Ulysses
the burial of a mutual friend when they had left him alone in his glory
after the grim task of having committed his remains to the grave.
On the other hand what incensed him more inwardly was the blatant jokes
of the cabman and so on who passed it all off as a jest, laughing
immoderately, pretending to understand everything, the why and the
wherefore, and in reality not knowing their own minds, it being a case
for the two parties themselves unless it ensued that the legitimate
husband happened to be a party to it owing to some anonymous letter
from the usual boy Jones, who happened to come across them at the
crucial moment in a loving position locked in one another’s arms,
drawing attention to their illicit proceedings and leading up to a
domestic rumpus and the erring fair one begging forgiveness of her lord
and master upon her knees and promising to sever the connection and not
receive his visits any more if only the aggrieved husband would
overlook the matter and let bygones be bygones with tears in her eyes
though possibly with her tongue in her fair cheek at the same time as
quite possibly there were several others. He personally, being of a
sceptical bias, believed and didn’t make the smallest bones about
saying so either that man or men in the plural were always hanging
around on the waiting list about a lady, even supposing she was the
best wife in the world and they got on fairly well together for the
sake of argument, when, neglecting her duties, she chose to be tired of
wedded life and was on for a little flutter in polite debauchery to
press their attentions on her with improper intent, the upshot being
that her affections centred on another, the cause of many _liaisons_
between still attractive married women getting on for fair and forty
and younger men, no doubt as several famous cases of feminine
infatuation proved up to the hilt.
It was a thousand pities a young fellow, blessed with an allowance of
brains as his neighbour obviously was, should waste his valuable time
with profligate women who might present him with a nice dose to last
him his lifetime. In the nature of single blessedness he would one day
take unto himself a wife when Miss Right came on the scene but in the
interim ladies’ society was a _conditio sine qua non_ though he had the
gravest possible doubts, not that he wanted in the smallest to pump
Stephen about Miss Ferguson (who was very possibly the particular
lodestar who brought him down to Irishtown so early in the morning), as
to whether he would find much satisfaction basking in the boy and girl
courtship idea and the company of smirking misses without a penny to
their names bi or triweekly with the orthodox preliminary canter of
complimentplaying and walking out leading up to fond lovers’ ways and
flowers and chocs. To think of him house and homeless, rooked by some
landlady worse than any stepmother, was really too bad at his age. The
queer suddenly things he popped out with attracted the elder man who
was several years the other’s senior or like his father but something
substantial he certainly ought to eat even were it only an eggflip made
on unadulterated maternal nutriment or, failing that, the homely Humpty
Dumpty boiled.
—At what o’clock did you dine? he questioned of the slim form and tired
though unwrinkled face.
—Some time yesterday, Stephen said.
—Yesterday! exclaimed Bloom till he remembered it was already tomorrow
Friday. Ah, you mean it’s after twelve!
—The day before yesterday, Stephen said, improving on himself.
Literally astounded at this piece of intelligence Bloom reflected.
Though they didn’t see eye to eye in everything a certain analogy there
somehow was as if both their minds were travelling, so to speak, in the
one train of thought. At his age when dabbling in politics roughly some
score of years previously when he had been a _quasi_ aspirant to
parliamentary honours in the Buckshot Foster days he too recollected in
retrospect (which was a source of keen satisfaction in itself) he had a
sneaking regard for those same ultra ideas. For instance when the
evicted tenants question, then at its first inception, bulked largely
in people’s mind though, it goes without saying, not contributing a
copper or pinning his faith absolutely to its dictums, some of which
wouldn’t exactly hold water, he at the outset in principle at all
events was in thorough sympathy with peasant possession as voicing the
trend of modern opinion (a partiality, however, which, realising his
mistake, he was subsequently partially cured of) and even was twitted
with going a step farther than Michael Davitt in the striking views he
at one time inculcated as a backtothelander, which was one reason he
strongly resented the innuendo put upon him in so barefaced a fashion
by our friend at the gathering of the clans in Barney Kiernan’s so that
he, though often considerably misunderstood and the least pugnacious of
mortals, be it repeated, departed from his customary habit to give him
(metaphorically) one in the gizzard though, so far as politics
themselves were concerned, he was only too conscious of the casualties
invariably resulting from propaganda and displays of mutual animosity
and the misery and suffering it entailed as a foregone conclusion on
fine young fellows, chiefly, destruction of the fittest, in a word.
Anyhow upon weighing up the pros and cons, getting on for one, as it
was, it was high time to be retiring for the night. The crux was it was
a bit risky to bring him home as eventualities might possibly ensue
(somebody having a temper of her own sometimes) and spoil the hash
altogether as on the night he misguidedly brought home a dog (breed
unknown) with a lame paw (not that the cases were either identical or
the reverse though he had hurt his hand too) to Ontario Terrace as he
very distinctly remembered, having been there, so to speak. On the
other hand it was altogether far and away too late for the Sandymount
or Sandycove suggestion so that he was in some perplexity as to which
of the two alternatives. Everything pointed to the fact that it behoved
him to avail himself to the full of the opportunity, all things
considered. His initial impression was he was a shade standoffish or
not over effusive but it grew on him someway. For one thing he mightn’t
what you call jump at the idea, if approached, and what mostly worried
him was he didn’t know how to lead up to it or word it exactly,
supposing he did entertain the proposal, as it would afford him very
great personal pleasure if he would allow him to help to put coin in
his way or some wardrobe, if found suitable. At all events he wound up
by concluding, eschewing for the nonce hidebound precedent, a cup of
Epps’s cocoa and a shakedown for the night plus the use of a rug or two
and overcoat doubled into a pillow at least he would be in safe hands
and as warm as a toast on a trivet he failed to perceive any very vast
amount of harm in that always with the proviso no rumpus of any sort
was kicked up. A move had to be made because that merry old soul, the
grasswidower in question who appeared to be glued to the spot, didn’t
appear in any particular hurry to wend his way home to his dearly
beloved Queenstown and it was highly likely some sponger’s bawdyhouse
of retired beauties where age was no bar off Sheriff street lower would
be the best clue to that equivocal character’s whereabouts for a few
days to come, alternately racking their feelings (the mermaids’) with
sixchamber revolver anecdotes verging on the tropical calculated to
freeze the marrow of anybody’s bones and mauling their largesized
charms betweenwhiles with rough and tumble gusto to the accompaniment
of large potations of potheen and the usual blarney about himself for
as to who he in reality was let x equal my right name and address, as
Mr Algebra remarks _passim_. At the same time he inwardly chuckled over
his gentle repartee to the blood and ouns champion about his god being
a jew. People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what
properly riled them was a bite from a sheep. The most vulnerable point
too of tender Achilles. Your god was a jew. Because mostly they
appeared to imagine he came from Carrick-on-Shannon or somewhereabouts
in the county Sligo.
—I propose, our hero eventually suggested after mature reflection while
prudently pocketing her photo, as it’s rather stuffy here you just come
home with me and talk things over. My diggings are quite close in the
vicinity. You can’t drink that stuff. Do you like cocoa? Wait. I’ll
just pay this lot.
The best plan clearly being to clear out, the remainder being plain
sailing, he beckoned, while prudently pocketing the photo, to the
keeper of the shanty who didn’t seem to.
—Yes, that’s the best, he assured Stephen to whom for the matter of
that Brazen Head or him or anywhere else was all more or less.
All kinds of Utopian plans were flashing through his (B’s) busy brain,
education (the genuine article), literature, journalism, prize titbits,
up to date billing, concert tours in English watering resorts packed
with hydros and seaside theatres, turning money away, duets in Italian
with the accent perfectly true to nature and a quantity of other
things, no necessity, of course, to tell the world and his wife from
the housetops about it, and a slice of luck. An opening was all was
wanted. Because he more than suspected he had his father’s voice to
bank his hopes on which it was quite on the cards he had so it would be
just as well, by the way no harm, to trail the conversation in the
direction of that particular red herring just to.
The cabby read out of the paper he had got hold of that the former
viceroy, earl Cadogan, had presided at the cabdrivers’ association
dinner in London somewhere. Silence with a yawn or two accompanied this
thrilling announcement. Then the old specimen in the corner who
appeared to have some spark of vitality left read out that sir Anthony
MacDonnell had left Euston for the chief secretary’s lodge or words to
that effect. To which absorbing piece of intelligence echo answered
why.
—Give us a squint at that literature, grandfather, the ancient mariner
put in, manifesting some natural impatience.
—And welcome, answered the elderly party thus addressed.
The sailor lugged out from a case he had a pair of greenish goggles
which he very slowly hooked over his nose and both ears.
—Are you bad in the eyes? the sympathetic personage like the townclerk
queried.
—Why, answered the seafarer with the tartan beard, who seemingly was a
bit of a literary cove in his own small way, staring out of seagreen
portholes as you might well describe them as, I uses goggles reading.
Sand in the Red Sea done that. One time I could read a book in the
dark, manner of speaking. _The Arabian Nights Entertainment_ was my
favourite and _Red as a Rose is She._
Hereupon he pawed the journal open and pored upon Lord only knows what,
found drowned or the exploits of King Willow, Iremonger having made a
hundred and something second wicket not out for Notts, during which
time (completely regardless of Ire) the keeper was intensely occupied
loosening an apparently new or secondhand boot which manifestly pinched
him as he muttered against whoever it was sold it, all of them who were
sufficiently awake enough to be picked out by their facial expressions,
that is to say, either simply looking on glumly or passing a trivial
remark.
To cut a long story short Bloom, grasping the situation, was the first
to rise from his seat so as not to outstay their welcome having first
and foremost, being as good as his word that he would foot the bill for
the occasion, taken the wise precaution to unobtrusively motion to mine