JEMINA BROWN
AND SHE LIVED WITH HER MOTHER IN IRISHTOWN.
Place made me think of that I suppose. All tarred with the same brush.
Wiping pens in their stockings. But the ball rolled down to her as if it
understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I never could throw
anything straight at school. Crooked as a ram's horn. Sad however because
it lasts only a few years till they settle down to potwalloping and papa's
pants will soon fit Willy and fuller's earth for the baby when they hold
him out to do ah ah. No soft job. Saves them. Keeps them out of harm's
way. Nature. Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam. Children's hands
always round them. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not even closed at first,
sour milk in their swaddles and tainted curds. Oughtn't to have given
that child an empty teat to suck. Fill it up with wind. Mrs Beaufoy,
Purefoy. Must call to the hospital. Wonder is nurse Callan there still.
She used to look over some nights when Molly was in the Coffee Palace.
That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat. And Mrs Breen
and Mrs Dignam once like that too, marriageable. Worst of all at night
Mrs Duggan told me in the City Arms. Husband rolling in drunk, stink of
pub off him like a polecat. Have that in your nose in the dark,
whiff of stale boose. Then ask in the morning: was I drunk last
night? Bad policy however to fault the husband. Chickens come
home to roost. They stick by one another like glue. Maybe the
women's fault also. That's where Molly can knock spots off them. It's the
blood of the south. Moorish. Also the form, the figure. Hands felt for the
opulent. Just compare for instance those others. Wife locked up at home,
skeleton in the cupboard. Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you out
some kind of a nondescript, wouldn't know what to call her. Always see a
fellow's weak point in his wife. Still there's destiny in it, falling in
love. Have their own secrets between them. Chaps that would go to the dogs
if some woman didn't take them in hand. Then little chits of girls,
height of a shilling in coppers, with little hubbies. As God made them he
matched them. Sometimes children turn out well enough. Twice nought makes
one. Or old rich chap of seventy and blushing bride. Marry in May and
repent in December. This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the foreskin
is not back. Better detach.
Ow!
Other hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long and
the short of it. Big he and little she. Very strange about my watch.
Wristwatches are always going wrong. Wonder is there any magnetic
influence between the person because that was about the time he. Yes, I
suppose, at once. Cat's away, the mice will play. I remember looking in
Pill lane. Also that now is magnetism. Back of everything magnetism. Earth
for instance pulling this and being pulled. That causes movement. And
time, well that's the time the movement takes. Then if one thing stopped
the whole ghesabo would stop bit by bit. Because it's all arranged.
Magnetic needle tells you what's going on in the sun, the stars. Little
piece of steel iron. When you hold out the fork. Come. Come. Tip. Woman
and man that is. Fork and steel. Molly, he. Dress up and look and suggest
and let you see and see more and defy you if you're a man to see that and,
like a sneeze coming, legs, look, look and if you have any guts in you.
Tip. Have to let fly.
Wonder how is she feeling in that region. Shame all put on before
third person. More put out about a hole in her stocking. Molly, her
underjaw stuck out, head back, about the farmer in the ridingboots and
spurs at the horse show. And when the painters were in Lombard street
west. Fine voice that fellow had. How Giuglini began. Smell that I did.
Like flowers. It was too. Violets. Came from the turpentine probably in
the paint. Make their own use of everything. Same time doing it scraped
her slipper on the floor so they wouldn't hear. But lots of them can't
kick the beam, I think. Keep that thing up for hours. Kind of a general
all round over me and half down my back.
Wait. Hm. Hm. Yes. That's her perfume. Why she waved her hand. I
leave you this to think of me when I'm far away on the pillow. What is it?
Heliotrope? No. Hyacinth? Hm. Roses, I think. She'd like scent of that
kind. Sweet and cheap: soon sour. Why Molly likes opoponax. Suits her,
with a little jessamine mixed. Her high notes and her low notes. At the
dance night she met him, dance of the hours. Heat brought it out. She was
wearing her black and it had the perfume of the time before. Good
conductor, is it? Or bad? Light too. Suppose there's some connection. For
instance if you go into a cellar where it's dark. Mysterious thing too.
Why did I smell it only now? Took its time in coming like herself, slow
but sure. Suppose it's ever so many millions of tiny grains blown across.
Yes, it is. Because those spice islands, Cinghalese this morning, smell
them leagues off. Tell you what it is. It's like a fine fine veil or web
they have all over the skin, fine like what do you call it gossamer, and
they're always spinning it out of them, fine as anything, like rainbow
colours without knowing it. Clings to everything she takes off. Vamp of
her stockings. Warm shoe. Stays. Drawers: little kick, taking them off.
Byby till next time. Also the cat likes to sniff in her shift on
the bed. Know her smell in a thousand. Bathwater too. Reminds me of
strawberries and cream. Wonder where it is really. There or the armpits
or under the neck. Because you get it out of all holes and corners.
Hyacinth perfume made of oil of ether or something. Muskrat.
Bag under their tails. One grain pour off odour for years. Dogs at
each other behind. Good evening. Evening. How do you sniff? Hm. Hm.
Very well, thank you. Animals go by that. Yes now, look at it that way.
We're the same. Some women, instance, warn you off when they have their
period. Come near. Then get a hogo you could hang your hat on. Like
what? Potted herrings gone stale or. Boof! Please keep off the grass.
Perhaps they get a man smell off us. What though? Cigary gloves long
John had on his desk the other day. Breath? What you eat and drink gives
that. No. Mansmell, I mean. Must be connected with that because priests
that are supposed to be are different. Women buzz round it like flies
round treacle. Railed off the altar get on to it at any cost. The tree
of forbidden priest. O, father, will you? Let me be the first to.
That diffuses itself all through the body, permeates. Source of life.
And it's extremely curious the smell. Celery sauce. Let me.
Mr Bloom inserted his nose. Hm. Into the. Hm. Opening of his
waistcoat. Almonds or. No. Lemons it is. Ah no, that's the soap.
O by the by that lotion. I knew there was something on my mind.
Never went back and the soap not paid. Dislike carrying bottles like that
hag this morning. Hynes might have paid me that three shillings. I could
mention Meagher's just to remind him. Still if he works that paragraph.
Two and nine. Bad opinion of me he'll have. Call tomorrow. How much do
I owe you? Three and nine? Two and nine, sir. Ah. Might stop him giving
credit another time. Lose your customers that way. Pubs do. Fellows run up
a bill on the slate and then slinking around the back streets into
somewhere else.
Here's this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the bay. Just went
as far as turn back. Always at home at dinnertime. Looks mangled out: had
a good tuck in. Enjoying nature now. Grace after meals. After supper walk
a mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government sit. Walk
after him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today. Still you
learn something. See ourselves as others see us. So long as women don't
mock what matter? That's the way to find out. Ask yourself who is he now.
THE MYSTERY MAN ON THE BEACH, prize titbit story by Mr Leopold Bloom.
Payment at the rate of one guinea per column. And that fellow today at the
graveside in the brown macintosh. Corns on his kismet however. Healthy
perhaps absorb all the. Whistle brings rain they say. Must be some
somewhere. Salt in the Ormond damp. The body feels the atmosphere. Old
Betty's joints are on the rack. Mother Shipton's prophecy that is about
ships around they fly in the twinkling. No. Signs of rain it is. The royal
reader. And distant hills seem coming nigh.
Howth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to change or
they might think it a house. Wreckers. Grace Darling. People afraid of the
dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time. Jewels diamonds flash
better. Women. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt you.
Better now of course than long ago. Country roads. Run you through the
small guts for nothing. Still two types there are you bob against.
Scowl or smile. Pardon! Not at all. Best time to spray plants too in the
shade after the sun. Some light still. Red rays are longest. Roygbiv
Vance taught us: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.
A star I see. Venus? Can't tell yet. Two. When three it's night. Were
those nightclouds there all the time? Looks like a phantom ship. No.
Wait. Trees are they? An optical illusion. Mirage. Land of the setting
sun this. Homerule sun setting in the southeast. My native land,
goodnight.
Dew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit on that stone. Brings on white
fluxions. Never have little baby then less he was big strong fight his way
up through. Might get piles myself. Sticks too like a summer cold, sore on
the mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction of the position.
Like to be that rock she sat on. O sweet little, you don't know how nice
you looked. I begin to like them at that age. Green apples. Grab at all
that offer. Suppose it's the only time we cross legs, seated. Also the
library today: those girl graduates. Happy chairs under them. But it's
the evening influence. They feel all that. Open like flowers, know
their hours, sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes, in ballrooms, chandeliers,
avenues under the lamps. Nightstock in Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed
her shoulder. Wish I had a full length oilpainting of her then. June
that was too I wooed. The year returns. History repeats itself.
Ye crags and peaks I'm with you once again. Life, love, voyage round
your own little world. And now? Sad about her lame of course but must
be on your guard not to feel too much pity. They take advantage.
All quiet on Howth now. The distant hills seem. Where we. The
rhododendrons. I am a fool perhaps. He gets the plums, and I the
plumstones. Where I come in. All that old hill has seen. Names change:
that's all. Lovers: yum yum.
Tired I feel now. Will I get up? O wait. Drained all the manhood out
of me, little wretch. She kissed me. Never again. My youth. Only once it
comes. Or hers. Take the train there tomorrow. No. Returning not the
same. Like kids your second visit to a house. The new I want. Nothing new
under the sun. Care of P. O. Dolphin's Barn. Are you not happy in your?
Naughty darling. At Dolphin's barn charades in Luke Doyle's house. Mat
Dillon and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty.
Molly too. Eightyseven that was. Year before we. And the old major,
partial to his drop of spirits. Curious she an only child, I an only
child. So it returns. Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest
way round is the shortest way home. And just when he and she. Circus horse
walking in a ring. Rip van Winkle we played. Rip: tear in Henny Doyle's
overcoat. Van: breadvan delivering. Winkle: cockles and periwinkles. Then
I did Rip van Winkle coming back. She leaned on the sideboard watching.
Moorish eyes. Twenty years asleep in Sleepy Hollow. All changed.
Forgotten. The young are old. His gun rusty from the dew.
Ba. What is that flying about? Swallow? Bat probably. Thinks I'm a tree,
so blind. Have birds no smell? Metempsychosis. They believed you could be
changed into a tree from grief. Weeping willow. Ba. There he goes.
Funny little beggar. Wonder where he lives. Belfry up there. Very likely.
Hanging by his heels in the odour of sanctity. Bell scared him out, I
suppose. Mass seems to be over. Could hear them all at it. Pray for us.
And pray for us. And pray for us. Good idea the repetition. Same
thing with ads. Buy from us. And buy from us. Yes, there's the light
in the priest's house. Their frugal meal. Remember about the mistake
in the valuation when I was in Thom's. Twentyeight it is. Two houses
they have. Gabriel Conroy's brother is curate. Ba. Again. Wonder why
they come out at night like mice. They're a mixed breed. Birds are
like hopping mice. What frightens them, light or noise? Better sit still.
All instinct like the bird in drouth got water out of the end of a
jar by throwing in pebbles. Like a little man in a cloak he is with tiny
hands. Weeny bones. Almost see them shimmering, kind of a bluey white.
Colours depend on the light you see. Stare the sun for example
like the eagle then look at a shoe see a blotch blob yellowish. Wants to
stamp his trademark on everything. Instance, that cat this morning on the
staircase. Colour of brown turf. Say you never see them with three
colours. Not true. That half tabbywhite tortoiseshell in the CITY ARMS
with the letter em on her forehead. Body fifty different colours. Howth
a while ago amethyst. Glass flashing. That's how that wise man what's his
name with the burning glass. Then the heather goes on fire. It can't be
tourists' matches. What? Perhaps the sticks dry rub together in the wind
and light. Or broken bottles in the furze act as a burning glass in the
sun. Archimedes. I have it! My memory's not so bad.
Ba. Who knows what they're always flying for. Insects? That bee last week
got into the room playing with his shadow on the ceiling. Might be the
one bit me, come back to see. Birds too. Never find out. Or what they say.
Like our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve they have to fly over
the ocean and back. Lots must be killed in storms, telegraph wires.
Dreadful life sailors have too. Big brutes of oceangoing steamers
floundering along in the dark, lowing out like seacows. FAUGH A BALLAGH!
Out of that, bloody curse to you! Others in vessels, bit of a handkerchief
sail, pitched about like snuff at a wake when the stormy winds do blow.
Married too. Sometimes away for years at the ends of the earth somewhere.
No ends really because it's round. Wife in every port they say. She has a
good job if she minds it till Johnny comes marching home again. If ever he
does. Smelling the tail end of ports. How can they like the sea? Yet they
do. The anchor's weighed. Off he sails with a scapular or a medal
on him for luck. Well. And the tephilim no what's this they call it poor
papa's father had on his door to touch. That brought us out of the land
of Egypt and into the house of bondage. Something in all those
superstitions because when you go out never know what dangers. Hanging
on to a plank or astride of a beam for grim life, lifebelt round him,
gulping salt water, and that's the last of his nibs till the sharks
catch hold of him. Do fish ever get seasick?
Then you have a beautiful calm without a cloud, smooth sea, placid,
crew and cargo in smithereens, Davy Jones' locker, moon looking down so
peaceful. Not my fault, old cockalorum.
A last lonely candle wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search
of funds for Mercer's hospital and broke, drooping, and shed a cluster of
violet but one white stars. They floated, fell: they faded. The shepherd's
hour: the hour of folding: hour of tryst. From house to house, giving his
everwelcome double knock, went the nine o'clock postman, the
glowworm's lamp at his belt gleaming here and there through the laurel
hedges. And among the five young trees a hoisted lintstock lit the lamp at
Leahy's terrace. By screens of lighted windows, by equal gardens a shrill
voice went crying, wailing: EVENING TELEGRAPH, STOP PRESS EDITION! RESULT
OF THE GOLD CUP RACE! and from the door of Dignam's house a boy ran out
and called. Twittering the bat flew here, flew there. Far out over the
sands the coming surf crept, grey. Howth settled for slumber, tired of
long days, of yumyum rhododendrons (he was old) and felt gladly the night
breeze lift, ruffle his fell of ferns. He lay but opened a red eye
unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing, slumberous but awake. And far on
Kish bank the anchored lightship twinkled, winked at Mr Bloom.
Life those chaps out there must have, stuck in the same spot. Irish
Lights board. Penance for their sins. Coastguards too. Rocket and breeches
buoy and lifeboat. Day we went out for the pleasure cruise in the Erin's
King, throwing them the sack of old papers. Bears in the zoo. Filthy trip.
Drunkards out to shake up their livers. Puking overboard to feed the
herrings. Nausea. And the women, fear of God in their faces. Milly,
no sign of funk. Her blue scarf loose, laughing. Don't know what death
is at that age. And then their stomachs clean. But being lost they fear.
When we hid behind the tree at Crumlin. I didn't want to. Mamma! Mamma!
Babes in the wood. Frightening them with masks too. Throwing them up
in the air to catch them. I'll murder you. Is it only half fun?
Or children playing battle. Whole earnest. How can people aim guns at
each other. Sometimes they go off. Poor kids! Only troubles wildfire
and nettlerash. Calomel purge I got her for that. After getting better
asleep with Molly. Very same teeth she has. What do they love?
Another themselves? But the morning she chased her with the umbrella.
Perhaps so as not to hurt. I felt her pulse. Ticking. Little hand
it was: now big. Dearest Papli. All that the hand says when you
touch. Loved to count my waistcoat buttons. Her first stays I
remember. Made me laugh to see. Little paps to begin with. Left one
is more sensitive, I think. Mine too. Nearer the heart? Padding
themselves out if fat is in fashion. Her growing pains at night, calling,
wakening me. Frightened she was when her nature came on her first.
Poor child! Strange moment for the mother too. Brings back her girlhood.
Gibraltar. Looking from Buena Vista. O'Hara's tower. The seabirds
screaming. Old Barbary ape that gobbled all his family. Sundown,
gunfire for the men to cross the lines. Looking out over the sea she
told me. Evening like this, but clear, no clouds. I always thought I'd
marry a lord or a rich gentleman coming with a private yacht. BUENAS
NOCHES, SENORITA. EL HOMBRE AMA LA MUCHACHA HERMOSA. Why me? Because
you were so foreign from the others.
Prev
Next
All
Printer Friendly Version | Send this page to a friend | Discuss this Book
Your email address is safe with us. View our Privacy policy.
 |
 |
|
|
A Little Princess Sections: 24 What's this? Table of Contents |
 Non FictionShort StoriesPoetryPlaysSci FiPhilosophyReligionBiography |
VideoSquares.com
