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

Ulysses 

176 

of

 1305 

The stonecutter’s yard on the right. Last lap. Crowded 

on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white, 

sorrowful, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing. 

Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white silence: appealing. 

The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental 

builder and sculptor. 

Passed. 

On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the sexton’s, an 

old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out 

of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. After life’s journey. 

Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy 

houses. 

Mr Power pointed. 

—That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last 

house. 

—So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case. Seymour 

Bushe got him off. Murdered his brother. Or so they said. 

—The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said. 

—Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham added. 

That’s the maxim of the law. Better for ninetynine guilty 

to escape than for one innocent person to be wrongfully 

condemned. 

They looked. Murderer’s ground. It passed darkly. 

Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. Whole place 

---

Ulysses 

177 

of

 1305 

gone to hell. Wrongfully condemned. Murder. The 

murderer’s image in the eye of the murdered. They love 

reading about it. Man’s head found in a garden. Her 

clothing consisted of. How she met her death. Recent 

outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still at large. 

Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed. Murder will 

out. 

Cramped in this carriage. She mightn’t like me to come 

that way without letting her know. Must be careful about 

women. Catch them once with their pants down. Never 

forgive you after. Fifteen. 

The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. 

Dark poplars, rare white forms. Forms more frequent, 

white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and 

fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on 

the air. 

The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. 

Martin Cunningham put out his arm and, wrenching back 

the handle, shoved the door open with his knee. He 

stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed. 

Change that soap now. Mr Bloom’s hand unbuttoned 

his hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap 

to his inner handkerchief pocket. He stepped out of the 

carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. 

---

Ulysses 

178 

of

 1305 

Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. It’s all the 

same. Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. 

Pomp of death. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood 

by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Simnel cakes those are, 

stuck together: cakes for the dead. Dogbiscuits. Who ate 

them? Mourners coming out. 

He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned 

Lambert followed, Hynes walking after them. Corny 

Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took out the two 

wreaths. He handed one to the boy. 

Where is that child’s funeral disappeared to? 

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling 

plodding tread, dragging through the funereal silence a 

creaking waggon on which lay a granite block. The 

waggoner marching at their head saluted. 

Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse 

looking round at it with his plume skeowways. Dull eye: 

collar tight on his neck, pressing on a bloodvessel or 

something. Do they know what they cart out here every 

day? Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then 

Mount Jerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the 

world everywhere every minute. Shovelling them under 

by the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too 

many in the world. 

---

Ulysses 

179 

of

 1305 

Mourners came out through the gates: woman and a 

girl. Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a bargain, her 

bonnet awry. Girl’s face stained with dirt and tears, 

holding the woman’s arm, looking up at her for a sign to 

cry. Fish’s face, bloodless and livid. 

The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through 

the gates. So much dead weight. Felt heavier myself 

stepping out of that bath. First the stiff: then the friends of 

the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the boy followed with their 

wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law. 

All walked after. 

Martin Cunningham whispered: 

—I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide 

before Bloom. 

—What? Mr Power whispered. How so? 

—His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham 

whispered. Had the Queen’s hotel in Ennis. You heard 

him say he was going to Clare. Anniversary. 

—O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. 

Poisoned himself? 

He glanced behind him to where a face with dark 

thinking eyes followed towards the cardinal’s mausoleum. 

Speaking. 

—Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked. 

---

Ulysses 

180 

of

 1305 

—I believe so, Mr Kernan answered. But the policy 

was heavily mortgaged. Martin is trying to get the 

youngster into Artane. 

—How many children did he leave? 

—Five. Ned Lambert says he’ll try to get one of the 

girls into Todd’s. 

—A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young 

children. 

—A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added. 

—Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed. 

Has the laugh at him now. 

He looked down at the boots he had blacked and 

polished. She had outlived him. Lost her husband. More 

dead for her than for me. One must outlive the other. 

Wise men say. There are more women than men in the 

world. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you’ll 

soon follow him. For Hindu widows only. She would 

marry another. Him? No. Yet who knows after. 

Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. 

Drawn on a guncarriage. Victoria and Albert. Frogmore 

memorial mourning. But in the end she put a few violets 

in her bonnet. Vain in her heart of hearts. All for a 

shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the 

substance. Something new to hope for not like the past 

---