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Ulysses 

166 

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 1305 

—Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to 

the boat and he tried to drown ... 

—Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ 

he did! 

Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. 

—No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself ... 

Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: 

—Reuben and the son were piking it down the quay 

next the river on their way to the Isle of Man boat and the 

young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the wall with 

him into the Liffey. 

—For God’s sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is 

he dead? 

—Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A 

boatman got a pole and fished him out by the slack of the 

breeches and he was landed up to the father on the quay 

more dead than alive. Half the town was there. 

—Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is ... 

—And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the 

boatman a florin for saving his son’s life. 

A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power’s hand. 

—O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a 

hero. A silver florin. 

—Isn’t it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly. 

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—One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said 

drily. 

Mr Power’s choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage. 

Nelson’s pillar. 

—Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny! 

—We had better look a little serious, Martin 

Cunningham said. 

Mr Dedalus sighed. 

—Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn’t 

grudge us a laugh. Many a good one he told himself. 

—The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet 

eyes with his fingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week 

ago when I saw him last and he was in his usual health that 

I’d be driving after him like this. He’s gone from us. 

—As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr 

Dedalus said. He went very suddenly. 

—Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart. 

He tapped his chest sadly. 

Blazing face: redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure 

for a red nose. Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A 

lot of money he spent colouring it. 

Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful 

apprehension. 

—He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said. 

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—The best death, Mr Bloom said. 

Their wide open eyes looked at him. 

—No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like 

dying in sleep. 

No-one spoke. 

Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land 

agents, temperance hotel, Falconer’s railway guide, civil 

service college, Gill’s, catholic club, the industrious blind. 

Why? Some reason. Sun or wind. At night too. 

Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the late 

Father Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. 

Heart. 

White horses with white frontlet plumes came round 

the Rotunda corner, galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by. In 

a hurry to bury. A mourning coach. Unmarried. Black for 

the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for a nun. 

—Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child. 

A dwarf’s face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy’s 

was. Dwarf’s body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal 

box. Burial friendly society pays. Penny a week for a sod 

of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant nothing. Mistake 

of nature. If it’s healthy it’s from the mother. If not from 

the man. Better luck next time. 

—Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It’s well out of it. 

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The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland 

square. Rattle his bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. 

Nobody owns. 

—In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said. 

—But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who 

takes his own life. 

Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, 

coughed and put it back. 

—The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr 

Power added. 

—Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham 

said decisively. We must take a charitable view of it. 

—They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus 

said. 

—It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said. 

Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin 

Cunningham’s large eyes. Looking away now. 

Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent. Like 

Shakespeare’s face. Always a good word to say. They have 

no mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian 

burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his 

heart in the grave. As if it wasn’t broken already. Yet 

sometimes they repent too late. Found in the riverbed 

clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful 

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drunkard of a wife of his. Setting up house for her time 

after time and then pawning the furniture on him every 

Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the damned. 

Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning. 

Start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have 

looked a sight that night Dedalus told me he was in there. 

Drunk about the place and capering with Martin’s 

umbrella. 

And they call me the jewel of Asia, 

Of Asia, 

The Geisha. 

He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones. 

That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle 

on the table. The room in the hotel with hunting pictures. 

Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the slats of the Venetian 

blind. The coroner’s sunlit ears, big and hairy. Boots 

giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw 

like yellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the 

foot of the bed. Verdict: overdose. Death by 

misadventure. The letter. For my son Leopold. 

No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns. 

The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. 

Over the stones. 

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