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Ulysses 

156 

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 1305 

Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the 

two dogs at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the 

sergeant grinning up. She had that cream gown on with 

the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch, Poldy. God, 

I’m dying for it. How life begins. 

Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. 

My son inside her. I could have helped him on in life. I 

could. Make him independent. Learn German too. 

—Are we late? Mr Power asked. 

—Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at 

his watch. 

Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy 

oaths. O jumping Jupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, 

she’s a dear girl. Soon be a woman. Mullingar. Dearest 

Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman too. Life, life. 

The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks 

swaying. 

—Corny might have given us a more commodious 

yoke, Mr Power said. 

—He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn’t that squint 

troubling him. Do you follow me? 

He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to 

brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs. 

—What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs? 

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—Someone seems to have been making a picnic party 

here lately, Mr Power said. 

All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the 

mildewed buttonless leather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, 

twisting his nose, frowned downward and said: 

—Unless I’m greatly mistaken. What do you think, 

Martin? 

—It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said. 

Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. 

Feel my feet quite clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had 

darned these socks better. 

Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. 

—After all, he said, it’s the most natural thing in the 

world. 

—Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham 

asked, twirling the peak of his beard gently. 

—Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He’s behind with Ned 

Lambert and Hynes. 

—And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked. 

—At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said. 

—I met M’Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said 

he’d try to come. 

The carriage halted short. 

—What’s wrong? 

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—We’re stopped. 

—Where are we? 

Mr Bloom put his head out of the window. 

—The grand canal, he said. 

Gasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good 

job Milly never got it. Poor children! Doubles them up 

black and blue in convulsions. Shame really. Got off 

lightly with illnesses compared. Only measles. Flaxseed 

tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. 

Don’t miss this chance. Dogs’ home over there. Poor old 

Athos! Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. Thy 

will be done. We obey them in the grave. A dying scrawl. 

He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men’s 

dogs usually are. 

A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an 

instant of shower spray dots over the grey flags. Apart. 

Curious. Like through a colander. I thought it would. My 

boots were creaking I remember now. 

—The weather is changing, he said quietly. 

—A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham 

said. 

—Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There’s the 

sun again coming out. 

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Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the 

veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the sky. 

—It’s as uncertain as a child’s bottom, he said. 

—We’re off again. 

The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their 

trunks swayed gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more 

quickly the peak of his beard. 

—Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And 

Paddy Leonard taking him off to his face. 

—O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. 

Wait till you hear him, Simon, on Ben Dollard’s singing 

of The Croppy Boy. 

—Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His 

singing of that simple ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant 

rendering I ever heard in the whole course of my experience. 

—Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He’s dead nuts 

on that. And the retrospective arrangement. 

—Did you read Dan Dawson’s speech? Martin 

Cunningham asked. 

—I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it? 

—In the paper this morning. 

Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That 

book I must change for her. 

—No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on please. 

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Mr Bloom’s glance travelled down the edge of the 

paper, scanning the deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, 

Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake is that? is it 

the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne’s? no, Sexton, 

Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed 

breaking paper. Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. 

To the inexpressible grief of his. Aged 88 after a long and 

tedious illness. Month’s mind: Quinlan. On whose soul 

Sweet Jesus have mercy. 

It is now a month since dear Henry fled 

To his home up above in the sky 

While his family weeps and mourns his loss 

Hoping some day to meet him on high. 

I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter 

after I read it in the bath? He patted his waistcoatpocket. 

There all right. Dear Henry fled. Before my patience are 

exhausted. 

National school. Meade’s yard. The hazard. Only two 

there now. Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in 

their skulls. The other trotting round with a fare. An hour 

ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their hats. 

A pointsman’s back straightened itself upright suddenly 

against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom’s window. 

Couldn’t they invent something automatic so that the 

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