MARTIN CUNNINGHAM, FIRST, POKED HIS SILKHATTED HEAD INTO the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power stepped in after him, curving his height with care.
-- Come on, Simon.
-- After you, Mr Bloom said.
Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying:
-- Yes, yes.
-- Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.
Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to after him and slammed it tight till it shut tight. He passed an arm through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriage window at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping. Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she was passed over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them. Huggermugger in corners. Slop about in slipper-slappers for fear he'd wake. Then getting it ready. Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed. Pull it more to your side. Our windingsheet. Never know who will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails and the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grow all the same after. Unclean job.
All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am sitting on something hard. Ah, that soap in my hip pocket. Better shift it out of that. Wait for an opportunity.
All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front turning: then nearer: then horses' hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At walking pace.
They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the doorframes.
-- What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.
-- Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.
Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.
-- That's a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died out.
All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by passers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, clad in mourning, a wide hat.
-- There's a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said.
-- Who is that?
-- Your son and heir.
-- Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.
The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving back to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. Mr Dedalus fell back, saying:
-- Was that Mulligan cad with him? His fidus Achates?
-- No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.
-- Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding faction, the drunken little cost-drawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the wise child that knows her own father.
Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros the bottleworks. Dodder bridge.
Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding, Collis and Ward he calls the firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great card he was. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the landlady's two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night. Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing his back. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are. About six hundred per cent profit.
-- He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I'Il make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother or his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a gate. I `Il tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.
He cried above the clatter of the wheels.
-- I won't have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counter-jumper's son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Not likely.
He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to hand on. If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance. Must have been that morning in 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?
-- Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power said.
All raised their thighs, 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?
-- 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 illness 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.
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.
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 waistcoat pocket. 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 wheel itself much handler? Well but that fellow would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job making the new invention?
Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law, perhaps.
They went past the bleak pulpit of Saint Mark's, under the railway bridge, past the Queen's theatre: in silence. Hoardings. Eugene Stratton. Mrs Bandman Palmer. Could I go to see Leah tonight, I wonder. I said I. Or the Lily of Killarney? Elster Grimes Opera company. Big powerful change. Wet bright bills for next week. Fun on the Bristol. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the Gaiety. Have to stand a drink or two. As broad as it's long.
He's coming in the afternoon. Her songs.
Plasto's. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Who was he?
-- How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow in salute.
-- He doesn't see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How do you do?
-- Who? Mr Dedalus asked.
-- Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quiff.
Just that moment I was thinking.
Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the white disc of a straw hat flashed reply: passed.
Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him that they she sees? Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes feel what a person Is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I am just looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone. Body getting a bit softy. I would notice that from remembering. What causes that I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off. But the shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders. Hips. Plump. Night of the dance dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind.
He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces.
Mr Power asked:
-- How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?
-- O very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It's a good idea, you see .
-- Are you going yourself?
-- Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to go down to the county Clare on some private business. You see the idea is to tour the chief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other.
-- Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now.
-- Have you good artists?
-- Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes, we'll have all topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in fact.
-- And Madame, Mr Power said, smiling. Last but not least.
Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. Smith O'Brien. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. Woman. Must be his deathday. For many happy returns. The carriage wheeling by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.
Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his mouth opening: oot.
-- Four bootlaces for a penny.
Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume street. Same house as Molly's namesake. Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Has that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning too. Terrible comedown, poor wretch! kicked about like snuff at a wake. O'Callaghan on his last legs.
And Madame. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. Doing her hair, humming: voglio e non vorrei. No: vorrei e non. Looking at the tips of her hairs to see if they are split. Mi trema un poco il. Beautiful on that tre her voice is: weeping tone. A thrust. A throstle. There is a word throstle that expressed that.
His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. Greyish over the ears. Madame: smiling. I smiled back. A smile does a long way. Only politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is that true about the woman he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it told me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak. What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury's. Or the Moira, was it?
They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.
Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.
-- Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.
A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round the corner of Elvery's elephant house showed them a curved hand open on his spine.
-- In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.
Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly:
-- The devil break the hasp of your back!
Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window as the carriage passed Gray's statue.
-- We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly.
His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. He caressed his beard, adding:
-- Well, nearly all of us.
Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces.
-- That's an awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J. and the son.
-- About the boatman? Mr Power asked.
-- Yes. Isn't it awfully good?
-- What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn't hear it.
-- There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined to send him to the isle of Man out of harm's way but when they were both...
-- What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it?
-- 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 J. 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.
-- 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.
-- And 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.
-- 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 the man. Better luck next time.
-- Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It's well out of it.
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 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 blinds. The coroner's 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.
-- We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said.
-- God grant he doesn't upset us on the road, Mr Power said.
-- I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.
-- Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith.
As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has anybody here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead march from Saul. He's as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The Mater Misericordiae. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for incurables there. Very encouraging. Our Lady's Hospice for the dying. Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. He's gone over to the lying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other.
The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped.
-- What's wrong now?
A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear.
-- Emigrants, Mr Power said.
-- Huuuh! the drover's voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks.
Huuuh! Out of that!
Thursday of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roast beef for old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter is lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla.
The carriage moved on through the drove.
-- I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the boats.
-- Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. Quite right. They ought to.
-- Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought is to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and all. Don't you see what I mean?
-- O that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and saloon diningroom.
-- A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.
-- Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two abreast?
-- Well, there's something in that, Mr Dedalus granted.
-- And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn't have scenes like that when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the road.
-- That was terrible, Mr Power's shocked face said, and the corpse fell about the road. Terrible!
-- First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus aid, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.
-- Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.
Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large for him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what's up now. Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up all.
-- Dunphy's, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.
Dunphy's corner. Mourning coaches drawn up drowning their grief. A pause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation. Elixir of life.
But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in the knocking about? He would and he wouldn't, I suppose. Depends on where. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery. It would be better to bury them in red: a dark red.
In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.
Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.
Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his dropping barge between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a slacktethered horse. Aboard of the Bugabu.
Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mud-choked bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or cycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day at the auction but a lady's. Developing waterways. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats. Camping out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will without writing. Come as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down, lock by lock to Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his brown strawhat, saluting Paddy Dignam.
They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it now.
-- I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said.
-- Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.
-- How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping I suppose.
-- Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory dear.
The carriage steered left for Finglas road.
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 said. 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 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 Prospects 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.
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.
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.
-- 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 she wanted back, waiting. It never comes. One must go first: alone under the ground: and lie no more in her warm bed.
-- How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven't seen you for a month of Sundays.
-- Never better. How are all in Cork's own town?
-- I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.
-- And how is Dick, the solid man?
-- Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.
-- By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?
-- Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up.
-- Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front?
-- Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is behind. He put down his name for a quid.
-- I'll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.
-- How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?
-- Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.
They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr Bloom stood behind the boy with the wreath, looking down at his sleek combed hair and the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he there when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment and recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe three shillings to O'Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffin into the chapel. Which end is his head.
After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened light. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners knelt here and there in praying desks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, when all had knelt dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on his left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.
A server, bearing a brass bucket with something in it, came out through a door. The whitesmocked priest came after him tidying his stole with one hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad's belly. Who'll read the book? I, said the rook.
They halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book with a fluent croak.
Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. Dominenamine. Bully about the muzzle he looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Thou art Peter. Burst sideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With a belly on him like a poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn: burst sideways.
-- Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine.
Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem mass. Crape weepers. Blackedged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist. Chilly place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too. What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of the place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot of baa gas round the place. Butchers for instance: they get like raw beefsteaks. Who was telling me? Mervyn Brown. Down in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the coffins sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it rushes: blue. One whiff of that and you're a goner.
My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That's better.
The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's bucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you were before you rested. It's all written down: he has to do it.
-- Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.
The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that of course.
Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up. What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded business men, consumptive girls with little sparrow's breasts. All the year round he prayed the same thing over them all ad shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam now.
-- In paradisum.
Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.
The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All followed them out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last, folding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the ground till the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed the barrow along a lane of sepulchres.
The ree the ra the Fee the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.
-- The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.
Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone.
-- 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'Il 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, secret searching eyes. Mason, I 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 morning. Pennyweight of powder in a skull. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure.
Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.
-- Everything went off A 1, 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, Madam 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. She 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.
-- 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 keys at his back.
-- Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?
-- I did not, Martin Cunningham said.
They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watch chain 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.
-- To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing else.
Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on good terms with him. Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out, no passout checks. Habeat corpus. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I write Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha? Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter office. Be the better of a shave. Grey sprouting beard. That's the first sign when the hairs come out grey and temper getting cross. Silver threads among the grey. Fancy being his wife. Wonder how he had the gumption to propose to any girl. Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that before her. It might thrill her first. Courting death... Shades of night hovering here with all the dead stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant I suppose who is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the same like a big giant in the dark. Will o'the wisp. Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women especially are so touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you ever seen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a pitchdark night. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken young. You might pick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both ends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of frilled beefsteaks to the starving gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it at the window. Eight children he has anyway.
He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. Standing? His head might come up some day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed the ground must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too, trim grass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well so it is. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic Gardens are just over there. It's the blood sinking in the earth gives new life. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Every man his price. Well preserved fat corpse gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. A bargain. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and six. With thanks.
I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpse manure, bones, flesh, nails, charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink, decomposing. Rot quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, treacle oozing out of them. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing to feed on feed on themselves.
But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply swirling with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little seaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of power seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one about the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 A.M. this morning. 11 P.M. (closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what's in fashion. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way. Gravediggers in Hamlet. Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren't joke about the dead for two years at least. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.
-- How many have you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.
-- Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.
The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.
Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June. He doesn't know who is here nor care.
Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh? Now who is he I'd like to know? Now, I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.
O, poor Robinson Crusoe,
How could you possibly do so?
Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding let it down that way. Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible even in the earth. The Irishman's house is his coffin. Enbalming in catacombs, mummies, the same idea.
Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. Twelve. I'm thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death's number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that I'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.
Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I had one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.
The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.
Pause.
If we were all suddenly somebody else.
Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.
Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper. The boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly caretaker. Well cut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will go next. Well it is a long rest. Feel no more. It's the moment you feel. Must be damned unpleasant. Can't believe it at first. Mistake must be: someone else. Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I haven't yet. Then darkened deathchamber. Light they want. Whispering around you. Would you like to see a priest? Then rambling and wandering. Delirium all you hid all your life. The death struggle. His sleep is not natural. Press his lower eyelid. Watching is his nose pointed is his jaw sinking are the soles of his feet yellow. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the floor since he's doomed. Devil in that picture of sinner's death showing him a woman. Dying to embrace her in his shirt. Last act of Lucia. Shall I nevermore behold thee? Bam! expires. Gone at last. People talk about you a bit: forget you. Don't forget to pray for him. Remember him in your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy day dying out. Then they follow: dropping into a hole one after the other.
We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you're well and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the fryingpan of life into the fire of purgatory.
Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself? They say you do when you shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it. Callboy's warning. Near you. Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma poor mamma, and little Rudy.
The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the coffin. Mr Bloom turned his face. And if he was alive all the time? Whew! By Jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of course. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of distress. Three days. Rather long to keep them in summer. Just as well to get shut of them as soon as you are sure there's no.
The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.
The caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had enough of it. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one, covering themselves without show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he traversed the dismal fields.
Hynes jotting down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he knows them all. No: coming to me.
-- I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his breath. What is your christian name? I'm not sure.
-- L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might put down M'Coy's name too. He asked me to.
Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the Freeman once.
So he was before he got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good idea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know. He died of a Tuesday. 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.
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 awhile 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.
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 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. Hu! 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 dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeragain hellohello amarawf kopthsth. 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 while man smells like a corpse. Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the plague. Quicklime fever pits to eat them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea. Where is that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth, fire, water. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. See your whole life in a flash. But being brought back to life no. Can't bury in the air however. Out of a flying machine. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let down. Underground communication. We learned that from them. Wouldn't be surprised. Regular square feed for them. Flies come before he's well dead. Got wind of Dignam. They wouldn't care about the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips.
The gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the world again. Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa too. The love that kills. And even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case I read of to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after death. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after death. There is another world after death named hell. I do not like that other world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. They are not going to get me this innings. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life.
Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.
Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton. John Henry, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be In his office. Mat Dillon's long ago. Jolly Mat convivial evenings. Cold fowl, cigars, the Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got his rag out that evening on the bowling green because I sailed inside him. Pure fluke of mine: the bias. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate at first sight. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree, laughing. Fellow always like that, mortified if women are by.
Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.
-- Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.
They stopped.
-- Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said, pointing.
John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.
-- There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also.
John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again.
-- It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said.
John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.
-- Thank you, he said shortly.
They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying down the law. Martin could wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger without his seeing it.
Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him. Get the pull over him that way.
Thank you. How grand we are this morning.
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[1]杰克・鲍尔这个人物曾在《都柏林人・圣恩》中出现过，他供职于都柏林堡(英国殖民统治机构)内的皇家爱尔兰警察总署。
[2]根据爱尔兰风俗，左近有人家出殡时，店铺一律停业，住户则把百叶窗拉低，以示哀悼。
[3]弗莱明大妈是经常到布卢姆家做些家务活儿的女人，这里布卢姆是在回忆他们的独子鲁迪夭折后的情景。前文中的“趿拉着拖鞋”是意译，音译为斯利珀斯莱珀，民谣《狐狸》中的贫穷的老妪(参看第一章注[63])，象征爱尔兰。
[4]他们为之送葬的迪格纳穆・生前就住在纽布里奇大街九号。
[5]好风习指的是出殡队伍故意从繁华地区经过，以便让更多的路人向死者表示哀悼。
[6]原文为拉丁文。阿卡帖斯是埃涅阿斯的忠实、勇敢的同伴。埃涅阿斯是罗马神话中所传特洛伊和罗马的英雄，关于他的传说，见罗马诗人维吉尔所著史诗《埃涅阿斯纪》。此处老西蒙把自己的儿子斯蒂芬比作埃涅阿斯，把穆利根比作阿卡帖斯。
[7]古尔丁(参看第三章注[32])是科利斯－沃德律师事务所的一名成本会计师。他却把自已的姓加在事务所前面，以便让人认为他是大老板。
[8]伊格内修・加拉赫是曾出现在《都柏林人・一朵浮云》中的一个记者。 据本书第七章“伟大的加拉赫”一节，凤凰公园暗杀事件发生后，他由于搞到了独家新闻而出了名。
[9]语出自《亨利四世(下)》第2幕第1场。 当野猪头酒店老板娘带着差役来拘捕福斯塔夫时，他骂道：“滚开，你这贱婆娘!……我要膈肢你屁股!”
[10]伊顿学院是英国贵族公学，设在伯克郡伊顿镇。
[11]里奇蒙・布赖德韦尔监狱的门上写有“停止作恶，学习行善”这一标语。语出自《旧约全书・以赛亚书》第1章第16至17节。十九世纪末叶，监狱并入韦林顿营房内。布卢姆夫妇住在雷蒙德高台街时，与那所营房遥遥相对。
[12]葛雷斯顿斯是都柏林市以南二十英里处的高级海滨浴场。
[13]内德・兰伯特是布卢姆的熟人，在一家种籽谷物商店工作。
[14]海因斯(即约瑟夫・麦卡西・海因斯)曾出现在《都柏林人・纪念日，在委员会办公室)中。他追随巴涅尔，在其逝世纪念日朗诵了自己写的一首长诗。 其实是乔伊斯本人九岁时，听到巴涅尔逝世的噩耗而写的，经过加工，放在这篇小说的末尾。
[15]当时爱尔兰人煎亚麻籽当汤药喝。
[16]指都柏林防止虐待动物协会所办的狗收容所，设在大运河码头上。阿索斯是布卢姆的父亲所养的狗。他父亲自杀前在遗书中曾将这条狗托付给他。
[17]语出自《路加福音》第11章第2节。这是耶稣教给门徒的经文中的一句，《天主经》即由此而来。
[18]帕迪・伦纳德曾出现在《都柏林人・无独有偶》中，他无所事事，成天泡在酒店里。
[19]本・多拉德是本地的一名歌手。本书第十一章有他演唱《推平头的小伙子》的场面。那是一首颂扬爱尔兰民族主义者的歌谣。作者为爱尔兰历史经济学家、学者、诗人约翰・凯尔斯・英格拉姆(1828－1907)。参看第二章注[58]。
[20]“回顾性的编排”，参看第十一章注[178]及有关正文。后文中的丹・道森，见第七章注[55]。
[21]皮克和下面的艾莱恩都是《无独有偶》中的人物。该作中还提到克罗斯比－艾莱恩律师事务所。
[22]小花指圣女小德肋撒(1873－1897)，法国人，十五岁在利雪城加入加尔默罗会。她的自传《灵心小史》(她自称“天主的小花”)于一八九七年出版后，有些天主教徒深为推崇，誉为“小花”精神。下面，布卢姆从报上那首小诗联想到他用亨利・弗罗尔这个假名字和玛莎通信的事。
[23]尤金・斯特拉顿(1861－1918)，出生于美国的黑人歌手，喜剧演员，后在英国成名，当时正在都柏林演出。
[24]《基拉尼的百合》(1862)是根据出生于爱尔兰的美国剧作家戴恩・鲍西考尔特(1822－1890)的剧本《金发少女》(1860，原文为爱尔兰语， 音译为科伦・鲍恩)改编的一出以情节取胜的爱尔兰歌剧。
[25]《布里斯托尔号的愉快航行》是一出音乐喜剧，当时正在皇家剧院上演。
[26]“他”指布莱泽斯・博伊兰。
[27]菲利普・克兰普顿爵士(1777－1858)，都柏林的一位外科医生。
[28]“谁”也指布莱泽斯・博伊兰。
[29]这个餐厅因供应从爱尔兰西岸克莱尔郡红沙洲捕来的牡蛎而得名。它宣传说，那是全爱尔兰最鲜嫩的牡蛎。
[30]据第十七章，布卢姆的父亲于一八八六年六月二十七日在克莱尔郡自杀身死，他准备前往为亡父的十九周年忌辰祭奠。 [31]玛丽・安德森(1859－1940)，美国女演员，一八九0年定居英国，继续积极从事戏剧活动。当时正在北爱尔兰首府贝尔法斯特主演《罗密欧与朱丽叶》( 花园一景)。
[30]据第十七章，布卢姆的父亲于一八八六年六月二十七日在克莱尔郡自杀身死，他准备前往为亡父的十九周年忌辰祭奠。 [31]玛丽・安德森(1859－1940)，美国女演员，一八九0年定居英国，继续积极从事戏剧活动。当时正在北爱尔兰首府贝尔法斯特主演《罗密欧与朱丽叶》( 花园一景)。
[32]路易斯・沃纳当时正在贝尔法斯特为玛丽・安德森的演出担任指挥与伴奏。
[33]J・C・多伊尔是男中音歌手。约翰・麦科马克(1884－1945)，出生于爱尔兰的男高音歌手，在伦敦成名。
[34]原文为法语。
[35]指竖在街头的威廉・史密斯・奥布赖恩(1803－1864)的雕像。他是爱尔兰爱国主义者，青年爱尔兰运动领导人，死于六月十六日。因此，这一天刚好是他的忌日。
[36]原文作:For many happy returns。原是用在生日或喜庆的祝贺语，很少用在忌日。
[37]即托马斯・法雷尔(1827－1900)，爱尔兰雕刻家。
[38]当时确实有个叫作亨利・R・特威迪的。他在沃德福德郡担任首席检察官，在都柏林休姆街拥有自己的事务所。关于他落魄的晚景，未见记载。“往昔……遗迹”一语引自爱尔兰歌曲《我爹戴过的帽子》，作者为约翰尼・佩特森。
[39]守灵夜吸鼻烟原是为了压住死亡气息，把它踢来踢去表示没派上正当用场。
[40]美国剧作家威廉・贝尔・伯纳德(1807－1875)的二幕滑稽戏《他已穷途末路》(1889)中的主要角色叫作费利克斯・奥卡拉汉。他原是个乡绅，后来落魄。
[41]这里和下文中的“夫人”原文均为法语。
[42]、[43]原文为意大利语。后一句中，布卢姆纠正了自己的错误。参看第四章注[51]、[52]。
[42]、[43]原文为意大利语。后一句中，布卢姆纠正了自己的错误。参看第四章注[51]、[52]。
[44]原文为意大利语。这是《伸给她》二重唱中女主角泽尔丽娜对男主角唐乔万尼所唱的歌词。
[45]克罗夫顿是《纪念日，在委员会办公室》中的一个人物。他是以J・T・A・克罗夫顿(1838－1907)为原型而塑造的。这人与乔伊斯之父约翰・斯・乔伊斯(作品中的西蒙・迪达勒斯的原型)在都柏林税务局共过事。
[46]解放者指丹尼尔・奥康内尔，参看第二章注[51]。此处指竖立于奥康内尔大桥桥头的铜像。系由爱尔兰雕刻家约翰・亨利・弗利(1818－1874)所塑。
[47]吕便是亚伯拉罕的曾孙。吕便支族是离开埃及后，在迦南定居下来的古以色列十二支族之一，见《旧约・民数词》第1章。这里指正从街上走过去的吕便・杰
[48]象记商店是一家出售防水用具的商店。
[49]约翰・格雷爵士(1816－1875)，《自由人报》的经理，因倡议在都柏林市铺设自来水管有功。
[50]曼岛(又译为马恩岛)位于英格兰西北岸外，爱尔兰海上，由英国政府管理并享有很大自冶权。现政府由代理总督(由曼岛领主委任)和上下议院组成。
[51]巴拉巴是个罪恶累累的囚犯，根据民众的要求，他被释放，耶稣却代他受过，被钉在十字架上而死。见《马太福音》第27章。在英国戏剧家克里斯托弗・马洛(1564－1593)的诗剧《马耳他岛的犹太人》(1589)中，主角巴拉巴落入一锅滚水中而死，而那原是他用来陷害敌人的。
[52]这是为了纪念纳尔逊的战功而于一九O八年在奥康内尔街的十字路口建立的纪念柱。柱上有他的雕像。一九六六年被毁。
[53]关于帽子的趣意，参看本章注[38]。
[54]指都柏林的爱丁堡戒酒饭店。这家饭店一概不供应酒类。
[55]西奥博尔德・马修神父(1790－1861)，爱尔兰天主教司铎，嘉布遣小兄弟会分会会长。他在全爱尔兰奔走游说，劝人戒酒，成绩昭著，故有“戒酒便徒”之称。他的雕像也立在奥康内尔街上。
[56]巴涅尔纪念碑的基石早在一八九九年就安置好了，然而直至一九一一年才竖立起由美国雕刻家奥古斯塔斯・圣－高丹斯设计的纪念碑。巴涅尔死于由急性肺炎而导致的心力衰竭。
[57]根据古老的犹太信条，孩子的健康决定于父亲是否强壮。犹太法律指出，一个男人必须儿女双全，并要求这些儿女也能够繁衍后代。
[58]“骨骼咯咯响……”没入肯认领”这四句诗摘自英国诗人 托马斯・诺埃尔(1799-1861)所作的《为穷人驾灵车》。全诗描写一个马车夫赶着用一匹马拉着的破灵车，把穷人的遗骸送往教堂墓地。
[59]这里，马丁・坎宁翰只引用了祷文的上半句，下半句是：“我们与死亡为伍。”
[60]直到十九世纪初叶，爱尔兰民间还迷信自杀者的阴魂会像妖精那样回到人间来作祟。只有往尸体的心脏里打进一根木桩，才能防止。
[61]“他”指马丁・坎宁翰。《都柏林人・圣恩》中提及他的妻子是个不可救药的酒鬼，曾六次把家具典当一空。
[62]引自轻歌剧《艺妓》中的曲子《亚洲的珍宝》，脚本作者为哈里・格林班克，詹姆斯・菲利普作曲。
[63]指一年一度的国际汽车赛，胜者可获得戈登・贝纳特奖杯。戈登・贝纳特(1841－1918)是美国《纽约先驱报》的主编，毕生奖励各种运动竞赛。
[64]这是美国人威廉・J・麦克纳根据英国歌曲《来自曼岛的凯利》(1908) 改编的俗谣《这儿可曾有人见过凯利？》(1909)的首句，下一句是：“来自绿宝石岛的凯利。”绿宝石岛是爱尔兰别名。
[65]《扫罗》是德国(后来入了英国籍)作曲家乔治・弗里德里克・亨德尔(1685－1759)取材于《圣经》的清唱剧，一七三九年在伦敦首次演出。送葬曲是其中的一个插曲。
[66]有关凯利的歌前面都冠以一首序歌，叙述一个像凯利一样忘恩负义的意大利冰淇淋商人的故事。“他坏得像……伶仃”是其中的两句。
[67]原文为拉丁文。这家医院(参看第一章注[37])位于伯克利街和埃克尔斯街的交叉处。
[68]布卢姆夫妇住在埃克尔斯街七号。
[69]赖尔登老太太这个人物曾以丹特这个名字出现在《艺术家年轻时的写照》第1章中。
[70]此人名叫迪克森，是个曾在仁慈圣母医院见习的医科学生，在本书第十四章中，布卢姆又与他重逢。
[71]在《奥德修纪》卷11中，奥德修在阴间看见奥瑞翁赶着他生前在荒山上杀掉的野兽，走过永不凋枯的草原;他手里拿着折不断的铜杖。
[72]即约瑟夫・卡夫，参看第四章注[18]。
[73]英国小说家、剧作家亨利・菲尔丁(l707－1754)的早期剧作《现代丈夫》(1732)第3幕第2场中有一首题为《老英格兰的烤牛肉》的诗，后由R・莱弗里奇配曲，成为流行歌曲。全诗大意是说，英国人由于爱吃烤牛肉，身心健康， 士兵也勇敢。这里把原诗中的“of”改成“for”，意思就变成“给老英格兰的烤牛肉” 了。
[74]克朗西拉是位于都柏林以西七英里处的铁路联轨点。
[75]米兰市修有一条专供殡仪电车行驶的七英里长的路轨。从市中心直通到郊外的坟地附近。
[76]敦菲角位干北环路和菲布斯博罗路的交叉口上。由于这里曾有过一座由托马斯・敦菲开的同名酒吧，故名。在一九O四年，酒吧改由约翰・多伊尔经营。
[77]爱尔兰人称威士忌为长生不老剂。西欧古代的炼金术师曾相信红葡萄能使人长生不老。英国剧作家卞・琼森(1572？－1637)的戏剧《炼金术师》第2幕第1场中有个名句：“醇粹的红葡萄酒，我们叫做长生不老剂。”
[78]《布加布出航》是J・P・鲁尼所作的一首讽刺诗，写一个舵手在睡梦中驾着一条名叫“布加布”的驳船运送泥炭。运河上风平浪静，水手们却幻想船在惊涛骇浪中行驶。
[79]阿斯隆、穆林加尔和莫伊谷是位于爱尔兰皇家运河沿岸从西至东的三座城市。
[80]指雷恩拍卖行，老板为P・A・雷恩。
[81]詹姆斯・麦卡恩，爱尔兰大运河公司董事长，他已于布卢姆回顾此事的四个月前(即1904年2月12日)逝世。
[82]这是一家以布赖恩・勃罗马(926－1014)命名的酒馆。他是爱尔兰西南部芒斯特地方的大王，曾击败盘踞在爱尔兰的丹麦人。这一带是古战场。
[83]弗洛蒂是《都柏林人・圣恩》中的一个人物，经营一月食品杂货店。汤姆・克南是他的朋友，曾从他的店里赊购，一直没付款。
[84]“形影……诚可贵”是常见于十八、十九世纪的爱尔兰墓碑和讣文上的用语，还曾编入乔冶・林利(1798－1825)的歌曲《你的记忆诚可贵》(1840)。
[85]在位于葛拉斯涅文的前景公墓前，路分两岔。右边是葛拉斯涅文路，左边是通往芬格拉斯路的墓地路。
[86]哈姆莱特因父王死后母亲改嫁给小叔子，在独白中把世界比作“荒芜不堪的花园”，见《哈姆莱特》第1幕第2场。下文中的“一座凶宅”即指托马斯・蔡尔兹被谋杀的房子。
[87]西摩・布希是爱尔兰的著名律师。塞缪尔・蔡尔兹被控于一八九八年九月二日谋杀亲兄托马斯，布希任其辩护律师。次年十月塞缪尔被宣告无罪。
[88]英国法律诠释家威廉・布莱克斯顿(1723－1780)曾说过:“宁可让十个犯人逃脱法网，也不能冤枉一个无辜者。”马丁・坎宁翰把这句话和耶稣的话(“一个罪人悔改，在天上引起的喜悦要大于为九十九个不需悔改的好人感到的喜悦”，参看《路加福音》第15章第6节)拉扯在一起了。
[89]哈姆莱特利用让篡位的叔叔看戏的机会来观察他是否为杀害乃兄的真凶，并作了这样的独白，“谋杀干得再诡秘，内情总会……败露。”见《哈姆莱特》第2幕第2场。
[90]前景公墓即送葬队伍的目的地。
[91]一种葡萄干糕饼，得名于兰伯特・西姆内尔。参看第三章注[153]。
[92]喂狗用的硬饼干，搀以骨粉等制成。这里，因西姆内尔糕饼的外皮很硬，所以比作狗饼干。
[93]芬格拉斯是位于公墓西北方的一个村落，这一带有采石场。
[94]这段描写使人联想到《奥德修纪》卷11第4 段中奥德修在阴间遇见埃尔屏诺的鬼魂的场面。他问鬼魂：“埃尔屏诺，你怎么已经来到了幽暗的阴间？你的步行看来比我们的黑船还快呢。”(引自杨宪益译本，第133页)
[95]恩尼斯是爱尔兰克莱尔郡的一个镇子。
[96]指爱德华・麦凯布枢机主教(1816－1885)的陵墓。
[97]阿尔坦是位于都柏林市东北部一英里的一个村子，那里有天主教办的一所儿童救济院。
[98]托德－伯恩斯公司的简称，是都柏林的一家绸布衣帽店。乔伊斯本人的一个胞妹梅就曾在此做过工。
[99]“明智的……人多”，语出自默雷和利所作的一首题为《三女对一男》的滑稽歌曲。
[100]印度某些地区的习俗，寡妇为亡夫举行火葬时，也要当众跳进火堆自焚以殉夫。
[101]老女王指维多利亚女王(参看第一章注[105])。她于一八六一年丧偶，遂在福洛格摩建陵安葬亡夫阿尔伯特亲王，并终身守寡。她本人去世后，根据遗愿，灵柩用炮车运送，遗体与亡夫合葬。
[102]紫色象征真挚的爱，服丧时，可用以代替黑色。“心灵深处”，见《哈姆莱特》第3幕第2场中哈姆莱特对霍拉旭所说的话。
[103]指维多利亚女王的长子威尔士亲王(参看第二章注[50])能够继承王位。
[104]《科克这座城市》(1825)是托马斯・克罗夫顿・克罗克(1798－1854)所作歌曲名，内容炫耀当地的吃喝玩乐。科克是爱尔兰芒斯特省科克郡的首府。
[105]一年一度的科克公园赛马活动的高峰是复活节星期一，即复活节的次日(1904年为4月4日)。
[106]这是当时把一个被处死的罪犯之尸体运到坟地，并按照基督教徒的礼节予以埋葬所需费用。这里，把“六先令八便士”当作“一点儿也没变”的代用语。
[107]约翰・亨利・门顿的原型是都柏林的一个同名律师，在小说中，迪格纳穆生前一度在他的事务所任职。
[108]爱尔兰有一首滑稽歌曲名《我欠了奥格雷狄十块钱》(1887)。作者为哈里・肯尼迪。写一个小裁缝奥格雷狄怎样也讨不回一个失业者(“我”)欠他的钱。
[109]黄铜桶里装的是圣水，以及用来蘸圣水往棺材上洒的一根棍子。
[110]这是一首由十四段组成的童谣《公知更鸟》中的两句。作者不详， 据说是艾奥纳和彼得・奥佩搜集整理的。第一段是： “谁杀了公知更鸟？/麻雀说：是我。/用我的弓箭。/我杀了公知更鸟。”与本文有关的是第六段：“谁来当神父？/白嘴鸦说，我。/带着我的小书，/我来当神父。” 语句略有出入，不知是布卢姆记错了，还是流传的版本不同。
[111]英文里，棺材(coffin)读作科芬，与科菲(coffey)发音相近。
[112]这句拉丁文祷词原作ln nomine Domini(因主之名)。布卢姆却听成是Domine namine。Domine是“主”，namine则无此字。
[113]一八五七年左右，英国教会里以牧师、小说家、诗人查尔斯・金斯利(1819－1875)为首的一些人主张，基督教徒必须有健壮的身体，这样才能保持节操，并取得真正的宗教信仰。
[114]这是耶稣初次见到西门后所说的话。见《约翰福音》第1章第42节。彼得意即“磐石”，指要把教会建立在这块磐石上。从此，西门易名彼得。天主教会奉他为第一代教皇。
[115]原文为拉丁文。见《诗篇》第143篇第2节。这是做完安魂弥撒后，即将把棺材往坟地里抬时念的经文首句。
[116]花钱雇来的号丧人，身穿廉价的黑色绉纱丧服。
[117]这是供参加丧礼者签名的本子或单子。
[118]当时都柏林有个名叫默文・布朗的音乐教师和风琴手。《都柏林人・死者》中也有个姓布朗的人物。
[119]原文为拉丁文，系《天主经》的倒数第二句。见《马太福音》第6章第13节。
[120]这里，助祭照例吟诵《天主教》的最后一句：“乃救我于凶恶，啊们。”
[121]原文为拉丁文。这是准备下葬时所念的经文中的词句。
[122]奥康纳尔去世后，遗体最初安葬在公墓中央的一座被深沟圈起的圆坛里。后来为了纪念他，就在这座公墓里建造了一座一百六十英尺高的圆塔。一八六九年，他的遗体又被移葬在该塔的地下灵堂里。
[123]丹・奥是丹尼尔・奥康内尔的简称。
[124]奥康内尔于一八四七年在日内瓦去世。根据他的遗愿，心脏葬于罗马，遗体则运回都柏林。
[125]她指西蒙・迪达勒斯的亡妻玛丽・古尔丁・迪达勒斯。
[126]同舟共济，这里指的是送葬者中只有他本人和克南两个人不信天主教，处境相同。
[127]爱尔兰圣公会是新教，一五三七被定为爱尔兰国家教会， 但教徒人数只占总人口的八分之一弱。天主教徒则占五分之四。因此，于一八六九年撤销了其国家教会地位，从此实行自养。
[128]爱尔兰圣公会举行仪式时使用英语，不用拉丁文。
[129]这是耶稣对玛莎所说的话，见《约翰福音》第11章第25节。
[130]据《约翰福音》第6章第40节，耶稣对群众说，天主的旨意是要使所有看见耶稣“而信他的人获得永恒的生命；在末日，我(耶稣)要使他们复活”。
[131]据《约翰福音》第1l章第39至44节，玛莎的弟弟已入葬了四天，但耶稣叫人把挡在墓穴口的石头挪开，大声喊：“拉撒路，出来!”死者便复活并走了出来。
[132]《圣经》英译本中的“cameforth”(走出来了)与“camefourth”(第四个出来)谐音。这里是文字游戏，说他是“camefifth”(第五个出来)的，所以失业了。2l4
[133]金衡制是英、美用来量金、银、宝石的重量单位。每英镑合十二英两，每英两合二十英钱，每英钱合二十四谷(格令)。克为公制重量单位，每克约合十五谷半。
[134]圆镇一名得自都柏林市南郊特列纽亚村的一圈住宅。马特・狄龙是都柏林市的参议员。后文中的约翰・奥康内尔在第十五章中重新出现(见该章注[179]及有关正文)。
[135]英文里，keys(钥匙)与凯斯(Keyes)谐音。后文中的“人身保护”，原文为拉丁文。
[136]鲍尔斯桥在都柏林市东南郊外。
[137]这里套用一首题为《金发中夹着银丝》(1874)的歌曲。该歌颂扬一对年老的恩爱夫妻，由埃本・E・雷克斯福德作词，哈特・皮斯・丹克斯(1834－1903)配曲。
[138]“当……来”一语出自《哈姆莱特》第3幕第2场。此刻王子已打定主意要报杀父之仇，用这段自白来表露心迹。
[139]至今都柏林还有关于丹尼尔・奥康内尔曾有过一大批私生子的传说，故称他为“爱尔兰之父”。
[140]指罗密欧掘开墓门，见到服了安眠药后昏睡中的朱丽叶。参看《罗密欧与朱丽叶》第5幕第8场。
[141]这是把“在生存中，我们与死亡为伍”一语倒过来说的。参看本章注[59]。
[142]古代爱尔兰王和酋长的遗体有时是全身披挂，面部朝着敌国的方向，以站立的姿势入殓的。
[143]甘布尔少校是杰罗姆山公墓的管理员。
[144]马斯天斯基是布卢姆的街坊。
[145]一九一二年在沙俄统治下的基辅，有个名叫门德尔・贝利斯的犹太人，由于涉嫌为了取鲜血用在逾越节的宴会上而杀害了一个基督教徒的男孩子，从而受审。西方世界认为这是一种反犹太主义的蓄意诬陷，引起公愤，贝利斯因而获释。但本书是写一九0四年发生的事。时间上有出入。
[146]一种飞蛾，背上有酷似头盖骨的纹，故名。
[147]这两句均引自博伊兰关于海滨姑娘的歌(博伊兰曾把“晕”唱成“云”)。第二句略有出入。参看第四章注[65]及有关正文。
[148]据西方民间传说，耶稣的门徒彼得为天堂司阍。易卜生的诗剧《培尔・金特》第8幕第4场中，培尔就哄着弥留之际的母亲说，他要送她升天堂，彼得正在守着天堂的大门。
[149]潘趣酒是在葡萄酒里掺上果汁、香料、奶、茶、糖等做成的软性饮料。
[150]《哈姆莱特》第5幕第1场中，由两个小丑扮演的掘墓工说了一些既荒唐又似是富于哲理的话。
[151]原文为拉丁文谚语。这里，布卢姆记错了一个字，原应作：“关于死者，除了好话，什么也别说。”
[152]“我……的”一语出自莎士比亚悲剧《尤利乌期・恺撒》第3章第2场。古代罗马统帅恺撒被共和党人刺杀后，恺撒的拥护者安东尼向民众发表演说，煽动人民，把共和党人逐出罗马。这句话出现在演说的开头部分。作者引用时把原句中的“我”改成了“我们”。月中是古罗马历三、五、七、十月中的第十五日，以及其他各月中的第十三日。三月中是恺撒遇刺日，六月中是迪格纳穆的忌日。
[153]这个身穿胶布雨衣的人在书中数次出现，艾尔曼在《詹姆斯・乔伊斯》(第516页注)中说，斯图尔特・吉尔伯特认为这个人物的原型为乔伊斯的父亲约翰・乔伊斯任收税官时的同事W・韦瑟厄普。
[154]鲁滨孙・克鲁索是笛福(1660－1731)的同名小说(1719)中的主人公。 他流落到荒岛后，在星期五那天从吃人生番手中救下一个土著，取名“星期五”。但在原作中，他并非由“星期五”埋葬，而是搭乘一艘英国船返国的。
[155]这是一首题名《可怜的老鲁滨孙・克鲁索》的歌曲的第一句和第四句，引用时略作了改动。原歌为：“可怜的老鲁滨孙・克鲁索失踪了，/人家说是到了一座岛屿，/他偷了一只公山羊的皮，/我不晓得他怎能这样做。”
[156]犹太人渴望死后能把遗体运回圣地巴勒斯坦去埋葬，至少也要在棺材里放进一把从该地取来的泥土陪葬。
[157]这里，作者诙谐地模拟英国谚语，英格兰人的家就是他的堡垒。
[158]按耶稣被害前夕曾和十二门徒共进晚餐。因此，西方至今仍流传着以十三为不吉的迷信。
[159]当时在都柏林确实有个名叫乔治・R・梅西雅斯的裁缝。
[160]按染衣服时呢料能吸进紫色染料，而线染过后便发亮。所以这里说，应该把线头摘掉，这样就看不出是柒过的了。
[161]德国诗人约翰・沃尔夫冈・封・歌德(1749－1832)弥留之际曾说：“亮一些!再亮一些!”
[162]“既然……吧”一语出自法国小说家埃米尔・左拉(1860－1902)的《土地》(1887)。这部长篇小说描述一个老农惨死在贪图其田产的儿子及儿媳手中。
[163]《露西亚》是盖塔诺・多尼塞蒂(1797-1848)根据英国小说家沃尔特・司各特(1771－1832)的长篇历史小说《拉马摩尔的新娘》(1819)改编而成的歌剧，一八四三年在伦敦上演。在最后一幕中，男主角知晓自己的情人露西亚因被迫出嫁，已神经错乱而死，就也自寻短见。
[164]每年到了查理・斯图尔特・巴涅尔的忌日(10月6日)，他的支持者们总佩带常春藤叶作为悼念，故名。参看《都柏林人・纪念日，在委员会办公室》。
[165]按照天主教的教义，一般人死后，灵魂要先下炼狱，以便把罪恶赎净。善人死后灵魂直接升天堂，恶人则下地狱。
[166]当时确实有个叫作路易斯・A・伯恩的医学博士，在都柏林市担任验尸官。
[167]这里，布卢姆想起了当天早晨在海滩上，船老大曾告诉他九天前(即上星期二)有人淹死的事。参看第一章注[122]及有关正文。他与雅典画家阿波罗多罗斯(活动时期公元前5世纪)搞混了。古代文献中提到他的《奥德修斯》等画作、无一传世。比他稍晚一些的古稀腊著名画家宙克・西斯(？－约公元前400)曾创作过一些风俗画，如《持葡萄的男孩》。传说葡萄画得以假乱真，引来一些小鸟啄它。画家本人说，倘若男孩也画得同样通真，鸟儿就会吓得不敢来啄食了。这里，作者把传说作了一些改动。
[183]语出自但丁的《神曲・地狱篇》第3篇。全句是：“我要是不看见，真不会相信死神已经办完了这许多!”原作指的是地狱中的幽灵，这里则是坟墓累累之意。
[184]这是常见的墓志铭，下面往往还有一句：“你们也即将像我们现在这样。”是死者(自称“我们”)对活人讲话的口吻。
[185]此鼠在第十五章(见该章注[186])中重新出现。
[186]墓碑上的罗伯特・埃默里这个名字使布卢姆想起同名而姓的发音也近似的爱尔兰民族主义领袖罗伯特・埃米特(1778－1803)。埃米特曾参加一七九一年成立的以解放天主教和实现议会改革为宗旨的爱尔兰政治组织爱尔兰人联合会，并曾率领一批抗英起义者，向都柏林堡进军。事败后被捕，定为叛国罪，被处绞刑。“这儿”指墓穴。埃米特被处死后，相传其遗体被转移到都柏林的圣迈肯教堂或葛拉斯涅文的这座前景公墓，秘密安葬。然而一九O三年(埃米特逝世l00周年)，人们来此寻取他的骸骨时却毫无所得。
[187]按照基督教的教义，人要在世界末日复活。所以神父反对火葬。
[188]这里套用《创世记》第3章第19节中造物主对亚当说的话：“你是用尘土造的，你要还原归于尘土。”
[189] 帕西人是公元七、八世纪为逃避穆斯林压迫而自波斯移居印度的拜火教(亦名袄教或琐罗亚斯德教)教徒的后裔。拜火教徒把尸体置于塔上，待尸肉被鸟啄食后，将骨骼密封在罐中。
[190]辛尼柯太太是《都柏林人・悲痛的往事》中的一个人物，系辛尼柯船长的夫人。她因得不到爱情的温暖而酗酒，在横跨铁道时被火车轧死。
[l91]这是布卢姆当天早晨收到的玛莎来信中的话，参看第五章注[36]。
[192]坦塔罗斯是希腊传说中宙斯的儿子。《奥德修纪》卷11中提到尤利西斯看见他在冥界所受的酷刑，他站在齐下巴的水里，但每当他张口想喝，那水就退去。他头上挂着累累果实，但只要他伸手去拿，风就把果实吹向云霄。这里指有着暗锁、不能任意取饮的玻璃酒柜。