Section 63 of 74 - Table of Contents
On the other hand what incensed him more inwardly was the blatant jokes
of the cabman and so on who passed it all off as a jest, laughing 1530
immoderately, pretending to understand everything, the why and the
wherefore, and in reality not knowing their own minds, it being a case
for the two parties themselves unless it ensued that the legitimate
husband happened to be a party to it owing to some anonymous letter from
the usual boy Jones, who happened to come across them at the crucial
moment in a loving position locked in one another's arms, drawing
attention to their illicit proceedings and leading up to a domestic
rumpus and the erring fair one begging forgiveness of her lord and master
upon her knees and promising to sever the connection and not receive his
visits any more if only the aggrieved husband would overlook the matter
and let bygones be bygones with tears in her eyes though possibly with
her tongue in her fair cheek at the same time as quite possibly there
were several others. He personally, being of a sceptical bias, believed
and didn't make the smallest bones about saying so either that man or men
in the plural were always hanging around on the waiting list about a
lady, even supposing she was the best wife in the world and they got on
fairly well together for the sake of argument, when, neglecting her
duties, she chose to be tired of wedded life and was on for a little
flutter in polite debauchery to press their attentions on her with
improper intent, the upshot being that her affections centred on another,
the cause of many LIAISONS between still attractive married women getting
on for fair and forty and younger men, no doubt as several famous cases
of feminine infatuation proved up to the hilt.
It was a thousand pities a young fellow, blessed with an allowance of
brains as his neighbour obviously was, should waste his valuable time
with profligate women who might present him with a nice dose to last him
his lifetime. In the nature of single blessedness he would one day take
unto himself a wife when Miss Right came on the scene but in the interim
ladies' society was a CONDITIO SINE QUA NON though he had the gravest
possible doubts, not that he wanted in the smallest to pump Stephen about
Miss Ferguson (who was very possibly the particular lodestar who brought
him down to Irishtown so early in the morning), as to whether he would
find much satisfaction basking in the boy and girl courtship idea and the
company of smirking misses without a penny to their names bi or triweekly
with the orthodox preliminary canter of complimentplaying and walking out
leading up to fond lovers' ways and flowers and chocs. To think of him
house and homeless, rooked by some landlady worse than any stepmother,
was really too bad at his age. The queer suddenly things he popped out
with attracted the elder man who was several years the other's senior or
like his father but something substantial he certainly ought to eat even
were it only an eggflip made on unadulterated maternal nutriment or,
failing that, the homely Humpty Dumpty boiled.
--At what o'clock did you dine? he questioned of the slim form and tired
though unwrinkled face.
--Some time yesterday, Stephen said.
--Yesterday! exclaimed Bloom till he remembered it was already tomorrow
Friday. Ah, you mean it's after twelve!
--The day before yesterday, Stephen said, improving on himself.
Literally astounded at this piece of intelligence Bloom reflected. Though
they didn't see eye to eye in everything a certain analogy there somehow
was as if both their minds were travelling, so to speak, in the one train
of thought. At his age when dabbling in politics roughly some score of
years previously when he had been a QUASI aspirant to parliamentary
honours in the Buckshot Foster days he too recollected in retrospect
(which was a source of keen satisfaction in itself) he had a sneaking
regard for those same ultra ideas. For instance when the evicted tenants
question, then at its first inception, bulked largely in people's mind
though, it goes without saying, not contributing a copper or pinning his
faith absolutely to its dictums, some of which wouldn't exactly hold
water, he at the outset in principle at all events was in thorough
sympathy with peasant possession as voicing the trend of modern opinion
(a partiality, however, which, realising his mistake, he was subsequently
partially cured of) and even was twitted with going a step farther than
Michael Davitt in the striking views he at one time inculcated as a
backtothelander, which was one reason he strongly resented the innuendo
put upon him in so barefaced a fashion by our friend at the gathering of
the clans in Barney Kiernan's so that he, though often considerably
misunderstood and the least pugnacious of mortals, be it repeated,
departed from his customary habit to give him (metaphorically) one in the
gizzard though, so far as politics themselves were concerned, he was only
too conscious of the casualties invariably resulting from propaganda and
displays of mutual animosity and the misery and suffering it entailed as
a foregone conclusion on fine young fellows, chiefly, destruction of the
fittest, in a word.
Anyhow upon weighing up the pros and cons, getting on for one, as it was,
it was high time to be retiring for the night. The crux was it was a bit
risky to bring him home as eventualities might possibly ensue (somebody
having a temper of her own sometimes) and spoil the hash altogether as on
the night he misguidedly brought home a dog (breed unknown) with a lame
paw (not that the cases were either identical or the reverse though he
had hurt his hand too) to Ontario Terrace as he very distinctly
remembered, having been there, so to speak. On the other hand it was
altogether far and away too late for the Sandymount or Sandycove
suggestion so that he was in some perplexity as to which of the two
alternatives. Everything pointed to the fact that it behoved him to avail
himself to the full of the opportunity, all things considered. His
initial impression was he was a shade standoffish or not over effusive
but it grew on him someway. For one thing he mightn't what you call jump
at the idea, if approached, and what mostly worried him was he didn't
know how to lead up to it or word it exactly, supposing he did entertain
the proposal, as it would afford him very great personal pleasure if he
would allow him to help to put coin in his way or some wardrobe, if found
suitable. At all events he wound up by concluding, eschewing for the
nonce hidebound precedent, a cup of Epps's cocoa and a shakedown for the
night plus the use of a rug or two and overcoat doubled into a pillow at
least he would be in safe hands and as warm as a toast on a trivet he
failed to perceive any very vast amount of harm in that always with the
proviso no rumpus of any sort was kicked up. A move had to be made
because that merry old soul, the grasswidower in question who appeared to
be glued to the spot, didn't appear in any particular hurry to wend his
way home to his dearly beloved Queenstown and it was highly likely some
sponger's bawdyhouse of retired beauties where age was no bar off Sheriff
street lower would be the best clue to that equivocal character's
whereabouts for a few days to come, alternately racking their feelings
(the mermaids') with sixchamber revolver anecdotes verging on the
tropical calculated to freeze the marrow of anybody's bones and mauling
their largesized charms betweenwhiles with rough and tumble gusto to the
accompaniment of large potations of potheen and the usual blarney about
himself for as to who he in reality was let x equal my right name and
address, as Mr Algebra remarks PASSIM. At the same time he inwardly
chuckled over his gentle repartee to the blood and ouns champion about
his god being a jew. People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but
what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep. The most vulnerable
point too of tender Achilles. Your god was a jew. Because mostly they
appeared to imagine he came from Carrick-on-Shannon or somewhereabouts in
the county Sligo.
--I propose, our hero eventually suggested after mature reflection while
prudently pocketing her photo, as it's rather stuffy here you just come
home with me and talk things over. My diggings are quite close in the
vicinity. You can't drink that stuff. Do you like cocoa? Wait. I'll just
pay this lot.
The best plan clearly being to clear out, the remainder being plain
sailing, he beckoned, while prudently pocketing the photo, to the keeper
of the shanty who didn't seem to.
--Yes, that's the best, he assured Stephen to whom for the matter of that
Brazen Head or him or anywhere else was all more or less.
All kinds of Utopian plans were flashing through his (B's) busy brain,
education (the genuine article), literature, journalism, prize titbits,
up to date billing, concert tours in English watering resorts packed with
hydros and seaside theatres, turning money away, duets in Italian with
the accent perfectly true to nature and a quantity of other things, no
necessity, of course, to tell the world and his wife from the housetops
about it, and a slice of luck. An opening was all was wanted. Because he
more than suspected he had his father's voice to bank his hopes on which
it was quite on the cards he had so it would be just as well, by the way
no harm, to trail the conversation in the direction of that particular
red herring just to.
The cabby read out of the paper he had got hold of that the former
viceroy, earl Cadogan, had presided at the cabdrivers' association dinner
in London somewhere. Silence with a yawn or two accompanied this
thrilling announcement. Then the old specimen in the corner who appeared
to have some spark of vitality left read out that sir Anthony MacDonnell
had left Euston for the chief secretary's lodge or words to that effect.
To which absorbing piece of intelligence echo answered why.
--Give us a squint at that literature, grandfather, the ancient mariner
put in, manifesting some natural impatience.
--And welcome, answered the elderly party thus addressed.
The sailor lugged out from a case he had a pair of greenish goggles which
he very slowly hooked over his nose and both ears.
--Are you bad in the eyes? the sympathetic personage like the townclerk
queried.
--Why, answered the seafarer with the tartan beard, who seemingly was a
bit of a literary cove in his own small way, staring out of seagreen
portholes as you might well describe them as, I uses goggles reading.
Sand in the Red Sea done that. One time I could read a book in the dark,
manner of speaking. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENT was my favourite and
RED AS A ROSE IS SHE.
Hereupon he pawed the journal open and pored upon Lord only knows what,
found drowned or the exploits of King Willow, Iremonger having made a
hundred and something second wicket not out for Notts, during which time
(completely regardless of Ire) the keeper was intensely occupied
loosening an apparently new or secondhand boot which manifestly pinched
him as he muttered against whoever it was sold it, all of them who were
sufficiently awake enough to be picked out by their facial expressions,
that is to say, either simply looking on glumly or passing a trivial
remark.
To cut a long story short Bloom, grasping the situation, was the first to
rise from his seat so as not to outstay their welcome having first and
foremost, being as good as his word that he would foot the bill for the
occasion, taken the wise precaution to unobtrusively motion to mine host
as a parting shot a scarcely perceptible sign when the others were not
looking to the effect that the amount due was forthcoming, making a grand
total of fourpence (the amount he deposited unobtrusively in four
coppers, literally the last of the Mohicans), he having previously
spotted on the printed pricelist for all who ran to read opposite him in
unmistakable figures, coffee 2d, confectionery do, and honestly well
worth twice the money once in a way, as Wetherup used to remark.
--Come, he counselled to close the SEANCE.
Seeing that the ruse worked and the coast was clear they left the shelter
or shanty together and the ELITE society of oilskin and company whom
nothing short of an earthquake would move out of their DOLCE FAR NIENTE.
Stephen, who confessed to still feeling poorly and fagged out, paused at
the, for a moment, the door.
--One thing I never understood, he said to be original on the spur of the
moment. Why they put tables upside down at night, I mean chairs upside
down, on the tables in cafes. To which impromptu the neverfailing Bloom
replied without a moment's hesitation, saying straight off:
--To sweep the floor in the morning.
So saying he skipped around, nimbly considering, frankly at the same time
apologetic to get on his companion's right, a habit of his, by the bye,
his right side being, in classical idiom, his tender Achilles. The night
air was certainly now a treat to breathe though Stephen was a bit weak on
his pins.
--It will (the air) do you good, Bloom said, meaning also the walk, in a
moment. The only thing is to walk then you'll feel a different man. Come.
It's not far. Lean on me.
Accordingly he passed his left arm in Stephen's right and led him on
accordingly.
--Yes, Stephen said uncertainly because he thought he felt a strange kind
of flesh of a different man approach him, sinewless and wobbly and all
that.
Anyhow they passed the sentrybox with stones, brazier etc. where the
municipal supernumerary, ex Gumley, was still to all intents and purposes
wrapped in the arms of Murphy, as the adage has it, dreaming of fresh
fields and pastures new. And APROPOS of coffin of stones the analogy was
not at all bad as it was in fact a stoning to death on the part of
seventytwo out of eighty odd constituencies that ratted at the time of
the split and chiefly the belauded peasant class, probably the selfsame
evicted tenants he had put in their holdings.
So they turned on to chatting about music, a form of art for which Bloom,
as a pure amateur, possessed the greatest love, as they made tracks arm
in arm across Beresford place. Wagnerian music, though confessedly grand
in its way, was a bit too heavy for Bloom and hard to follow at the first
go-off but the music of Mercadante's HUGUENOTS, Meyerbeer's SEVEN LAST
WORDS ON THE CROSS and Mozart's TWELFTH MASS he simply revelled in, the
GLORIA in that being, to his mind, the acme of first class music as such,
literally knocking everything else into a cocked hat. He infinitely
preferred the sacred music of the catholic church to anything the
opposite shop could offer in that line such as those Moody and Sankey
hymns or BID ME TO LIVE AND I WILL LIVE THY PROTESTANT TO BE. He also
yielded to none in his admiration of Rossini's STABAT MATER, a work
simply abounding in immortal numbers, in which his wife, Madam Marion
Tweedy, made a hit, a veritable sensation, he might safely say, greatly
adding to her other laureis and putting the others totally in the shade,
in the jesuit fathers' church in upper Gardiner street, the sacred
edifice being thronged to the doors to hear her with virtuosos, or
VIRTUOSI rather. There was the unanimous opinion that there was none to
come up to her and suffice it to say in a place of worship for music of a
sacred character there was a generally voiced desire for an encore. On
the whole though favouring preferably light opera of the DON GIOVANNI
description and MARTHA, a gem in its line, he had a PENCHANT, though with
only a surface knowledge, for the severe classical school such as
Mendelssohn. And talking of that, taking it for granted he knew all about
the old favourites, he mentioned PAR EXCELLENCE Lionel's air in MARTHA,
M'APPARI, which, curiously enough, he had heard or overheard, to be more
accurate, on yesterday, a privilege he keenly appreciated, from the lips
of Stephen's respected father, sung to perfection, a study of the number,
in fact, which made all the others take a back seat. Stephen, in reply to
a politely put query, said he didn't sing it but launched out into
praises of Shakespeare's songs, at least of in or about that period, the
lutenist Dowland who lived in Fetter lane near Gerard the herbalist, who
ANNO LUDENDO HAUSI, DOULANDUS, an instrument he was contemplating
purchasing from Mr Arnold Dolmetsch, whom B. did not quite recall though
the name certainly sounded familiar, for sixtyfive guineas and Farnaby
and son with their DUX and COMES conceits and Byrd (William) who played
the virginals, he said, in the Queen's chapel or anywhere else he found
them and one Tomkins who made toys or airs and John Bull.
On the roadway which they were approaching whilst still speaking beyond
the swingchains a horse, dragging a sweeper, paced on the paven ground,
brushing a long swathe of mire up so that with the noise Bloom was not
perfectly certain whether he had caught aright the allusion to sixtyfive
guineas and John Bull. He inquired if it was John Bull the political
celebrity of that ilk, as it struck him, the two identical names, as a
striking coincidence.
By the chains the horse slowly swerved to turn, which perceiving, Bloom,
who was keeping a sharp lookout as usual, plucked the other's sleeve
gently, jocosely remarking:
--Our lives are in peril tonight. Beware of the steamroller.
They thereupon stopped. Bloom looked at the head of a horse not worth
anything like sixtyfive guineas, suddenly in evidence in the dark quite
near so that it seemed new, a different grouping of bones and even flesh
because palpably it was a fourwalker, a hipshaker, a blackbuttocker, a
taildangler, a headhanger putting his hind foot foremost the while the
lord of his creation sat on the perch, busy with his thoughts. But such a
good poor brute he was sorry he hadn't a lump of sugar but, as he wisely
reflected, you could scarcely be prepared for every emergency that might
crop up. He was just a big nervous foolish noodly kind of a horse,
without a second care in the world. But even a dog, he reflected, take
that mongrel in Barney Kiernan's, of the same size, would be a holy
horror to face. But it was no animal's fault in particular if he was
built that way like the camel, ship of the desert, distilling grapes into
potheen in his hump. Nine tenths of them all could be caged or trained,
nothing beyond the art of man barring the bees. Whale with a harpoon
hairpin, alligator tickle the small of his back and he sees the joke,
chalk a circle for a rooster, tiger my eagle eye. These timely
reflections anent the brutes of the field occupied his mind somewhat
distracted from Stephen's words while the ship of the street was
manoeuvring and Stephen went on about the highly interesting old.
--What's this I was saying? Ah, yes! My wife, he intimated, plunging IN
MEDIAS RES, would have the greatest of pleasure in making your
acquaintance as she is passionately attached to music of any kind.
He looked sideways in a friendly fashion at the sideface of Stephen,
image of his mother, which was not quite the same as the usual handsome
blackguard type they unquestionably had an insatiable hankering after as
he was perhaps not that way built.
Still, supposing he had his father's gift as he more than suspected, it
opened up new vistas in his mind such as Lady Fingall's Irish industries,
concert on the preceding Monday, and aristocracy in general.
Exquisite variations he was now describing on an air YOUTH HERE HAS END
by Jans Pieter Sweelinck, a Dutchman of Amsterdam where the frows come
from. Even more he liked an old German song of JOHANNES JEEP about the
clear sea and the voices of sirens, sweet murderers of men, which boggled
Bloom a bit:
VON DER SIRENEN LISTIGKEIT
TUN DIE POETEN DICHTEN.
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