Ulysses
Declare to God I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a click.
And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came
swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, a comely youth and behind him
there passed an elder of noble gait and countenance, bearing the sacred
scrolls of law and with him his lady wife a dame of peerless lineage,
fairest of her race.
Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door and hid behind Barney’s
snug, squeezed up with the laughing. And who was sitting up there in
the corner that I hadn’t seen snoring drunk blind to the world only Bob
Doran. I didn’t know what was up and Alf kept making signs out of the
door. And begob what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breen
in his bathslippers with two bloody big books tucked under his oxter
and the wife hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman, trotting
like a poodle. I thought Alf would split.
—Look at him, says he. Breen. He’s traipsing all round Dublin with a
postcard someone sent him with U. p: up on it to take a li...
And he doubled up.
—Take a what? says I.
—Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds.
—O hell! says I.
The bloody mongrel began to growl that’d put the fear of God in you
seeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs.
_—Bi i dho husht,_ says he.
—Who? says Joe.
—Breen, says Alf. He was in John Henry Menton’s and then he went round
to Collis and Ward’s and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round
to the subsheriff’s for a lark. O God, I’ve a pain laughing. U. p: up.
The long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now the bloody
old lunatic is gone round to Green street to look for a G man.
—When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.
—Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan?
—Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a
pony. That bloody old fool! Ten thousand pounds. You should have seen
long John’s eye. U. p ....
And he started laughing.
—Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that Bergan?
—Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.
Terence O’Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup full
of the foamy ebon ale which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh and
Bungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning as the sons of
deathless Leda. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and
mass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour
juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day
from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat.
Then did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the manner born,
that nectarous beverage and you offered the crystal cup to him that
thirsted, the soul of chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals.
But he, the young chief of the O’Bergan’s, could ill brook to be
outdone in generous deeds but gave therefor with gracious gesture a
testoon of costliest bronze. Thereon embossed in excellent smithwork
was seen the image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house of
Brunswick, Victoria her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of
God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the
British dominions beyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress
of India, even she, who bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the
wellbeloved, for they knew and loved her from the rising of the sun to
the going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.
—What’s that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, prowling up and
down outside?
—What’s that? says Joe.
—Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about hanging,
I’ll show you something you never saw. Hangmen’s letters. Look at here.
So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his
pocket.
—Are you codding? says I.
—Honest injun, says Alf. Read them.
So Joe took up the letters.
—Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran.
So I saw there was going to be a bit of a dust. Bob’s a queer chap when
the porter’s up in him so says I just to make talk:
—How’s Willy Murray those times, Alf?
—I don’t know, says Alf. I saw him just now in Capel street with Paddy
Dignam. Only I was running after that...
—You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?
—With Dignam, says Alf.
—Is it Paddy? says Joe.
—Yes, says Alf. Why?
—Don’t you know he’s dead? says Joe.
—Paddy Dignam dead! says Alf.
—Ay, says Joe.
—Sure I’m after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, as plain as
a pikestaff.
—Who’s dead? says Bob Doran.
—You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm.
—What? says Alf. Good Christ, only five... What?... And Willy Murray
with him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim’s... What? Dignam
dead?
—What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who’s talking about...?
—Dead! says Alf. He’s no more dead than you are.
—Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this morning
anyhow.
—Paddy? says Alf.
—Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him.
—Good Christ! says Alf.
Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted.
In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when prayer by
tantras had been directed to the proper quarter a faint but increasing
luminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, the apparition of
the etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to the discharge
of jivic rays from the crown of the head and face. Communication was
effected through the pituitary body and also by means of the
orangefiery and scarlet rays emanating from the sacral region and solar
plexus. Questioned by his earthname as to his whereabouts in the
heavenworld he stated that he was now on the path of prālāyā or return
but was still submitted to trial at the hands of certain bloodthirsty
entities on the lower astral levels. In reply to a question as to his
first sensations in the great divide beyond he stated that previously
he had seen as in a glass darkly but that those who had passed over had
summit possibilities of atmic development opened up to them.
Interrogated as to whether life there resembled our experience in the
flesh he stated that he had heard from more favoured beings now in the
spirit that their abodes were equipped with every modern home comfort
such as tālāfānā, ālāvātār, hātākāldā, wātāklāsāt and that the highest
adepts were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very purest nature.
Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently
afforded relief. Asked if he had any message for the living he exhorted
all who were still at the wrong side of Māyā to acknowledge the true
path for it was reported in devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were
out for mischief on the eastern angle where the ram has power. It was
then queried whether there were any special desires on the part of the
defunct and the reply was: _We greet you, friends of earth, who are
still in the body. Mind C. K. doesn’t pile it on._ It was ascertained
that the reference was to Mr Cornelius Kelleher, manager of Messrs H.
J. O’Neill’s popular funeral establishment, a personal friend of the
defunct, who had been responsible for the carrying out of the interment
arrangements. Before departing he requested that it should be told to
his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking for
was at present under the commode in the return room and that the pair
should be sent to Cullen’s to be soled only as the heels were still
good. He stated that this had greatly perturbed his peace of mind in
the other region and earnestly requested that his desire should be made
known.
Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was
intimated that this had given satisfaction.
He is gone from mortal haunts: O’Dignam, sun of our morning. Fleet was
his foot on the bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow. Wail, Banba, with
your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.
—There he is again, says the citizen, staring out.
—Who? says I.
—Bloom, says he. He’s on point duty up and down there for the last ten
minutes.
And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.
Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was.
—Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him.
And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowest
blackguard in Dublin when he’s under the influence:
—Who said Christ is good?
—I beg your parsnips, says Alf.
—Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy
Dignam?
—Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He’s over all his troubles.
But Bob Doran shouts out of him.
—He’s a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.
Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they didn’t
want that kind of talk in a respectable licensed premises. And Bob
Doran starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you’re there.
—The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character.
The tear is bloody near your eye. Talking through his bloody hat.
Fitter for him go home to the little sleepwalking bitch he married,
Mooney, the bumbailiff’s daughter, mother kept a kip in Hardwicke
street, that used to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons told
me that was stopping there at two in the morning without a stitch on
her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.
—The noblest, the truest, says he. And he’s gone, poor little Willy,
poor little Paddy Dignam.
And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that
beam of heaven.
Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round
the door.
—Come in, come on, he won’t eat you, says the citizen.
So Bloom slopes in with his cod’s eye on the dog and he asks Terry was
Martin Cunningham there.
—O, Christ M’Keown, says Joe, reading one of the letters. Listen to
this, will you?
And he starts reading out one.
_7 Hunter Street,
Liverpool._
_To the High Sheriff of Dublin,
Dublin._
_Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the abovementioned painful
case i hanged Joe Gann in Bootle jail on the 12 of Febuary 1900 and i
hanged..._
—Show us, Joe, says I.
—_... private Arthur Chace for fowl murder of Jessie Tilsit in
Pentonville prison and i was assistant when..._
—Jesus, says I.
—_... Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith..._
The citizen made a grab at the letter.
—Hold hard, says Joe, _i have a special nack of putting the noose once
in he can’t get out hoping to be favoured i remain, honoured sir, my
terms is five ginnees._
_H. Rumbold,
Master Barber._
—And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen.
—And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe. Here, says he, take them
to hell out of my sight, Alf. Hello, Bloom, says he, what will you
have?
So they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn’t and
he couldn’t and excuse him no offence and all to that and then he said
well he’d just take a cigar. Gob, he’s a prudent member and no mistake.
—Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe.
And Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a mourning card with
a black border round it.
—They’re all barbers, says he, from the black country that would hang
their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses.
And he was telling us there’s two fellows waiting below to pull his
heels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and then they
chop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob a skull.
In the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Their
deadly coil they grasp: yea, and therein they lead to Erebus whatsoever