Four Novels by James Joyce. James Joyce

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

      National school. Meade's yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their hats.

      A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window. Couldn't they invent something automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? 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 Bandmann 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: spruce figure: 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 thrush. A throstle. There is a word throstle that expresses that.

      His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. Greyish over the ears. MADAME: smiling. I smiled back. A smile goes 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