Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chestnote, return!
_—Come!_
It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver
orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out
too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high
resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high,
of the etherial bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere
all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness...
—_To me!_
Siopold!
Consumed.
Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To me, to him, to
her, you too, me, us.
—Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon. Clappyclapclap. Encore! Clapclipclap
clap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap,
said, cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell,
Pat, Mina Kennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first gent
with tank and bronze Miss Douce and gold Miss Mina.
Blazes Boylan’s smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor, said before.
Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson,
reverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as said before just now.
Atrot, in heat, heatseated. _Cloche. Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la._
Slower the mare went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too
slow for Boylan, blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, joggled the mare.
An afterclang of Cowley’s chords closed, died on the air made richer.
And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank,
Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two
more tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving,
coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.
—Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you’d
sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.
Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played. Mina Kennedy
served. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia, admired,
admired. But Bloom sang dumb.
Admiring.
Richie, admiring, descanted on that man’s glorious voice. He remembered
one night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang _’Twas rank and
fame_: in Ned Lambert’s ’twas. Good God he never heard in all his life
a note like that he never did _then false one we had better part_ so
clear so God he never heard _since love lives not_ a clinking voice
lives not ask Lambert he can tell you too.
Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the
night, Si in Ned Lambert’s, Dedalus house, sang _’Twas rank and fame._
He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie Goulding, told him, Mr Bloom,
of the night he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus, sing _’Twas rank and
fame_ in his, Ned Lambert’s, house.
Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the
lute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all the more.
The night Si sang. The human voice, two tiny silky chords, wonderful,
more than all others.
That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It’s in the silence after you
feel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.
Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked the
slender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz, it twanged. While
Goulding talked of Barraclough’s voice production, while Tom Kernan,
harking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked to listening
Father Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. While
big Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he
smoked, who smoked.
Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his
string. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure them
on. Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head.
Outtohelloutofthat. Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat’s tail wriggling!
Five bob I gave. _Corpus paradisum._ Corncrake croaker: belly like a
poisoned pup. Gone. They sing. Forgotten. I too. And one day she with.
Leave her: get tired. Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling
at nothing. Her wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:’d.
Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not happy in
your? Twang. It snapped.
Jingle into Dorset street.
Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.
—Don’t make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted.
George Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe.
First gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so. And
second tankard told her so. That that was so.
Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: miss Kennedy, Mina, did not
believe: George Lidwell, no: miss Dou did not: the first, the first:
gent with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell:
the tank.
Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.
Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He went. A
pad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.
—Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing the curling catgut line. It certainly is.
Few lines will do. My present. All that Italian florid music is. Who is
this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet notepaper,
envelope: unconcerned. It’s so characteristic.
—Grandest number in the whole opera, Goulding said.
—It is, Bloom said.
Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two
divided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus
two plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling.
Always find out this equal to that. Symmetry under a cemetery wall. He
doesn’t see my mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics.
And you think you’re listening to the etherial. But suppose you said it
like: Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall
quite flat. It’s on account of the sounds it is.
Instance he’s playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like, till
you hear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: then
hear chords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks, over
barrels, through wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune.
Question of mood you’re in. Still always nice to hear. Except scales up
and down, girls learning. Two together nextdoor neighbours. Ought to
invent dummy pianos for that. _Blumenlied_ I bought for her. The name.
Playing it slow, a girl, night I came home, the girl. Door of the
stables near Cecilia street. Milly no taste. Queer because we both, I
mean.
Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quite
flat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.
It was the only language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a boy
in Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles.
Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, in
the moonlight with those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God,
such music, Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.
Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed a
moonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.
Down the edge of his _Freeman_ baton ranged Bloom’s, your other eye,
scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick.
Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking...
Hope he’s not looking, cute as a rat. He held unfurled his _Freeman._
Can’t see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear
sir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and flow. Hell did I
put? Some pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline _imposs._ To
write today.
Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am just reflecting
fingers on flat pad Pat brought.
On. Know what I mean. No, change that ee. Accep my poor litt pres
enclos. Ask her no answ. Hold on. Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the
gulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne’s. Is eight about. Say half a
crown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six. Write me a long. Do you
despise? Jingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught?
You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her. Bye for today. Yes,
yes, will tell you. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Other
world she wrote. My patience are exhaust. To keep it up. You must
believe. Believe. The tank. It. Is. True.
Folly am I writing? Husbands don’t. That’s marriage does, their wives.
Because I’m away from. Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young. If she
found out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless pain. If
they don’t see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.
A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James
of number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a young
gentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by George
Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of number five Eden quay, and wearing
a straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one Great
Brunswick street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle that joggled and
jingled. By Dlugacz’ porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a
gallantbuttocked mare.
—Answering an ad? keen Richie’s eyes asked Bloom.
—Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect.
Bloom mur: best references. But Henry wrote: it will excite me. You
know how. In haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better add postscript. What is he
playing now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum tum tum. How will
you pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I
want to. Know. O. Course if I didn’t I wouldn’t ask. La la la ree.
Trails off there sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like sad
tail at end. P. P. S. La la la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So
lonely. Dee.
He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel. Address. Just copy out of paper.
Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. Henry wrote:
Miss Martha Clifford
c/o P. O.
Dolphin’s Barn Lane
Dublin.
Blot over the other so he can’t read. There. Right. Idea prize titbit.
Something detective read off blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guinea
per col. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs Purefoy. U.
P: up.
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, greyedauburn. 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, faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get wom.
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
the mouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet. Yashmak. Find the way in. A
cave. No admittance except on business.
The sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood it is. 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 tankards 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, one,
one: two, one, three, four.
Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the cattlemarket,
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.
Tongue 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. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle.
Hissss. 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 griped 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. Base 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 of ten 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 false priest’s servant bade him welcome. Step
in. The holy father. With bows a traitor servant. 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 footsteps 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 uptrunks. 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 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.