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Ulysses 

186 

of

 1305 

—He’s at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old 

Dan O’. But his heart is buried in Rome. How many 

broken hearts are buried here, Simon! 

—Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I’ll 

soon be stretched beside her. Let Him take me whenever 

He likes. 

Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, 

stumbling a little in his walk. Mr Power took his arm. 

—She’s better where she is, he said kindly. 

—I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp. I 

suppose she is in heaven if there is a heaven. 

Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and 

allowed the mourners to plod by. 

—Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely. 

Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his 

head. 

—The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. 

I suppose we can do so too. We are the last. This 

cemetery is a treacherous place. 

They covered their heads. 

—The reverend gentleman read the service too 

quickly, don’t you think? Mr Kernan said with reproof. 

Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the quick 

bloodshot eyes. Secret eyes, secretsearching. Mason, I 

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think: not sure. Beside him again. We are the last. In the 

same boat. Hope he’ll say something else. 

Mr Kernan added: 

—The service of the Irish church used in Mount 

Jerome is simpler, more impressive I must say. 

Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course 

was another thing. 

Mr Kernan said with solemnity: 

—I am the resurrection and the life. That touches a man’s 

inmost heart. 

—It does, Mr Bloom said. 

Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six 

feet by two with his toes to the daisies? No touching that. 

Seat of the affections. Broken heart. A pump after all, 

pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One 

fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots of them 

lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: 

damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once 

you are dead you are dead. That last day idea. Knocking 

them all up out of their graves. Come forth, Lazarus! And 

he came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day! Then 

every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights 

and the rest of his traps. Find damn all of himself that 

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morning. Pennyweight of powder in a skull. Twelve 

grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure. 

Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side. 

—Everything went off A1, he said. What? 

He looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman’s 

shoulders. With your tooraloom tooraloom. 

—As it should be, Mr Kernan said. 

—What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said. 

Mr Kernan assured him. 

—Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John 

Henry Menton asked. I know his face. 

Ned Lambert glanced back. 

—Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, 

is, I mean, the soprano. She’s his wife. 

—O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven’t 

seen her for some time. he was a finelooking woman. I 

danced with her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, 

at Mat Dillon’s in Roundtown. And a good armful she 

was. 

He looked behind through the others. 

—What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn’t he 

in the stationery line? I fell foul of him one evening, I 

remember, at bowls. 

Ned Lambert smiled. 

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—Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hely’s. A traveller 

for blottingpaper. 

—In God’s name, John Henry Menton said, what did 

she marry a coon like that for? She had plenty of game in 

her then. 

—Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing 

for ads. 

John Henry Menton’s large eyes stared ahead. 

The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, 

ambushed among the grasses, raised his hat in homage. 

The gravediggers touched their caps. 

—John O’Connell, Mr Power said pleased. He never 

forgets a friend. 

Mr O’Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr 

Dedalus said: 

—I am come to pay you another visit. 

—My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low 

voice. I don’t want your custom at all. 

Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he 

walked on at Martin Cunningham’s side puzzling two 

long keys at his back. 

—Did you hear that one, he asked them, about 

Mulcahy from the Coombe? 

—I did not, Martin Cunningham said. 

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They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined 

his ear. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his 

gold watchchain and spoke in a discreet tone to their 

vacant smiles. 

—They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came 

out here one foggy evening to look for the grave of a 

friend of theirs. They asked for Mulcahy from the 

Coombe and were told where he was buried. After 

traipsing about in the fog they found the grave sure 

enough. One of the drunks spelt out the name: Terence 

Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking up at a statue of 

Our Saviour the widow had got put up. 

The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they 

passed. He resumed: 

—And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, Not a 

bloody bit like the man, says he. That’s not Mulcahy, says he, 

whoever done it. 

Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny 

Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, turning them 

over and scanning them as he walked. 

—That’s all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham 

explained to Hynes. 

—I know, Hynes said. I know that. 

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