This eBook is designed and published by Planet pdf. For more free

Ulysses 

199 

of

 1305 

Got the run. Levanted with the cash of a few ads. Charley, 

you’re my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well, 

does no harm. I saw to that, M’Coy. Thanks, old chap: 

much obliged. Leave him under an obligation: costs 

nothing. 

—And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in 

the, fellow was over there in the ... 

He looked around. 

—Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is 

he now? 

—M’Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. I don’t know who 

he is. Is that his name? 

He moved away, looking about him. 

—No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, 

Hynes! 

Didn’t hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not 

a sign. Well of all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee 

double ell. Become invisible. Good Lord, what became of 

him? 

A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take 

up an idle spade. 

—O, excuse me! 

He stepped aside nimbly. 

---

Ulysses 

200 

of

 1305 

Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It 

rose. Nearly over. A mound of damp clods rose more, 

rose, and the gravediggers rested their spades. All 

uncovered again for a few instants. The boy propped his 

wreath against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. 

The gravediggers put on their caps and carried their earthy 

spades towards the barrow. Then knocked the blades 

lightly on the turf: clean. One bent to pluck from the haft 

a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly 

on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing. 

Silently at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. 

His navelcord. The brother-in-law, turning away, placed 

something in his free hand. Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir: 

trouble. Headshake. I know that. For yourselves just. 

The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by 

devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name on a tomb. 

—Let us go round by the chief’s grave, Hynes said. We 

have time. 

—Let us, Mr Power said. 

They turned to the right, following their slow 

thoughts. With awe Mr Power’s blank voice spoke: 

—Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the 

coffin was filled with stones. That one day he will come 

again. 

---

Ulysses 

201 

of

 1305 

Hynes shook his head. 

—Parnell will never come again, he said. He’s there, all 

that was mortal of him. Peace to his ashes. 

Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by 

saddened angels, crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone 

hopes praying with upcast eyes, old Ireland’s hearts and 

hands. More sensible to spend the money on some charity 

for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does 

anybody really? Plant him and have done with him. Like 

down a coalshoot. Then lump them together to save time. 

All souls’ day. Twentyseventh I’ll be at his grave. Ten 

shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds. Old 

man himself. Bent down double with his shears clipping. 

Near death’s door. Who passed away. Who departed this 

life. As if they did it of their own accord. Got the shove, 

all of them. Who kicked the bucket. More interesting if 

they told you what they were. So and So, wheelwright. I 

travelled for cork lino. I paid five shillings in the pound. 

Or a woman’s with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish 

stew. Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that 

poem of whose is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. 

Entered into rest the protestants put it. Old Dr Murren’s. 

The great physician called him home. Well it’s God’s acre 

for them. Nice country residence. Newly plastered and 

---

Ulysses 

202 

of

 1305 

painted. Ideal spot to have a quiet smoke and read the 

Church Times. Marriage ads they never try to beautify. 

Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. 

Better value that for the money. Still, the flowers are more 

poetical. The other gets rather tiresome, never withering. 

Expresses nothing. Immortelles. 

A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. Like 

stuffed. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave 

us. Hoo! Not a budge out of him. Knows there are no 

catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal even sadder. Silly-

Milly burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox, 

a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave. 

The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his 

sleeve. Ought to be sideways and red it should be painted 

like a real heart. Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever 

that. Seems anything but pleased. Why this infliction? 

Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the 

basket of fruit but he said no because they ought to have 

been afraid of the boy. Apollo that was. 

How many! All these here once walked round Dublin. 

Faithful departed. As you are now so once were we. 

Besides how could you remember everybody? Eyes, 

walk, voice. Well, the voice, yes: gramophone. Have a 

gramophone in every grave or keep it in the house. After 

---

Ulysses 

203 

of

 1305 

dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather. 

Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark 

awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind 

you of the voice like the photograph reminds you of the 

face. Otherwise you couldn’t remember the face after 

fifteen years, say. For instance who? For instance some 

fellow that died when I was in Wisdom Hely’s. 

Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop! 

He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some 

animal. Wait. There he goes. 

An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the crypt, 

moving the pebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he 

knows the ropes. The grey alive crushed itself in under the 

plinth, wriggled itself in under it. Good hidingplace for 

treasure. 

Who lives there? Are laid the remains of Robert 

Emery. Robert Emmet was buried here by torchlight, 

wasn’t he? Making his rounds. 

Tail gone now. 

One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. 

Pick the bones clean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat 

for them. A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what’s 

cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that Voyages in China that 

the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse. 

---